Road Trip to Afghanistan

Final impressions

2010-06-28T12:44:00.012+01:00

Now that the dust has settled some of our adventurers sit back and remember the journey, from the cathedral of Cologne to the amazing reception in Afghanistan.

Sophie Ibbotson:

After 7400 and something miles on the road, 11 countries, thirty or so different beds and innumerable shashliks, it’s a little strange to touch down in Heathrow knowing that you’ll be staying put for a few days. After the initial luxuries – a bowl of Wheatabix for Bryn and a hot shower for everyone – have been attended to, there’s a chance for reflection and to recall for friends and families the highs and lows of a truly epic journey.

Distilling so many experiences into a handful of anecdotes is nigh on impossible, but I thought I’d end my contribution to the blog with a brief summary of the things that, one way or another, made the trip for me:

- Watching the sunset and then the floodlights come on over Cologne
cathedral on our very first night of the trip.

- Drinking tea in a tea house in Krakow’s Kazimierz, the city’s ancient Jewish quarter.

- Listening to an old man sing and play a strange stringed instrument in the grounds of St. Sofia’s Cathedral in Kiev.

- Celebrating VE Day at the Kremlin with young troops from Poland, Turkmenistan, Kyrgyzstan, Kazakhstan and Tajikistan.

- Sleeping out under the stars in Kazakhstan and Tajikistan, enjoying the remoteness and un-spoilt nature of the places.

- Being given dried apricots by two ladies grinning with gold-toothed smiles in Tashkent’s main bazaar.

- Walking at dusk through the Shah-I Zinda avenue of medieval mausoleums in Samarkhand.

- Shifting the balance of power in our favour when dealing with corrupt Kazakh traffic police, escaping their clutches, driving out of sight and immediately hitting a sheep. The sheep, I’m relieved to announce, was unharmed.

- Watching the pride and excitement with which villagers in Nechem demonstrated their Afghanaid-built water pipe and the impact it has had on their community.

- Being shown the pot of geraniums that a female participant in Baharak’s micro-enterprise schemes has brought with the profits of her small business.

- Sitting in Babur’s Garden in Kabul – a little spot of paradise – and envisaging what a peacetime Afghanistan could actually be like.

Steve Dew-Jones:

Faizabad - Afghanistan
In less than one hour we are scheduled to arrive in Kabul. For Bryn and I this was to be only for connection purposes, but a cancellation to the proposed flight from Kabul to Dushanbe has meant that we will be ushered into Afghanistan’s capital city along with everyone else.

Yesterday’s journey to Faizabad was quite spectacular by all accounts and the city itself is set in a stunning location: sitting inside the valley between arrays of snow-capped peaks – the very same peaks that I can still see as we fly overhead.

“Mountains, mountains, Afghanistan,” a proud Pashtun friend of mine once said to me, as he contemplated what he considers to be his true homeland, regardless of the fact that he had ended up being defined as a Pakistani living in Baluchistan.

He has a point. There hasn’t been a moment yet when we haven’t been surrounded by breathtaking peaks of all shapes and sizes. Given that it took so long for us to see one at all – and in that time we had to endure the eternal flatness of the Kazakh Steppe – we certainly are not growing tired of the sight of them just yet. What a beautiful country this is, and full of a vast collection of natural resources. It’s just a shame that so few Afghans have the expertise or materials to make the most out of them, but this is one area that Afghanaid is sincerely hoping to tackle. Yesterday we visited an underground apple storage unit, which has meant that, instead of selling apples for only two months in a year, a group of local farmers can successfully store their produce for more than six months.

My mind flickers back to last night’s conversation with Habibullah. “Disaster” is all that he sees ahead for his precious country and there truly seems little alternative. If the foreigners pull out, the Taliban will run riot; if they stay, the war will perpetuate indefinitely. All in all, it seems as though the work of Afghanaid is just a drop in a tumultuous ocean.

Kabul - Afghanistan
Peace Jirga: Day One. Quite what a “Jirga” is I do not know, but this is the name that President Karzai has allocated to the three-day-long peace talks that begun day.

All advice suggested that we should stay indoors as a “lockdown” was prescribed on Kabul’s city centre. Contrary to advice, we decided to climb the walls on the edge of the city, only to return to see a large black cloud of smoke ascending from the other side of the city. In any other city and at any other time we might have written it off as a harmless bonfire, but this is Kabul and political unrest was always likely on the first day of Afghan peace talks.

As it turns out, several rockets had been fired at the university where the talks are being staged and landed only 100km away from their target. Sadly, the fracas rather put paid to our planned afternoon’s excursion to Kabul’s golf course. Golf balls flying through the air is one thing; rockets quite another.

Before today I didn’t really understand what all the fuss was about. Kabul seemed just like any other city: bustling, exciting, full of people just going about their business. An incident yesterday really summed up the atmosphere of the place to me: two men were casually strolling across a main road and failed to notice an oncoming car. The driver slammed the brakes and narrowly avoided them, but instead of venting his anger at their stupidity, the man simply shrugged his shoulders, smiled, and the others burst into laughter.

Every person warmly greets us with “Salam-o-alecums” and big smiles. There isn’t even an air of resentment for the part that Westerners have played in the ruination of their country. No, all we receive is hospitality. Even on top of the hill today, when we met with a group of local police and we were invited in for a cup of tea. What a wonderful country. Let’s hope that this “Jirga” thing works out so that this country can finally be freed of the horrors of war.

Mountains, Mountain, Afghanistan
By Steve Dew-Jones

“Mountains, mountains, Afghanistan,”
What a wonderful phrase.
And none more befitting
For a country that truly doth amaze.

Not a moment has gone by
When a peak has been out of sight,
From snow-capped tops to rolling hills,
Each towering in height.

From Ishkashim to Faizabad,
Badakhshan didst capture
The hearts and minds of all of us,
Whose gratefulness moved to rapture

When host upon warm-hearted host
Didst welcome us with glee,
Into homes of varying sizes,
For another cup of tea.

Far from a country that needst terrorize
The minds of all who enter,
Afghanistan is a country of hospitality,
Light-heartedness and splendour.

“Salam-o-alecum,”
Each smiling face will mutter,
Just a simple “peace be with you,”
Not the utterings of a nutter.

So yes, this country’s been ravaged
By all the horrors of war,
But don’t write her off just yet,
For no country’s without its flaws.

Baharak - Afghanistan

2010-06-10T13:01:00.013+01:00

Sophie Ibbotson:

- Arriving in Baharak -

The road between Ishkashim and Baharak is a little scary. The road regularly drops away into the swollen river below, and there are a few villages along the way whose residents have a reputation for being occasionally less than friendly. The burning of a school in Warduj had already delayed our departure once, and we were keen to keep the Isuzu moving. The anticipated four-hour drive turned out to be five and a half hours, and there was nowhere suitable to stop for a wee. By the time I reached Baharak I was bursting.

I was the first to pass through the gates of Afghanaid's compound in Baharak district, and I was met by an enthusiastic reception committee. A hand-painted welcome sign was strung on the front wall and the staff held bunches of sweet-smelling pink roses picked from the office garden. I felt like a VIP!

The lunch that awaited us was a feast. Afghanistan may be the poorest country along the road challenge route but its cuisine is vastly superior to that of the 'stans and much appreciated after weeks of grisly meat on a skewer. We were joined at lunch by Habibullah, Afghanaid's regional director, and he gave us a crash-course in Afghanaid's work in Badakhshan.

- Afghanaid Projects in Badakhshan -

Baharak district is home to some of Afghanaid's most succesful projects. We were fortunate enough to visit a number of them. Two projects particularly caught my eye:

Afghanaid is administering an upper catchment programme, part of a larger plan for the Warduj River. The upper catchment is in the river's rain-fed areas and is primarily focused on reforestation. Five tree species (including walnut, almond and pistachio) are being planted to hold together the soil on the mountainsides and limit the damage caused by landslides and flash floods. Villagers are keeping their livestock off the hillside while the saplings grow. This has had the added bonus of enabling local wild herbs to flourish.

A small group of farmers involved in the project recently travelled to Nepal to see advanced-stage reforestation. We met and talked with one of these men. He proudly showed us his passport and Nepali visa and explained that he had never before even dreamed of being able to go abroad. Now, having been to Nepal, he thought he might like to go to England too. Involvement in the upper catchment project had widened his horizons and made him one of the most forceful supporters of Afghanistan's reforestation.

Deforestation often occurs in the first place because people cut down trees for firewood. If this does not happen in a sustainable manner, the hillsides quickly become barren and women must walk further and further in order to find fuel. In a bid to help overcome both these problems, Afghanaid has been teaching women to make bio-briquettes - an alternative source of fuel for cooking.

Amanda and I had priviliged access to women's areas: men cannot enter homes in some villages unless they are family members. We sat in the baked mud courtyard of a village compound as the local women demonstrated the briquette making process.

An armload of straw is tipped into a shallow pit in the ground and then set alight with a match. Once the straw begins to blacken it is doused with water to put out the flames, and piled up on a plastic sheet. The women then pound the straw with a large, round stone, grinding it into small pieces. They add a little water to the straw so that it has the consistency of fresh compost, and press it into a cylindrical mould. The women hit the top of the mould to ensure its contents are thoroughly compressed, and then turn out the content onto the ground so that it can dry in the sun. Many briquettes can be made simultaneously and a single briquette can burn for 22 minutes - more than enough time to boil a litre of water.

- Waterworks -

After a week in Afghanistan, I woudl say that water (or the lack thereof) is one of the country's biggest problems. Properly harnessed, however, the rivers of the Pamirs and Hindu Kush may prove to be a major asset.

As it stands, Afghanistan imports almost all of its power. Two cables routed via Mazar-i Sharif carry all of Kabul's electricity from Uzbekistan. It's expensive, there is never enough to go round, the cables are vulnerable (as constant power cuts attest) and it leaves the country at the mercy of yet another foreign government. Afghanistan's own water supply may provide the solution.

About half an hour's drive from Baharak we visited a micro-hydro project. Using funds from the National Solidarity Programme (NSP) and the expertise of Afghanaid's engineers, villagers have installed a turbine and generator capable of powering every home in the village. The Indian-made machinery, purchased for just $3600, now gives constant, clean electricity to 1000 people. Families no longer have to burn expensive diesel or kerosene lamps and, at least in regard to power, the village is completely self-reliant.

Afghanaid has already helped establish 19 such micro-hydro units in Badakhshan. District alone. The technology is simple and the expertise to properly implement it is not rocket science. Most villages in the province and, indeed, across much of Afghanistan, are built in the vicinity of a river. If communities can harness this natural resource to meet their power needs, it will enable the country to take a massive forward leap.

- Economic Development and a New Photographer -

Micro-credit and micro-enterprise are two of the big buzz words in development circles. I knew approximately what each entailed but had never actually seen them in practice. The female participants in Afghanaid's enterprise schemes showed me first-hand what it's all about.

Over two days I visited five or six women's groups, each with about 20 members. At their most simple, these are savings groups: each woman contributes 50-100 Afghanis ($1-2) each month and has it recorded in the group's ledger. She knows her money is safe, can watch the sum grow over the course of time, and can withdraw some or all of it when necessity prevails.

Women can also approach the group for a loan from their combined capital. The time period after which the money is repayable is negotiated in advance but, in accordance with shariah law, no set interest is payable, Instead, if the woman generates a profit from her investment of the loan, it will be split 50:50 between her and the group. Likewise, any losses will also be shared equally.

The women we met had taken loans for a variety of purposes, but predominantly to set up small businesses. Livestock and bee keeping were particularly popular, as were weaving and embroidery. Afghanaid staff have helped the women to identify suitable markets for their products and also taught key business skills such as book keeping.

We had a fairly riotous time visiting a women's textile group. Initially subdued, the women quickly came into their own and proudly demonstrated not only their work (embroidery and weaving) but also what they had been able to buy: everything from a calf to tubs of geraniums. We were treated not only to a mock demonstration of milking a cow but also to a number of lewd Dari jokes!

Cameras are powerful things. As any traveller to remote areas will know, people love to see their pictures and the digital age has made this far easier to facilitate. I shoot predominantly on a Nikon D200 - a fairly intimidating-looking SLR - with a chunky zoom lens. It's a great camera but even after owning it for three years I don't understand half the functions.

I took a few photos of the women in the weaving group and showed them to the young woman next to me. She was clearly excited to see herself and her friends but looking along was not enough: she'd rather be the photographer than the subject. I smiled, crossed my fingers that she wouldn't drop it, and deomnstrated the most basic functions.

Half an hour later, I still didn't have my camera back. My pupil was hugely enthusiastic and had far more luck than I in getting her friends to pose naturally. The portraits she took far outweigh mine in their intimacy and are a wonderful reminder of an inspirational group of women.

Steve Dew-Jones:

I do not know exactly why, but even though none of us really believed that anything would go wrong during our five-hour journey from Ishkashim, there was still a lingering air of tension and apprehension about us as we split into three driving teams and headed off at twenty minute intervals, at the crack of dawn.

Following yesterday’s torching of the school (apparently the dispute involved the location of said school. The pyromaniacs clearly felt it should be elsewhere or not at all), members of Afghanaid’s official HQ in Kabul were clearly worried for our safety and sent two extra drivers as a precaution. A great deal of amusement was found in working out who was most/least dispensable and thus which order the cars should travel in. Bryn and I were sent in the middle and are thus feeling particularly significant.

The mountains of the Hindu Kush were to be our backdrop for the bumpy journey to Baharak. Very impressive indeed, and sufficiently so that they even stopped me complaining too much about the strain the bumps were causing my lower back.

Upon arrival we received a heroes’ welcome – very generous indeed – and were each given a bunch of flowers (regardless of gender), before we were treated to the first of two hearty meals, followed by the first of four chai and snack sessions. I like the culture here immensely. Hospitality comes well before any thoughts regarding time-keeping and I simply cannot imagine that any Afghan would ever feel under the same time-constraints that consume the lives of almost every Westerner.

This afternoon we managed to squeeze in visits to two local projects of Afghanaid – one to a reforestation system, which has replanted over 30,000 saplings in the past few years; the other to a hydro-electric project that has generated electricity for the 134 houses that make up one of the local villages. Previously the only source of light came from diesel lamps, which cost 25 Afghanis per day. Now the electricity only costs 20 Afghanis per month!

It has been wonderful to see the many positive effects that the long-standing Kabul-based charity, Afghanaid, has had upon this district, on top of the water irrigation system we visited in Ishkashim, not to mention practically the entire road infrastructure between Ishkashim and Faizabad. Our driver Hassan, who spoke barely a word of English, would constantly amuse us by proudly exclaiming “Afghanaid” every time that we crossed a bridge.

It’s a shame we aren’t going to be here for longer because I can already feel myself falling for this country. One thing that really surprised me at dinner was to learn, from our kind host Habibullah, that the bulk of Afghans actually seem to be in favour of the Western military action of the past decade, suggesting that it was “much worse before” and that it would cause “disaster” if they were to pull out. Apparently, before the conflict it was completely forbidden for women to go out in public unaccompanied and no girls were educated. Now, women can go to the bazaar or the school as freely as they choose and every girl goes to school. There still seems, almost without exception, to be full adherence to Burqas - which even have a covering over the face – but it is at least refreshing to see the outline of women on the streets.

Nechem - Afghanistan

2010-06-09T14:59:00.007+01:00

Sophie Ibbotson:

We were supposed to spend just one night in Ishkashim before travelling on to Baharak. However, in the night a school was torched in Warduj and, although this was a tribal issue rather than an anti-government attack, it was felt expedient to remain an extra day in Ishkashim to let things start to calm down. Instead, we took the time to visit Nechem, a small village half an hour’s drive away where 11 years ago Afghanaid built a water pump.

Nechem isn’t the easiest of places to spot. The houses and compounds are single-storey and constructed from baked mud bricks the same colour as the surrounding earth. We pulled up on the outskirts of the village and, even from a distance, we could see a dozen or so people crowding around the water pipe. Children were filling yellow plastic jerry cans, women and young girls were washing clothes, and a man was washing down his pride and joy: a bright red motorcycle.

The water supply project brought the fresh water from 2 km away to the center of the village. It’s a simple concept and if placed at the right depth in the ground can continue to flow even in the coldest of winter.

Since the implementation of this water supply the villagers (particularly the women and children) no longer have to make a 4 km steep mountain climb to collect water.

The quality of life for all villagers has improved and they were very grateful for the project. In fact, the local councilman wrote a letter for us to carry to Afghanaid's provincial manager thanking him and Afghanaid for this project which has transformed the lives of his village.

Ishkashim - Afghanistan

2010-06-09T11:57:00.011+01:00

Sophie Ibbotson:

For the last few days we’ve been following the Tajik-Afghan border. At times Afghanistan has been so close you could almost reach out and touch it, but still it remained out of reach. That is until now.

We crossed into Afghanistan shortly after 5pm yesterday evening. The riverbed that demarcates the border is home to two rusting tanks – hardly the best of signs – but the excitement pulsing through my body was tangible. I have wanted to come to Afghanistan for as long as I can remember and now, 33 days after leaving London, I had arrived.

Our first stop in Ishkashim was in the bazaar to buy kamiz (long tunics) for the boys. On the Tajik side of the border everyone had been in western dress but here it is different: men predominantly wear salwar kamiz (baggy cotton trousers and tunics) and a number of women are in burqas. The stall where we shopped was also selling an admirable collection of Scottish and Italian regimental jackets, so an armful of those came into the truck as well. They won’t be worn in Afghanistan but will make for good fancy dress and storytelling back home.

Our home in Ishkashim is the Aga Khan Guesthouse. For those unfamiliar with the Aga Khan, he is the hereditary head of the Ismaili Muslims, many of whom live in northern Afghanistan. The Aga Khan is their religious leader but also runs a successful business empire, the proceeds of which are used to fund development projects wherever Ismailis are to be found. These development projects range from schools and health centres to road building and the University of Central Asia.

Our first introduction of the guesthouse and its hospitality was dinner. After weeks of monotonous shashlik and a variety of barely edible meals, a feast of pilau, mutton, salad and daal was laid out before us. Afghanistan has, I think, one of the finest cuisines on the planet, and the Aga Khan’s staff were certainly able to do it proud. I ate until we I was ready to pop, then fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Steve Dew-Jones:

The start of our time here in Afghanistan has been, I believe, rather fitting. Due to a series of security issues along the road to Faizabad – culminating in the burning down of a school – our proposed journey has been delayed and we shall reside in the border town of Ishkashim for at least another day.

The journey to the Ishkashim border yesterday was easy enough and the crossing as smooth as that into Tajikistan. On the other side of the border we were met by our new driver, Jamaludin – I’m going to call him “Jam”. It seems strange that having driven our car all the way here we shall no longer be permitted to do so, but this is Afghanistan and, as one of the locals told me last night, we simply do not understand the level of security issues that lie ahead.

For now, I sit in the courtyard of this pleasant, if overpriced, guesthouse and stare longingly over at a set of breathtaking snow-capped peaks. Afghanistan is as beautiful as it is dangerous and I am already feeling right at home here. The four of us lads have got ourselves man-dresses and last night we enjoyed the best meal we’ve had in a long, long time. The rice they have here is divine, and the choice of stews equally sumptuous.

We spent the bulk of last night’s feast being schooled in Dari by the two young Afghans we shared it with. Apparently, regardless of my five weeks in Iran speaking Farsi, it’s back to the drawing board because my accent alone renders me incomprehensible.

Khorog - Tajikistan

2010-06-08T13:28:00.008+01:00

Sophie Ibbotson:

I’m sat in the Aga Khan’s Hotel Serena in Khorog, looking out of the window across an immaculately kept lawn towards a small suspension bridge that leads to Afghanistan. The fluttering flags either side of the river identify their respective sovereignties and one or two guards lounge in the sunlight. No one is crossing today, and there is little else to do.

The drive south from Dushanbe to Khorog can be completed in 18-20 hours. Local drivers will do the trip in a day but for us the road was unknown and so we took a break en-route at a guesthouse just outside Tavildara. Driving the road is painfully slow. It twists and turns in the narrow space between the River Oxus and the steep mountainsides and frequently disappears entirely, leaving the Isuzu floundering in wet mud and gravel.

Nature is the greatest threat to the roads in Tajikistan. This threat comes in two main forms: avalanches and water (rainfall and river swell caused by snow melt). Both of these can wipe out the road in minutes, leaving a gaping hole in the hillside.

It was on the morning of our second day of driving that we encountered our first major obstacle. Rainfall had washed away the road through the village and, as the slopes behind were almost vertical, the only alternative route was through the river bed where a JCB had cut a rudimentary track through the mud. We turned on the Isuzu’s 4x4 system and slid down the bank to the river.

We reached the middle of the river bed before we ran into difficulties. The water had, in fact, already been crossed and the end of the mud was almost in sight. Then we ran aground. The undercarriage of the car was stuck on rocks and the wheels had sunk up to their axels in mud. Every time that Bryn put his foot on the accelerator all four wheels would spin, and we would sink a little deeper. We weren’t going anywhere at all.

In a bid to lessen the weight and increase the traction, we all jumped out of the Isuzu and began to push. It didn’t move an inch. We then collared a passing car to ask for a tow. The tow rope snapped and hit the other car with an almighty crack. It wasn’t looking good. Fortunately the tow car was accompanied by a number of squaddies in camouflage gear. They came to our rescue, helping us to build a ramp of stones, dig the mud away from the tyres and, at last, to heave the Isuzu up the rock ramp and onto firmer ground. We were away.

Almost. Once out of the river back and onto some semblance of road, we stopped to assess the damage. Standing on the driver’s side we could hear a loud hissing. It didn’t sound promising. One of the spikier rocks had punctured the rear tyre and by holding your hand close you could feel the force of air coming out. Had we continued to drive, the tyre would have been completely flat in a matter of minutes. Bryn disappeared into the back of the car and came out with his box of magic tricks. Included in the pack was an aerosol of liquid rubber that could be squirted inside the tyre to coat the inner tube and re-seal any tears. It was just what we needed.

Quite surprisingly, the further we drove, the better the road surfaces became. That’s not to say they weren’t pitted and we didn’t have to navigate the occasional river running across the road, but we were usually able to maintain a sensible speed of 20 mph and we didn’t have to get out and push. Khorog came into view far faster than we’d anticipated, and we pulled up outside the Serena in time for their breakfast buffet. Fab.

Steve Dew-Jones:

This is the beginning of the end. In a few hours time our trusty Isuzu will make the short journey from here to Ishkashim, from where we will be crossing into Afghanistan.

What a journey it has been. From Western Europe to the ex-Soviet block, the wastelands of the Kazakh Steppe to the magnificent Pamir mountains of Tajikistan, which we have been attempting to navigate for the past three days.

Suzi the Isuzu has done us proud, even if she has been struggling, understandably, a little of late. The sporadic tendency not to wish to start has escalated into an almost complete failure to do so; the rear left suspension is faltering; the hole in the exhaust has reappeared; the fuel filter doesn’t filter; all in all, our delivery to the Afghan people is a bruised one, but at least she’ll probably fit in quite well.

Our tow-rope snapped yesterday at the height of our perilous journey through a muddy field – the only option following the collapse of the road – and we only managed to shift ourselves from the mound of dirt that had grounded us thanks to the help of a group of Tajik soldiers who just so happened to be passing by.

The day before had been slow and we failed to make much more than 100km through the vast mountainous terrain. Yesterday didn’t start much better – what with that episode in the field and a puncture sustained therein – but upon scaling a considerable peak (3280m), we finally found the flat again and continued to chug along happily until we arrived at the village of Roshan, where we would be hosted by the kindest of drunks, a man named Gulmar.

In the absence of “gastinitzas” (hotels), it was Gulmar’s place or nothing, and we were happy to find shelter upon the floor of his living room, even if it did become a little annoying that he wouldn’t stop pestering us for some money so that he could buy another bottle of vodka – an intent signalled by the flicking of his finger to his neck and the pretence of drinking out of his thumb.

“Farda,” we protested (it means tomorrow), and when the morrow arrived he appeared to have forgotten.

We left early this morning and have had ourselves what might prove to be the last healthy breakfast in quite some time, at the Serena Hotel. In a few moments we’re off to get ourselves kitted out in Afghan clothing, and then we’ll make for the border. Afghanistan here we come.

Dushanbe - Tajikistan

2010-06-06T12:39:00.006+01:00

The team enjoys a brief rest at the Hyatt and many parks of Dushanbe before undertaking the many final preparations to be made before the final border crossing into Afghanistan can be undertaken!

Steve Dew-Jones:

This morning Bryn and I had the pleasure of meeting a group of Afghan mechanics. These truly gentle men were in the process of giving our Isuzu a quick once-over, following yesterday’s relapse of the whole not-starting malarkey. This issue took place just as we were preparing ourselves to leave Iskanderkul in order to make for the capital and we would never have arrived if it weren’t for the help of a group of locals, who hooked up the car with a tow rope so that we could perform a jump-start.

Successfully under way again, the mountainous scenery continued to bewilder and amaze us for the duration of the three-hour journey from Alexander’s Lake – the highlight of which was certainly the 3km crawl through a completely flooded Iranian-built tunnel. It was more than a little relieving when eventually we saw the light at the end of it.

Now in Dushanbe – a capital surrounded by mountains – we have been enjoying the bliss of another Hyatt, whilst also sampling the best of Tajik cuisine at a local tea house. Unsurprisingly, the staples are plov (rice with meat), shashlik (meat), and lagmin (meat in soup). Will there be no end to this dire insistence upon meat without even an inkling of any veg.?

Tomorrow morning we set out again into the mountains to make for Khorog. At 480km distance, if it weren’t for the peaks we might expect to arrive by sundown. Instead, I should think that another spot of camping might be in store…

Sophie Ibbotson:

What struck me first about driving into Dushanbe is the number of parks. The botanical garden is not as easy to find as the city map would suggest, but almost every street corner delivers a patch of green, a few trees and a stall selling snacks or ice cream.

One of the largest parks is next door to the Hyatt and runs alongside the central lake. Small boys stripped down to their boxer shorts shriek and splash in the water as their mothers and grandmothers look on indulgently. Wandering along through the melee the air is relaxed: the world seems half asleep in the afternoon sun.

Alas, despite the gentle call of the parks, we had rather more pressing things to attend to than enjoying a lazy afternoon. Dushanbe was our last major city before passing into Afghanistan which necessitated visiting the British Embassy to notify the staff of our arrival, getting the Isuzu serviced and re-fuelled, looking for maps and updates on the road conditions ahead, and paying a visit to the Afghan Embassy to request permission to take the Isuzu across the border.

It took us two attempts to find the Afghan Embassy as it’d changed location without bothering to inform anyone. The guidebooks and hotel map both directed us to a building now inhabited by the Tajik Ministry of Foreign Affairs, as for that matter did the business cards of most embassy employees. When we eventually found it we passed swiftly through security and entered into a large hallway with a high ceiling. Two or three staff buzzed out to meet us before disappearing once again behind closed wooden doors.

The reasons for our visit to the Embassy were many-fold. In addition to the vehicle permit we had a letter to deliver from the Afghan Ambassador to London, our friend Homayoun Tandor, we needed to collect a visa for Max (MEP’s director who had joined us in Dushanbe) and, last but not least, we wanted to interview his Excellency on film. I quizzed him at length about the experiences of Afghans in Tajikistan, particularly those who arrived in the countries as refugees from the Taliban or more recent conflict, and also about how Tajikistan and Afghanistan would be co-operating in the future on security, border control and economic development. He spoke eloquently and was a thoroughly obliging subject.

We could have spent a day or so more in Dushanbe and taken in the galleries, restaurants and other entertainments. However, the road called: Afghanistan was almost in sight and we were too impatient to finally see the Oxus River that demarcates the Tajik-Afghan border. It was therefore back into the Isuzu and into the heart of the Pamirs.

Iskanderkul and the Aznob pass

2010-06-05T00:44:00.006+01:00

More diesel tribulations are overcome as the team continue on to Iskanderkul lake, stopping to experience the fantastic nature before braving the harrowing mountain pass of Aznob.

Steve dew-Jones: It is possible that Alexander the Great once sat upon the very same rock upon which I currently find myself, not a stone’s throw from the water’s edge of Iskanderkul Lake (Alexander’s Lake). The surrounding scenery is breathtaking, as it has been ever since crossing into the little country of Tajikistan.

Last night we had another trial involving Uzbekistan’s lack of Diesel - this time Bryn and I drove around with one of the workers from the charming Antika B&B until we had found somebody who could point us in the direction of some fuel. Eventually we chanced upon a group of local taxi drivers and were soon following them to what we assumed would be another trucker looking to shift some of his leftovers for a sweet, sweet profit on the black market. So when we ended up in just another petrol station – having already visited half a dozen, on top of those in Tashkent – we were a little surprised, and altogether pessimistic.

We needn’t have been. The ringleader from our taxi crew, Odin - a handsome chap with a sizeable paunch – marched straight up to the young petrol attendant and demanded that his foreign friends be given some Diesel.

As if suddenly released from comatose, the young chap burst into life, switching on the lights of the dusty Diesel pump, and proceeding to pump out 60 litres as if this were any other transaction on any other day. Our emotions were transformed from hopelessness to jubilation at the flick of a switch.

Following the shenanigans of last night, we had a border to cross this morning and we were all preparing ourselves for the standard minimum time of three hours for the procedure. Only, when we arrived at the border, and found that we were the only car in sight, for once the endless streams of paperwork and waiting in queues seemed a doddle, and we were officially into Tajikistan within seventy minutes.

Today’s drive has been a mixture of very good roads, awful dirt tracks that aren’t fit to be called “roads”, and about everything else in between, whilst all the while we have been navigating our way besides the cliff edges of mountains that make up the breathtaking little country of Tajikistan. We’re happy to be here.

Sophie Ibbotson:

There are a few places on earth where everything comes together to make a perfect space. This accolade can’t be earned solely by appealing to any one sense: indeed, the sixth sense of a place just feeling ‘right’ is as important as the sights, sounds and smells.

Iskanderkul is pretty close to my idea of perfection. Snow-capped mountains dappled in golden sunlight rise strikingly above a turquoise lake of crystal-clear water. The few single-storey buildings dotted around the shoreline are discretely hidden, and in between them lie stretches of woodland, wild flowers and well-tended vegetable plots. The air is pure, with only the occasional scent of blossom and goat to taint its smell. The wind rustles the trees and ripples the surface of the water. Now and again, a dog barks out at its shadow.

The Tajik president has his dacha at Iskanderkul: he has chosen the location well. We made our camp by the water’s edge. The flames of our small bonfire and the glow of the almost full moon were the only lights to be seen. I slept a deep and dreamless sleep.

-------------------------------

It has previously been said that hell is knowing heaven and then being forced to leave. Iskanderkul may be fairly close to paradise and therefore colour my subsequent experiences, but my capacity for fair observation has not entirely deserted me. As the literary canon often informs us, there are many circles to hell. One of them is called the Anzob Pass.

Mountain passes are often a little hairy. High altitude, snow fall, poor roads and the constant threat of avalanches all play their part in making you nervous, but this is almost always off-set by an incredible view. The Anzob has no view.

As we approached the pass we thought that we’d taken a wrong turn as we ended up in the midst of a disorganised quarry. Huge piles of rock, Nissan huts and corrugated iron sheets obscured our view and vast Chinese trucks laden to the brim with hard core were attempting multi-part turns in too little space, while men in hard hats scurried amongst the maze. We were utterly confused, asked for directions, and were sent straight towards the rock face. The confusion didn’t abate.

The Anzob is not actually a pass in the usual sense but a 3 km long tunnel through the bowels of the mountain. It was built by the Iranians several years back but appears never to have been properly finished: it has no ventilation, no drainage, erratic lighting, and only one open carriageway. We plunged into the blackness, the tunnel a gaping hole that swallowed the Isuzu in an instant. We inched our way along, cursing as we drove the EU regulations that limit the headlights’ glare.

Just a day before, the tunnel had been shut due to flooding. Pumping machines (unlit and unmarked) would suddenly appear out of the gloom and necessitate a swift swerve to the left. Their out-flow pipes zig-zagged across the road like super-sized worms but substantial puddles remained. Avoiding such treacherous obstacles required intense concentration and multiple pairs of eyes.

A kilometre or so inside, I thought the tunnel could not get worse. I was wrong. In fact, the tunnel itself was not at fault: it was the other users of the tunnel. Impatient drivers beeped in the blackness, tailgating the Isuzu in a bid to overtake. We could barely see a few feet in front of the windscreen and so overtaking anything was verging on suicide. Still, our fellow motorists persisted.

Another individual was even more crazy. Not only did he have a death wish for himself, he also pursued the same fate for his team of little donkeys. These poor beasts of burden could see nothing but the tail of the donkey in front and were being herded in the dark through the entire length of the tunnel. One car overtaking us narrowly avoided crashing into the animal at the front of the pack, earning its bonnet an almighty thwack from the furious donkey herder. I was somewhat in awe by the donkeys’ placid natures as they plodded on through the blackness. They must have had absolute confidence in the man at their side as even for me the sudden noises and glaring lights in an otherwise dark and claustrophobic space were nothing short of terrifying.

Samarkand - Uzbekistan

2010-06-03T14:54:00.010+01:00

Find out what happens when the team discovers that there is apparently no more diesel in Tashkent and how they managed to scrounge up enough to get to Samarkand, a beautiful city filled with amazing architecture and Islamic history.

Steve Dew-Jones:

There appears to be a distinct lack of Diesel in this part of the world – so much so that it almost put paid to any hopes we had of leaving Tashkent yesterday. We must have tried half a dozen petrol stations on our way out of the city yesterday morning and at each we found the same response. The attendant’s arms would be crossed to show that no Diesel was present and we would be pointed towards the next one, “One kilometre” up the road.

Having tried several “next ones” already, each without success, and given that our petrol gauge was once again dropping drastically low, it wasn’t long before we ignored this advice and spun around back to the capital. Surely the city centre of Uzbekistan’s biggest city would be our most likely source of fuel.

“So what next?” the five of us (Amanda and Jamie have arrived in Jo’s stead) mused, as we enjoyed a surprise return to the restaurant at Hotel Malika.

There didn’t seem much that we could do - it really did seem that we were fighting a losing battle – but as a last resort, a taxi was hailed and Bryn and I were to be driven around, jerry can in hands, for as long as it took before we stumbled upon that elusive Diesel pump.

And so off we went, and picked up where we left off, stopping at the very same petrol stations upon the very same road that we’d already driven along twice.
“No!” I protested to the driver. “Diesel nada.” But our bemused friend knew best. Pulling over beside the fifth petrol station to confer with a group of truckers, we were pointed down a little alleyway, where we soon arrived to the joyous sight of one particular trucker siphoning some Diesel from his tank into the jerry cans of another group of frustrated drivers – presumably for a princely sum.

Well, the price mattered little by that stage, and Bryn and I soon bought 45 litres’ worth (and eventually went back again for an extra 20), before heading back to the hotel to fill up the tank and set off to Samarqand – home to some of the most impressive Muslim architecture that I have ever seen.

Quite what we’ll do about the Diesel shortage in a few days’ time, I do not know. Perhaps Samarqand will be different, but that seems unlikely, given that there was none in the capital. For the moment, we will just sit back, relax, and enjoy our new surroundings in the enchanted city of Samarqand.

Sophie Ibbotson:

In my mind, Samarkand and Kashgar are the two great Silk Road cities. I went to Kashgar in 2008 and was sorely disappointed by the way the Chinese had flattened the city, consciously burying thousands of years of world history under strip malls, neon signs and mile after mile of concrete. It was therefore with some trepidation that I approached Samarkhand, not knowing if UNESCO had been able to hold back the ravages of time, cultural imperialism, and a chronic lack of taste.

The outskirts of Samarkand are not too promising. I bit my lip and kept my fingers crossed. As we came around the ring road, skirting fairly characterless blocks of flats and administrative buildings, the Registan popped into view across the rooftops. I let out a sigh of relief.

The origins of Samarkhand date back some 3000 years, but the most ancient parts were destroyed by Genghis Khan. The buildings we see today were built by his descendants between the 14th and 17th centuries AD. The so-called Timurid dynasty ruled an empire that stretched from Ankara to Delhi. Samarkand was their capital and, as such, a centre of patronage that drew the finest architects and artisans of the day. The superior quality of their work is clear in every dome, tile and tower.

We stayed in a guesthouse a stone’s throw away from the Guri Amir mausoleum (the tomb of Amir Timur, sometimes known as Tamerlaine). The house was built in a traditional style around a courtyard, with fruit trees to offer shade. From the bedroom door we could reach out and pluck fat, juicy cherries to eat. At breakfast, served at a communal table in a second white-washed courtyard, we devoured fresh bread, homemade mulberry and rose petal jams, pastries, potato cakes and crepes. It was a perfect start to each day.

Quite understandably, it is the Registan that attracts the most attention in Samarkand. This exquisite collection of mosques and madrassas (Islamic schools) is arranged dramatically on three sides of a square, with the archways of the principal buildings rising up imposingly. Although the buildings themselves are brick-built, every inch of their facades are richly tiled. The majority of the tile work features the geometric patterns typical on Islamic buildings, but there is one notable exception: there are two orange tigers staring down at you from the corner panels of the archway to the right.

My favourite discovery, however, is far less frequented. On the furthest edge of the city’s graveyard, having disturbed a few sleepy marmots and an occasional snake, we discovered a row of domed tombs, the earliest of which dates from the 1300s. The place is quiet – there wasn’t another tourist in sight – and so, as we walked, it felt timeless. The tiles were a combination of a deep royal blue and shades of turquoise, all with an immaculate sheen that caught the evening light. A solitary figure, possibly an Imam, appeared briefly, paused to look along the length of the paved avenue between the tombs, and then disappeared as suddenly as he had come. The last of the day’s light faded and we wandered home entranced.

Post Script - Latvia

2010-06-03T13:21:00.008+01:00

Jo Dew-Jones:

Here it is then - the transit lounge in Riga Airport, on what is my first visit to the wonderful nation of Lativa. First impressions are highly favourable - the sun is out, and the tarmac laid out on the runway before me seems good quality indeed.

It is approaching 9am in Tashkent which is certainly a reasonable hour to be awake - that is, however, if one wasn't up until 3am for flight-catching purposes, and has had about 3 hours sleep since. Having said that, under the general chaos at Tashkent Airport there was some degree of organisation and everything went smoothly. 5 hours till my next flight.

The others will be getting up soon - Team A must continue! It's going to be such an interesting couple of weeks for them, especially as plans will only finalise as they go along due to monitoring security of the Afghan roads. I will be eagerly watching our for the blogs, now I am back on the other side!

Time for a final poem, surely...

So Long, Farewell, Auf Wiedersehn, Adieu

The time has come to pen
My final verse, and then
It's home for me again
That green and pleasant land.

It's been a month almost,
In which I've seen a host
Of lands - not coast to coast
But wide-ranged all the same!

I know I'm very blessed
To have had trip success -
I'm thinking of the rest:
Go Suzie! Go Team A!

Kazakhstan to Uzbekistan

2010-06-02T12:44:00.014+01:00

Yet another border crossing can be chalked up as the team enters Uzbekistan! Although the crossing itself was not without several challenges, including closed crossing points and broken down vehicles. Of course, this is nothing the four travelers can't overcome!

Sophie Ibbotson:

I’m sat typing in the dark because there’s a power cut and all the lights have gone out. I’m tempted to think that this isn’t a regular occurrence in Tashkent as otherwise the hotel would have an emergency generator. Either way, you have me for as long as the laptop battery lasts.

We arrived here yesterday evening after what could easily have been a disastrous day. We left Turkestan bright and early, if a little smelly. The latter point was beyond our control: the hotel had no water and none of us could face showering with the murky contents of the coke bottles lined up in the bathroom for flushing the toilet.

The drive from Turkestan to the Kazakh-Uzbek border at Shymkent isn’t far – just a 100km or so. As we approached the border, we were hailed by the traffic police and had to pull up by the curb. We had been driving at around 40 km/h, our headlights were on, and we hadn’t committed any illegal manoeuvres, so we assumed it was merely that the GB registration plates had caught their eye and they were curious. We were half right. They had seen the plates, but it was greed rather than curiosity that was motivating them.

Sometimes policemen spot a foreign vehicle and see dollar signs. It’s not a pretty trait, but a fact of life nonetheless. These particular traffic police were rather persistent. We’d been nice, been less nice, shown them lots of official looking paperwork (some genuinely official and some less official), spoken a little Russian, claimed to understand no Russian, and refuted silly allegations for speeding and having unauthorised Afghanaid signs on the sides of the car. One of the officers had taken Steve’s UK driving license and was being belligerent about returning it.

Ah, the power has returned.

As usual in such situations, I began to copy down all the details of the event in clear view. I started with the date and time, moved on to the registration numbers and makes of the police cars, and tried to get the cops’ badge numbers. Perhaps in anticipation of this, they’d already tucked the lower part of their badges into their top pockets so that the numbers couldn’t be read. Still, it had the desired effect, and one officer in particular started to get a little edgy, trying to read my writing over my shoulder. He couldn’t read English but certainly got the gist of what I was up to. He disappeared into a huddle with his colleagues. We watched and waited.

The balance of power had now shifted, and the nervy officer approached us to make a deal: if we would tear up our notes on the incident, the police would return Steve’s driving license. I paused a second as if to consider the proposal. Then smiled, tore the page from my note book, and took the license out of his hand as I gave him the sheet of paper. We were on our way. I made a mental note to myself to always present an international driving license to police rather than the UK photo card: the former can always be left behind as it is much easier (and cheaper) to replace.

The border crossing was now in sight. We congratulated ourselves on having found it first time round, and remarked happily on the lack of traffic. This may have jinxed our fate. The reason that there were no queues of cars and lorries approaching the border was that the border crossing was shut. Three surly looking guards stood by the locked gates, garbled something at us, and pointed back the way we came. There was no apparent reason for it to be shut, and no one could give us an explanation why. It just was.

There are a number of border crossings between Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan, not all of them are open to vehicles, and only two are open to foreigners. We were being directed to one that did not fall into the latter category, which made me particularly hesitant: I’d recently heard horror stories about people being caught in no man’s land between the two countries for 10 days until the bureaucrats finally got things sorted. That was not a prospect I fancied.

The border we had to try was Chinaz and it’s about 50km drive west from Shymkent. It isn’t signposted and we repeatedly thought we’d gone the wrong way as the route took us through some fairly remote villages that were unlikely to have a lot of passing lorry traffic. When we finally got there, we whizzed through emigration in record time and were feeling quite optimistic about the whole process. We jumped back into the Isuzu, turned the ignition…. and nothing happened. Well, that’s not quite true. The starter motor made its usual grrrr noise, and then nothing happened.

Bryn is our self-proclaimed grease monkey. This is great, as I go cross-eyed when I look under the bonnet of a car. I can change a tyre and bash out dents with a hammer, but anything more technical than that and I’m at a loss. Sadly, even Bryn was a little confused. We had fuel, air, water and oil in ample quantities, and the car had shown no signs of suspicious behaviour previously. It just wouldn’t go. We had already officially left Kazakhstan and so there was no going back for a mechanic. The only way out was forwards, propelled by human power.

We pushed the Isuzu through no man’s land. We pushed the Isuzu through quarantine. We pushed the Isuzu through immigration, customs and, finally, along the long, narrow road to the exit gate. The lorries stuck behind us were less than impressed but, as they weren’t inclined to get out and help push, we didn’t feel too sorry for them.

At this point I want to divert your attention for a short while to the Lada crawling along beside us. Jo has written about Lada’s far more poetically than me, but this Lada deserves a mention because it was particularly pathetic. For a start, even when it was brand new, it was poo brown. This is not a colour to paint your car. Secondly, it was so rusty that slamming the boot was a serious threat to its structural integrity. The wheel arches were no longer arched, and the car winced and wheezed as it drove.

The Lada’s passengers also gave us something to look at. They appeared to be a middle aged man and, somewhere under the voluminous floral headscarf, his mother. Mother was incredibly old, incredibly small, and incredibly loud. Most of the time she seemed to be talking to herself, but sometimes she’d turn her attentions to various border officials, chastising them for making her wait or other perceived slights. Most interestingly of all, although she was very much in force in no man’s land as we parked beside her, she had completely disappeared by exit gates. Quite what her son had done with her, we don’t have a clue. Perhaps she was in the boot.

Anyway, back to Suzy and her ills. Having pulled various things out from under the hood and fiddled with them, Bryn established that no fuel was getting through to the engine. Running our reserve tank down to almost nothing whilst out on the steppe had pulled all sorts of grot from the bottom of the tank up into the system. This had now got stuck in the fuel filter, the fuel pump or one of the connecting tubes and the Isuzu wasn’t going to go anywhere at all until it was clear. It was time to summon a mechanic.

We didn’t get one mechanic but a car full. Some of them may have been bystanders coming along for the excitement of the ride. There isn’t much to do in Chinaz. They got very excited by our shiny silver socket wrench kit, and even more excited by the giant Leatherman multi-tool. It was a veritable fest of boys’ toys.

I was a little alarmed to see one of the mechanics disconnect a diesel tube, put it to his mouth and suck. I can understand blowing through it, but sucking is an entirely different matter. I know he wanted to clear any potential blockages, but getting a full mouthful of dirty diesel for your efforts cannot be recommended to anyone. It’s a very silly idea.

Silly idea or not, the sucking, fiddling and thumping did the trick. Suzy choked back into life, we parted with some Euros and half a packet of cigarettes, and were on back on the road to Tashkent. The relief was immense, and the end of a very long day was in sight.

Jo Dew-Jones:

And so it was that yesterday provided plenty of drama of its own - fitting, really, as my adventure is soon to be complete. Having written that we were 'very close to the Uzbek border', this turned out to be both true and false; upon our arrival (12km from Tashkent!) the border was quite determinedly closed, and we were directed to a point further along the M23.

Onwards we drove and arrived at a swarming entry point; here we were harangued by shifty looking Kazakhs trying to wheedle money out of us by offering to drive to where we actually ¬were going - further on. It always feels a little harsh to be so rude and dismissive in those situations, but equally the knowledge that they are so blatantly trying to pull a fast one lessens the sympathy (and politeness) towards the strangers.

Away we went, and around 1.30pm we found a point at which the melee of cars and officials which had marked our previous crossings was present. This seemed a positive sign, and we were allowed in, and thus our spirits lifted. We drove to the stop point, piled out for passport checks, and enjoyed a late picnic.

At this stage, there were two developments: Sophie received a text to say that according to the internet, this was not an official entry point and there was therefore a risk that Kazakhstan would let us out but Uzbekistan would deny entry; and Suzie the trusty Isuzu refused to start.

The latter was more perplexing than the former -there was nothing we could do about that and would have to hope for the best. As for Suzie, however - what was wrong? Fuel was ample, battery charged, other obvious problems not present... our collective engineering knowledge (=Bryn) provided no answers.

Of all the places to break down, a border is surely the most ideal. In-between pushing the car as we made progress through the Uzbek bureaucracy (there seemed to be no problems letting us in! Hooray) we attracted a crowd of truckers attempting to help. Communication with home indicated it was something to do with the fuel pump or filter, so attention was focussed there. After our final luggage inspection we rolled the car into our official new host nation, whereupon a man called some mechanic friends, and a troop arrived to aid us in our trial.

When Suzie purred into life, it filled us with relief. It was about 6.40pm, and having only started the border process at around 2pm, that barely constituted a significant delay. We were now further away from Tashkent, about 50km, and once we'd navigated the city we got to the hotel around 9pm. But then we had to turn the clocks back anyway, dinner was yummy and the beds very nice. A successful day, all told.

Turkestan - Kazakhstan

2010-05-25T14:52:00.004+01:00

With flatness, wind, dodgy policemen, lack of running water, and national architecture the Kazakh adventure continues as the intrepid four travel on towards Uzbekistan.

Steve Dew-Jones:

Ah squat toilet, we meet again. Hotel Sabina should be praised for its lowly prices and thus I suppose that one should not be so surprised with the lack of, say, running water or a toilet seat.

Despite our rudimentary quarters, this remains a progression from last night’s camp somewhere near Qyzylorda, during which I failed to sleep very much as a result of the gale force winds that sent the tent canvas flapping into our faces throughout. Kazakhstan is really rather flat, you see, and the lack of anything to act as a wind-buffer seems only to encourage its propulsion.

Tomorrow we will be leaving KZ behind and making for another of the ‘stans, Uzbekistan. Apparently it’s quite similar, which doesn’t surprise me given that it was also formerly part of the Soviet Union. Those Russians don’t seem to have much architectural imagination. Come to think of it, they don’t appear to have much gastronomic imagination either. There was me thinking that we might get a break from the daily diet of shashlik and hleb (kebabs and bread), but Tashkent is likely to be just the same.

I’ll miss Kazakhstan after this, my second visit, but I can’t really explain why. Perhaps it is its oddities that give the place a certain charm, and I do like the fact that the country is painted solely with the colours from the national flag. Never before has one seen a country with so many turquoise walls. Hotel Sabina is no exception.

Jo Dew-Jones:

In our last couple of hours' drive in Kazakhstan, the landscape has altered entirely. There is a range of snowy mountains on the horizon, the fields are lush and rolling and we have encountered farming. It is really rather attractive.

Alas, we have had our first bad experience with a policeman. He seemed to want some kind of extra document for the car which we neither have nor need; after private 'conversations' with Steve and Bryn he refused to return Steve's driving license, and in the ensuing half hour negotiations attempted to accuse us of speeding (impossible - there was heavy traffic), not being authorised to have magnetic stickers on the car, and possibly having too dirty a vehicle. Maybe so! But none of those were legit, and it took Sophie making a very thorough note of the policeman and incident details to emphasise that we were no push-overs, and would not be conned. License in hand (in exchange for aforementioned particulars ripped up) we are on our way.

Aral - Kazakhstan

2010-05-25T01:01:00.002+01:00

After a voyage over roads that ought to be termed beaches, not roads, the travellers are greeted by Aral; a harbour that is no longer a harbour decorated with the rusting hulks of abandoned fishing vessels. All this and more in a tale of discovery, curious policemen and Kazakh breakfast habits.

Sophie Ibbotson:

A Kazakh drinking session starts with vodka at seven. Tumblers are laid out on the bar, filled almost to the brim, and you down your glass and cheer. By 10, participants have moved onto the beer – something a little lighter to pace oneself. At first glance this may not appear any different to a night out in Bournemouth or Brighton. The problem is that in Kazakhstan we’re talking about am, not pm.

We saw this practise most clearly this morning whilst settling down to breakfast in the café opposite our hotel. While we tucked into fried eggs and bread, washed down with tea and coffee, the men at the neighbouring table were on to their third pints of the day. It was shortly after 9 am. The prospect of living in Aral is certainly depressing, but it’s sad if it drives you to drink.

Arriving in Aral is like coming upon a town in the Mid West: one minute you’re alone in the dust, and the next you’re on top of a petrol station and a number of low-rise buildings. Aral is a large place, seemingly well-served by roads and a railway line. Giant statues of lynxes are mounted on the welcome gate as you enter the town, and an elaborate mosaic at the station proclaims proudly the moment in 1921 when Aral’s fisherman fed their starving comrades in Mother Russia.

Aral’s glory days are gone: only a ghost town remains. The Aral Sea, the source of the town’s prosperity, has shrunken to a poisonous puddle, the port town of Aral is now 30km from the sea and few fish can survive in the extreme salinity of the remaining water.

An hour’s drive from Aral is the so-called ‘Ships’ Graveyard’, but the same scene of desolation lies far closer to home. We walked out of our hotel into the old harbour. A modern school and domed sports club are the only signs that the area is not actually deserted. As you cast a glance across the sand and stagnant pools of slimy mud, buildings slump unfinished or derelict, cranes stand like rusted skeletons, and rubbish litters the path.

Dodging the debris, we picked our way along the harbour’s former mouth. A sand track wide enough for cars to pass now marks the harbour’s edge and, as we reached the top of its embankment, I stood aghast. Rotting, rusting hulks were scattered across the scrub. There were 8-10 in number and they were not insubstantial in size: there were not mere dinghies but sea-going trawlers capable of bringing home many tonnes of catch from a single fishing trip. The sight of their plight, symbolising as it did the plight of the whole community, their livelihood, way of life and environment, was utterly devastating. It’s no wonder the people need a stiff drink.

Steve Dew-Jones:

The occasional marmot, camel or golden eagle brings relief from otherwise endless stretches of barren land. Kazakhstan, for such a large country, doesn’t seem to possess very much.

One slightly more interesting town in this Western side of the country is Aral. Perhaps you have already heard the story about the Soviets and the irrigation trouble that saw the Aral Sea ebb away from the city of Aral by some 80km! In its stead, a place that once thrived on a booming fishing trade seems rather devoid of life. A few rusty wrecks of old ships in the port-that-once-was are all that remains.

The day before we arrived in Aral – and checked in to easily the grubbiest hotel we have so far encountered - we spent a night underneath the stars. Jerry Can and diesel tank both filled to the brim to ensure that there wouldn’t be a repeat of our last journey, we had driven for well over 400km by the time we decided to pitch up for the night. It was a funny old stretch of road; so impressively flat and pothole-free for large stretches until, suddenly, the road would stop altogether and one would be pointed off the tarmac and onto a couple of kilometres of terrain that might better-suit a beach than anything that might conceivably be labelled “roadworthy”.

Fun at first, by 6pm we had had quite enough of the endless quirks – on what was apparently the M32, the most major road between the north and south of Kazakhstan! – and found some wood from the only tree in sight so that we might make ourselves a fire upon which to consume some good old fashioned camping grub.

As another eagle flies overhead, Bryn is making the final repairs to the incy-wincy little hole in our engine (I blame all the enforced off-roading) and we should be on our way in the next half an hour.

Jo Dew-Jones:

On Wednesday we carried on driving past our original destination, so small did it look, and after a while of navigating the off-road track that constitutes the diversion whilst the motorway is being constructed, pitched our tent. There can surely never fail to be something romantically charming about a vast open space, a home-made campfire, sunset and (really rather tasty) camp food. I slept rather well this time.

Aral, unsurprisingly, was something of a non-town, built as it is around a sea which is no longer there and industry which has subsequently disappeared. Walking up to the ship wreckages where once there would have been water and life was bizarre. We had the good fortune of chancing upon a Brit and an American who were there making a CNN documentary about the Aral Sea.

So as we prepare to leave for Uzbekistan tomorrow, what will my memories of Kazakhstan be?
Firstly, the most inquisitive yet friendly bunch of policemen we've encountered - we have an unrivalled record for being pulled over just out of curiosity rather than having fallen foul of the road rules! Secondly, I suppose, MEAT - shashlyk (kebab), manty (dumplings), steak, laghman (meat and spaghetti in broth), sausage. Kazakhstan is not the place for vegetarians.
Thirdly: the wind! It has been remarkably blustery, and we required some extra rigging from Bryn to prevent our tent from lifting off last night.

Second impressions

The nothingness sweeps for miles on end
And reaches beyond and behind
With but a scattered shrubbery
Breaking the horizon of dancing dust.

This land, though, is rich in other ways:
The bold and glorious eagle atop the mound
Surveys his vast kingdom
Of marmots, who cheekily scurry along,
And sauntering camels, in the (unfortunate) stage
of shedding their uniform to prepare for summer,
And other herding animals, whose terrain seems boundless
And whose owners permit them to roam.

The bird life is varied and playful
And there must be many more life forms
We miss, hypnotised as we are
By a bleak land, which is anything but.

Camping in Kazakhstan

2010-05-23T14:06:00.001+01:00

Sophie Ibbotson:

My brother Wills is the greatest cynic I know, and he’s probably very proud of that fact. If I come home raving about something absolutely, immensely, terribly incredible that I’ve seen, shrieking in delight and flapping my arms around like an enraged ostrich, it’s likely he’ll simply smile, raise one eyebrow, and then disappear off quietly into the kitchen for a stiff gin and tonic. We love each other dearly, but it’s a wonder how our parents managed to have two such different children.

Despite our contrasting natures, one thing that we’ll probably agree on is that nothing is awesome. Wills would resist such hyperbole on principle. I agree with the notion because I interpret it from a rather different angle: the complete absence of anything is awesome.

This was rammed home the last few days as we drove across the Kazakh steppe. The land is entirely flat. Whichever direction you look, the only thing you can see is the horizon: it’s just you, the dust and the sky. Spotting a tree is a novelty, and a hump in the road is a cause of great excitement.

We stopped the Isuzu (now properly named Suzy the Isuzu) and looked into the distance. Casting a glance across the horizon from left to right you could see the slight curve to the earth. In a word, it was awesome.

In such a space (and further encouraged by the complete absence of hotels), it would have been criminal not to camp out and soak up the openness. This is a country of nomads in tents, after all. We picked our campsite with care (no railway tracks, motorways or dance music here), only to find it was infested with the world’s most deadly creatures: marmots. As fans of QI* will know, the marmot has killed more people than any other animal on earth. They’re just under a foot long, resemble rather fat meerkats, and would make decidedly cute television characters – selling a rival brand of car insurance, perhaps. Needless to say, our tent remained where it was, and we chased marmots in a bid to get just one photo that didn’t show the sandy spot where a marmot had been sat sunning itself a split second beforehand. We failed.

Unlike our stay on the outskirts of Penza, there wasn’t an obvious restaurant or supermarket for a good hundred miles in any direction. I lacked the energy to snare a passing camel, and there’s not enough meat on a lame marmot to feed a team of four. Instead, I dived into the back of Suzy and recovered our bag of freeze-dried meals. Having told everyone it was chicken and mash for supper, I was a little surprised to discover they were all in fact sweet and sour pork with rice. It was an easy mistake to make; the ingredients list is probably the same.

The food problem was dealt with, and we had ample bottles of water to rehydrate the mush. The only thing we lacked was a source of heat. A camping stove was one of the things I’d never got round to packing, and my bid to get a 12 volt kettle from Halfords had been thwarted: the Hammersmith branch listed on their company website does not actually exist. Helpful. Fortunately for all concerned, the Boy Scout hiding inside Bryn came to the fore, collected a pile of brush wood and tumble weed, and lit us a fire. He fashioned a pan holder from the shovel, a socket wrench, three cable ties and some gaffer tape, and stood on the shovel’s plate to act as a counter-balance to the saucepan of soon-to-be-boiling water. It was ingenious, if a little Heath Robinson.

The water boiled, the food re-inflated, and the pork cubes were satisfyingly crunch. We sat by the fire on our rolled up sleeping bags, and watched the red sun set over the vastness of Kazakhstan. Awesome.

* For more information see: http://www.qi.com/tv/

Changes

2010-05-21T15:12:00.002+01:00

Bryn Kewley:

They say to know another language is to own another soul. I don’t know any foreign languages but learning Cyrillic rocks! It’s like being a kid again and trying to decipher some secret code, only it won’t lead to a simple message; it means you find your hotel or order a tasty meal and not something nondescript, possibly once living and invariably covered in dill.

Release from the long hours of work and the grind of repetition has prompted in me, a period of metal alteration, or maybe amendment. To my surprise, when this trip started I found myself talking in volumes about random and tedious subjects, uninteresting observations on the road and long self-serving anecdotes. I’m not sure quite where this need to talk originated but maybe I was apprehensive about the trip or felt uneasy about travelling such a long distance with people I barely knew.

As time has passed I have become accustomed to my travelling partners and relaxed into a new rhythm which is far more engaging and leads to new things every day. Soph I’ve known since infancy but we have scarcely seen each other for the last 10 years due to distance, university and her ‘Tracing Tea’ adventure through the Middle Wast. I recognise in Steve things about myself that I hadn’t realised were there and enjoy his command of language that has come in helpful time and again. Jo’s outbursts of beautifully tuned singing and playful verse are a recurrent delight, as is her partnership in attempting to prevent Steve winning Harkem yet again! Steve and Jo are married and I vicariously enjoy their intimacy as it reminds me of my girlfriend who is currently teaching in China. We like to play interesting guessing games with the menus, naming a tiny minority of what's available and ordering the unfamiliar. This typically leads to interesting, tasty but occasionally unidentifiable dishes.

This release of mental pressure has lead to me begin questioning everything again like I did as a child. Landforms and city layouts have become areas of intense interest to me as I try to fathom why trees of that type seem to grow in that area but not another, what might have lead that river to dry up or what has lead the Russians to introduce such spectacular numbers of traffic lights?

We reached an interesting point today as we arrived in Oral, just over the Kazakh boarder with Russia. The latitude and longitude of this city is 50°35 North and 50°40 East meaning we are geographically further east than north. The line of latitude originates in Greenwich, London where we started, and the line of longitude is at the physical equator. This means that if we had travelled the same distance south rather than east we would have passed the equator into the southern hemisphere. My travel partners find this fact a little trivial but as a geography graduate I think it’s fascinating!

One aspect of the trip we should work on is interaction with the indigenous people. Having gelled well into a tight knit group and encountering few problems along our route, we have had little need to relate to the people we see. Hotel clerks, petrol station operators and restaurant staff seem pleasant and helpful, yet tangible relations are limited in our time together. Language is the biggest barrier as I have yet to learn more than a couple of basic phrases which limits me to English speakers of which we have found few.

This need to communicate has sprung, I think, from the raw experience of the surroundings at and between each place we visit. I’ve found this to be fundamentally different to arriving by air. Some might argue that to arrive by plane or car makes little difference; it’s the same mechanics drawn up a different way. But the vehicle is inconsequential, it’s the difference in me, the trials and difficulties faced and conquered along the route that generate this view. It has found me on increasingly playful terms with the world and a sense of my place within it.

Russia to Kazakhstan

2010-05-21T13:26:00.016+01:00

Read some of our brave travellers final thoughts on Russia as the 4x4 and drivers make it to Kazakhstan, yet another border crossing to chalk up, despite Russian bureaucracy! Find out what happens once they start running out of petrol on their way to Aktobe.

Steve Dew-Jones:

Nomansland, Russia/Kazakhstan border:
Another day, another border. This time it’s the Kazakh one, and we’ve already been here for two hours. To be fair to the Kazakhs, those hours are entirely the fault of the Russians, who insisted upon checking and re-checking our passports, baggage, and any other miscellaneous documents that they could get their hands upon. Now we just sit and wait on the other side of a red and white barrier in barren stretches of green that appear to go on forever. With any luck, we will have passed through the Kazakh checks and have arrived in Uralsk before the sun sets...

Aktobe
It seems like such a long time ago that we were in Moscow. I suppose that the small matter of 1650 kilometres might have something to do with it… From the 600 down to Penza (a non-descript Russian city, in which the most exciting events involved eating pizza and finding somewhere to set up camp), the 350 on to Samara (a slightly more interesting city on the banks of the Volga, in which we witnessed the madness of a Russian city on Victory Day), another 250 to Ural (with a three-hour border crossing thrown in), and today’s 450 to Aktobe, in which you find us.

The drive today deserves more of an explanation because it was far less straightforward than one measly sentence might suggest.

I think it must have been about twenty kilometres in when Bryn noticed that the fuel gauge was dangling precariously close to the “E”, meaning empty. No matter, we thought; a short stop at the next petrol station and all would be well.

Sure enough, there she stood, not much more than a couple of kilometres down the line. The only problem was that she simply would not accept Visa cards as payment.

Pulling together all the cash we could muster, we had about two thousand Tenge (the equivalent of about ten pounds) – enough to half fill the tank. Hopefully, a little further along down the way and we could find a Visa-accepting petrol station, and rest easy.

And so we started driving, and after an hour or so spotted two more petrol stations, popped into both, but found them similarly unwilling. Not to worry; there was still a quarter of a tank’s worth of fuel and Aktobe was… oh, another three hundred kilometres.

Well, we had little choice but to continue, and to hope for the best. And so we kept on driving, and driving some more. I think it must have been a good hour later when Bryn again noticed our fuel gauge drooping and we hadn’t seen a single petrol station. The time was 12.30pm and I was more concerned about having some lunch, but no; every ounce of fuel was valuable and we could ill afford to waste any on stopping and starting the engine. And so we continued…

If only we had filled up that Jerry can of ours. Tell me, what use is there in possessing one of those things if one isn’t even going to put anything in it?

Another hour dragged by, the petrol light popped on, and we estimated that we had a maximum of 50 miles left in us. Aktobe was still more than 150km away and we were never going to make it.

Just at the moment when all thoughts had been directed towards Plan B (something involving one or other of the boys hitching a ride to who knows where, and picking up some fuel with who knows what money, before returning to save the day), and we spotted a lonely petrol station on the horizon.

Elated, little regard was paid to our lack of Tenge. Upon arrival, Bryn and I turned on the charm and managed to persuade a kind Kazakh man into exchanging 1000 Russian Roubles for enough precious fuel to get us here to Aktobe, and to the Elak Hotel, which we were kindly shown to by our first hitcher, a young chap called Mijet.

The journey goes on, and luck is still on our side.

Jo Dew-Jones:

New country, quick recap:
Day fourteen: Fun day in Moscow. Exploring; sushi for lunch; emailing/blogging afternoon; enjoying the busking on ul. Arbat early evening; dinner at Italian/ Japanese fusion restaurant; cards.
Day fifteen: Drive drive drive drive Moscow -> Penza (600km). 11 hours. Dinner in Penza. Camp.
Day sixteen: Drive drive drive Penza -> Samara. Little nap; sit on hill overlooking VE day celebrations; dinner in outdoor café in park; sleep @ Hotel Volga.
Day seventeen: Drive to border; 3 hours; exit; arrive, spend time finding hotel; eat at café in hotel; find ice cream for dessert; et voila!

And so it is that we enter another vast nation, and yet another on the list that I have not been to before. Russia has seemed to go by in a flash, and I liked it a lot; Moscow was probably my favourite city so far, and it was a lot of fun to stumble upon the buzzing ul. Arbat on Friday evening as it suddenly came alive with street artists of all kinds. Penza was less interesting – indeed, we only spent enough time to eat a meal, before heading out to find a camping spot – but Samara, again, was full of life. That may have been due to coinciding with the VE celebrations, and with our hotel right on the River Volga we were in the centre of things. When the fireworks began we dashed to the end of the corridor and had a prime view of three simultaneous displays. It was epic and thoroughly impressive. Further, a highlight of the trip was born as we attempted to navigate back to the hotel car park after dinner through the numerous cordons and diversions, past vigilant but generally sympathetic policemen, until we ended up the only car on the river front surrounded by throngs of drunken Russians. It was a wonderful sight.

Reading up on the countries we’ve been passing through has been at once fascinating and eye-opening. There have been horrific human actions in each, nearly always interlinked with the actions of neighbouring nations. The Aral Sea disaster particularly struck me today as I’ve not heard of it before – what an unmitigated disaster of human creation*.

Today’s border crossing was a breeze (well, in effort terms at least) and there was really no need for nerves this time as we picked up our official documents this morning. It still takes us three times as long as everyone else, but that is predominantly a Cyrillic/Latin alphabet issue, which has brought about interesting meal choices in the past! Steve’s knowledge of Russian, however scanty, is extremely useful and gets him gold stars from whoever we interact with. I’m getting there with the alphabet, at least!

* For more information please see: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aral_Sea

The car in front is (almost certainly) a Lada

Check out that Lada!
- Souped-up Lada with your spoilers and go-faster stripes
(Do you know they won’t actually make you go faster?);
- Police-car Lada, crouching cruelly in the mirage dip.
You make us suspicious of all distant Lada-shaped vehicles.
- Hybrid Lada – part one Lada, part another.
- Lada that we’re fairly sure is a Lada
Although it has been somewhat reshaped
Through a series of unfortunate mishaps.
- Smartie Ladas: red – blue – brown – yellow!
- Mobile home Lada
(Your movement defies scientific laws);
- 4x4 Lada – hmm, a little too cool.
Give us clapped-out Lada attempting the same roads any day.

We love you Ladas, you bastions of engineering genius.

Samara - Russia

2010-05-20T13:08:00.007+01:00

Sophie Ibbotson:

The Russians are trying hard to promote Samara as a tourist destination. To date they’re having limited success: domestic tourists are taking a mild interest but the foreigners are nowhere to be seen. This is a real pity because, of all the Russian resorts I’ve seen, Samara is probably the nicest.

Samara is built on the banks of the Volga River. In fact, as the river passes the city it is so wide it feels more like a lake. If you close your eyes and imagine Lake Geneva without the mountains, you’re getting somewhere close. A few small cruise ships bob up and down on the water, brave souls strip down to their underpants to take a dip, and all along the promenade Samara’s bright young things are rollerblading, sunning themselves and drinking ice cold beer. It’s an ideal place to relax.

Walking along the promenade I thoroughly enjoyed people spotting. Wherever you go in Russia there are huge numbers of gravity-defying stilettos, more often than not attached to girls whose legs wouldn’t disgrace flamingos. My favourite outfit by far was the striped 5” stilettos worn over see-through knee high socks. This combo was carefully paired with denim hot pants and not a great deal else. I didn’t know quite where to look, but the men lounging on benches had no such compunction and seemed thoroughly pleased with themselves.

For the more culturally inclined, Samara has a striking Russian Orthodox church on top of a hill. The church has the best view for miles: not only can you see across the city and across the Volga, but also across the neighbouring countryside. The slopes of the hill became impromptu stands for an extensive firework display and also gave spectators a prime view of the VE day concert, dance displays and glorified re-enactments. Never before has the Great Patriotic War (AKA WWII) looked so glamorous.

Penza - Russia

2010-05-19T14:31:00.003+01:00

Sophie Ibbotson:

I have a soft spot for camping. Ever since predicted rain scotched my camping plans for Prague, I’ve been eager to get under the canvas. Not only is it a cheap way to spend the night but there is something very refreshing about sleeping in the great outdoors.

Penza is one of those cities that you’d only ever pass through on the way to somewhere else. It has no discernible culture, few (if any) redeeming architectural features, and is stuck out in the middle of nowhere. When we arrived almost all of the restaurants were shut (6pm on a Saturday is clearly the time to shut out the punters), the 24 hour karaoke bar had a dress code we couldn’t hope to meet, and the hotels were hideously expensive. It was looking rather bleak.

Pizza and a tent saved the day. In the Italian restaurant we sat next to a man who looked like he’d starred in a 1990s blue movie, and tucked into surprisingly tasty dishes we’d selected at random from the menu. The promised risotto bore a distinctly fishy resemblance to plov*, but was enjoyable none the less. As in every non-Italian Italian restaurant, there were photos of red Ferraris on the wall.

It was just turning dark as we left the restaurant, so an ideal time to find a camping spot. We headed out of town along the road to Samara, figuring we may as well look in the direction we were headed. The first few kilometers of road ran through a marsh. The water was fairly deep, and those bits of land that weren’t actually under water looked decidedly boggy. Unless we put an air mattress underneath the tent, it wasn’t exactly going to be ideal.

The marsh eventually turned to woodland. Our first diversion from the main road took us down a track, past a number of piles of rubbish, and towards what was either an army barracks or a factory. Either way it was surrounded with barbed wire and didn’t look particularly friendly. We did a U-turn, narrowly avoided a ditch, and headed back to the main road.

Five minutes further on we found our camping spot. We weren’t entirely sure as to the legality of wild camping in Russia and so we wanted to ensure the tent was pitched a reasonable distance from the road and that the parked car didn’t draw attention to it. This meant using the Isuzu’s four-wheel drive for the first time, and a bumpy off-road ride for us all. The car performed surprisingly well and we were soon tucked out of sight, buried in the woods somewhere between the main road and the railway tracks. We didn’t know it at the time but the woods also concealed another hideaway: one with a penchant for late night dance music.

The tent was one of the last things I picked up before I ran out of the door at home. I’d ummed and aahed about bringing it for some time, decided not to bother, then changed my mind at the last minute. In my haste I picked up one that claimed optimistically to be a three man one. As you’re aware, there are four people on the team. We therefore banished Bryn to sleep in the boot of the car, having thoughtfully moved the luggage to the front seats. It’s a good job that we travel light.

I’ve probably spoken rather too critically about our camping experience and the pain that it entailed when, in reality and as I said at the beginning, I am in fact a camping fan. The ground outside Penza was unusually soft and, therefore, quite comfortable. My sleeping bag was warm, Steve and Jo didn’t snore (another reason for ousting Bryn) and the mosquitoes and spots of rain both stayed conveniently on the outside of the fly sheet. I awoke early in the morning feeling surprisingly refreshed, not too grubby, and ready to face the day.

*Plov: a dish in which a grain, such as rice or cracked wheat, is browned in oil, and then cooked in a seasoned broth. Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pilaf

Moscow

2010-05-18T14:06:00.005+01:00

The Japanese car and the English four reach Moscow where they sample the (not so) delightful Russian cuisine, marvel at the astounding architecture, not least the Kremlin, manage to catch the VE day celebrations together with half of the former USSR's military and thoroughly enjoyed the increase in Ladas.

Steve Dew-Jones:

Ah, that’s better, Moskva! Wonderful to be here, although it is rather cold… and expensive! Nevertheless, we are determined to enjoy ourselves now that we are here, and have plans to visit the Russian equivalent of the Houses of Parliament (The Kremlin) on the day when a new Prime Minister may or may not be waltzing into 10 Downing Street.

Food standards have dropped noticeably – so much so that we went for Turkish cuisine at lunchtime, and shelled out fifty quid for the privilege! This morning we made the mistake of going for the generic Russian “pastries” option for breakfast and neither one of us made more than a mouthful of headway before coughing up the remnants and binning the rest. Said “pastries” tasted only of grease-soaked bread, and we think that there was some kind of meat substance involved, but we’d rather not think too much about which kind of animal(s) may have been present.

I’m pleased to say that we haven’t been stopped by the Russian police yet. The natives seem to have put together this clever technique, whereby drivers will flash their lights at one another to warn of approaching police traps, whereupon vehicles will slow down and then speed up again as soon as the danger has passed. This, plus the wonderful increase in Ladas (the archetypal Russian car, consisting of little more than an engine and a metal frame), has meant that our Russian driving experiences so far have been very enjoyable.

Sophie Ibbotson:

Moscow is incredible. As we approached the city and passed through the suburbs in the mid afternoon traffic, everything was far more impressive than I had expected. I’m used to Soviet cities being, well, Soviet: mile after mile of fading grey breeze block apartment blocks, unkempt pavements, wasteland and concrete statues to the nation, the soldier, and the working man. Wrapped closely around the river that sweeps through the city, Moscow undoubtedly has these elements but fortunately, at least for passersby, they’re fairly well hidden from view.

Our hostel was tucked behind the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, an imposing building that stretches many times higher than the surrounding structures. Its Empire State-like form seems almost to touch the sky, and it draws the eye from every direction. Behind it is Arbat, a wide pedestrian street that is crowded at all hours of the day and night with buskers, street artists and revelers. If you want your portrait done, hear Moscow’s latest jazz talents, buy stacking Russian dolls painted to look like Obama, or simply drink your usual macchiato-latte-flat-coffee-thing with extra froth in Starbucks, this is the place to come.

Moscow is synonymous with the Kremlin, the capital’s political and religious heart. This vast walled and complex is home not only to Russia’s corridors of power but also to three cathedrals, two churches, secret gardens, and a seemingly infinite number of towers. For those of you in the ‘bigger is better’ camp, the Kremlin also has a 40 ton cannon that is 5.34m long, and a 200 ton bell that is 6.14m tall and 6.6m in diameter. The majority of sites here date from the 16th and 17th centuries when the Tsars were at the height of their political and creative power. The workmanship in the golden domes, elaborate frescoes in muted colours, and polished stone floors is truly a sight to behold.

We shared our visit to the Kremlin with a thousand or so troops from around the former USSR. Soldiers on official visits from Poland, Kazakhstan, Tajikistan, Kyrgyzstan and Turkmenistan were playing at being tourists for a few hours and, despite the formality of their uniforms, were having a delightfully relaxed time. We were asked to pose alongside them for photos in the carefully manicured tulip gardens and in front of the Archangel Cathedral. In my jeans and t-shirt I felt decidedly under-dressed!

The troops were in town to participate in celebrations for the 65th anniversary of VE Day. I hadn’t previously realized what an important event it would be for the Russians, but the entirety of Moscow seemed to be in a flurry of activity as last minute preparations took place. The Moscow Times boasted how many hundred tanks, planes and intercontinental ballistic missiles would be involved in the parades, and also announced proudly the number of allied troops coming to Moscow to mark the occasion. Everywhere we went we saw pensioners with medals pinned to their chests, and people carrying red flowers for remembrance.

Security was tight and everything had to look perfect. It did.

Leaving Ukraine for Russia

2010-05-15T19:47:00.006+01:00

The intrepid four leave for Russia: Read their concluding impressions of Ukraine and of crossing the border into Russia! Will it be a repeat of the entry into Ukraine or will it proceed smoothly? Read on to find out!

Steve Dew Jones:

Back in the glasshouse that is the Hyatt, but this time we’re in the capital of Ukraine, Kyiv. Apparently much of this grand city has been standing tall for one thousand years and the domed churches of saints Andrew and Sofia still shine resplendently.

The drive here was comparatively short and relatively bump-free. Departing at 9am, we arrived just six and a half hours later, whereupon we strolled the famous cobbled street, St. Andrews Descent, and treated ourselves to a dinner of Shashlik – Slavonic for “kebabs”. Since then we’ve enjoyed a blissfully long sleep in the gloriously comfortable beds of the Hyatt, and remain upbeat despite our rude awakening at 8am – far too early for cleaners to start work in my opinion.

Sophie Ibbotson:

I feel at home in Ukraine – it feels a lot like being back in Kyrgyzstan, only without the mountains. As you leave the cities there are long, straight roads with surfaces of varying quality. There are tall trees either side of the carriageway, and white stripes have been painted at the base of their trunks in a half-hearted substitute for street lighting. Every other car is a creaking Lada, while the occasional brave motorcyclist does battle with the pot holes and patchy gravel.

The style of housing is also the same. There are painted breeze block bungalows with roofs of corrugated asbestos. Fodder is stored under the eaves to keep the animals going through the winter, and every home has an immaculately kept vegetable patch. Occasional chickens peck and scratch on the verge, scrawny dogs sun themselves in the road and bark as the cars go by, and head-scarved babooshkas sit selling apples and watching the world go by.

For the first time on this trip, the standard of driving has started to deteriorate. The one litre bottles of vodka for sale in the petrol stations, stacked on shelves between the Pepsi and the Evian, may have something to do with it. We’re on our guard against the potentially erratic driving of our fellow motorists, and we give them a wide berth. We endeavor to arrive at our destinations long before dark and the drunks come out to drive.

Jo Dew-Jones:

On the way to the Russian border.

We’ve just turned onto the main road to head the short 10 miles to the border, and since we were here yesterday, our visas only started today they’ve painted a white line in the middle! That’s impressive progress. Ah, we’ve just passed the van doing the work.

It’s a short way to go in distance, but I fear that the ease with which we pass through is not likely to correlate positively. If the Ukrainian border officials were, well, officious, then surely the Russians will be no less resistant to us entering? Best case scenario, through we go, have a nice time. I’m, not going to spell out a worst case scenario as that is asking for trouble, but this time we are better prepared: cookies, bread, water and more water. Come on Russki, let us in!

Shevchenko, etc

The Hyatt Kiev, where we spent
Two nights was rather opulent.
The walls were soundproofed, and this leant
To sleeping jolly well.

They were, though, less benevolent
Than Köln, and breakfast left a dent
Quite large, the price exorbitant!
We all ate jolly well.

In Kiev, everywhere we wen
Were churches quite magnificent
And landmarks like Andrew’s Descent
Which went down jolly well.

The food, too, aided enjoyment –
The Chicken Kiev (pertinent)
Was yum, and in sum, all this meant
Our stay went jolly well.

14.17 (Russian time)
BORDER DANCE! Woop woop de woop!

Though it has taken as long as the Polish-Ukraine passing, it has not felt nearly so arduous. The whole time was taken up with actual protocol, which is far more bearable. There were no bureaucratic hitches this time, oh no.

Russia! Mm hmm.

Kiev - Ukraine

2010-05-14T12:50:00.010+01:00

A tale of Christianity, churches and cathedrals, of beautiful orchards and local concerts! A tale of stilettos, cobblestones and the shinning Hyatt (and possibly its wonderful breakfast) revisited. Obviously it’s Kiev!

Sophie Ibbotson:

Kiev is a city of churches. Saint Vlodomir is credited with introducing Christianity to Ukraine, and it must be said that he was rather successful: 97% of Ukrainians are baptized Christians, and the green and gold onion domes of Russian Orthodox churches pepper the skyline of every town.

Within a stone’s throw of the Hyatt in Kiev’s city centre are three important and highly elaborate religious buildings: St. Sofia’s Cathedral, St. Andrew’s Church, and St. Michael’s Monastery. St. Sofia’s is Kiev’s oldest standing church and it was named after the Hagia Sofia in Istanbul. It was completed by the middle of the 11th century and many of its original frescos and mosaics are still visible.

Bryn and I entered the cathedral complex through the main gate, under the bell tower which you can see from across the city as it is considerably taller than the surrounding buildings. The cathedral itself is set in a walled garden that feels a little like an orchard. The fruit trees were covered with white and pink blossoms, and grass and dandelion flowers grew long underfoot. Couples lazed on the wooden benches in the sunshine, small children toddled across the gravel paths, and old women stood around staring solemnly at nothing in particular. It was not a place of silent, holy reverence but a rather more human reflection on life.

One of the highlights for me was coming across an old man with a huge white beard who was sat on a bench playing a huge stringed instrument and singing. His voice was deep and slightly mournful. At his side was a small girl with her teddy bear who was completely entranced by the music. Once the song had come to an end, she looked slightly at a loss about what to do next. I knew exactly how she felt.

Jo Dew-Jones:

Steve and I are sitting in the Hyatt lobby again – no fountain here, but instead impressive lift shafts that rise up to the glass roof. It appears that a common features of Hyatts are their reflective façade, which certainly makes them striking.

We all slept well, of course, and rendezvoused at 10.40 to seek breakfast = not provided this time, but we think we may pay from our own pockets for it tomorrow anyway, as 1) we were all so looking forward to it, and 2) we won’t need lunch. Since then, Steve and I have been exploring and Sophie and Bryn are filming. We are due to meet soon.

I must comment on the Ukrainian women and their ability to walk the streets in enormous stilettos. It is an astonishing feat. Apparently it is a feature of Slavic nations such as here, Russia, Kazakhstan – fashionable, skinny ladies with immaculate make up and striking clothes. It certainly kept me distracted at dinner last night, as I watched the heeled women wending their way down the steep, winding cobbled road It looked painful, to be honest, but they bore it well, and indeed looked very ladylike and fashionable. I’m not sure I’m convinced, however, and shall be sticking to my flats.

Baboushka, baboushka*
- not in the style of Kate Bush

Baboushka, baboushka
We admire you
With your floral headscarf
And your fierce sweeping.
Woe betide the fool who crosses you.

You are the Queen of the Cobbles
Not for you these silly stilettos.
Leg warmers and long dresses
Complete your unique vogue
And defy the heat.

You gather with your baboushka friends
And with pride keep the streets clean.
Without you, we would be bereft
Of the army who keep this country spotless.
Oh baboushka, baboushka.

* "Babushka" is Russian for "grandmother" or "old woman".
Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Babushka

The hazards of travelling

2010-05-14T12:27:00.007+01:00

Travelling halfway across the world in a 4X4 obviously presents no real problem to our intrepid four but what about catching some kip?

Jo Dew-Jones:

To the snorer (not Bryn)

What is it about snoring
That turns one’s pre-slumber placid philosophising
To mischievous plans of soft torture
Such as constant hitting with pillows
For the next three days?

It’s to do with the subtle snuffle that invariably escalates
Into a reverberating, rumbling rhythm
That floats up and cascades around and screeches down
Into the room that is empty of other sound.

My mind battles with questions regarding the snorer’s essential morality.
Why this room? Why a DORM room?
Why haven’t you had corrective surgery?
How can you be the only person present
Not disadvantaged by this accursed condition?

As the mind swirls with the noise of these emotions
You realise with elation – it’s stopped!

And then, instantly, it begins again
That slow torment that rises to a crescendo
And compounds the regret at not falling asleep
When it was quiet.

You are cruel, snorer.

Lviv continued - The Resistance

2010-05-07T16:34:00.004+01:00

“Slava Ukraini” (Glory to Ukraine) “Geroyam slava” (Glory to its heroes).

Sophie Ibbotson

We arrived in Lviv in the pitch dark and fairly close to the witching hour. A few black-clad pedestrians had done their usual clever thing of wandering aimlessly into the road without warning and, as a result, my nerves were somewhat on edge. I was also tired, rather hungry and we’d driven round in circles for the best part of an hour trying to find our hostel. One day the former USSR will discover street signs and it will be to the benefit of us all.

When the hostel receptionist introduced himself as Igor, I stifled a giggle. It was childish I know, but we were in a huge old house in Eastern Europe and, for all I knew, Dracula could have been hiding under the stairs. I didn’t expect to be able to get any dinner but Igor was confident that Lviv was home to a number of 24 hour eateries. He sent us back out into the night to find an unmarked bar with machine-gun-toting heavies on the door and a Ukrainian password to get past them. We were told to enter, drink the honey vodka, and then we’d be served food.

I was a little more than apprehensive as we walked to the bar’s supposed location. I didn’t have a clue where we were, didn’t know Igor from Adam, and recognized that my brain was completely addled from tiredness. Added to that, I don’t usually make a habit of actively seeking out men with guns. I felt very vulnerable indeed.

We reached the site of the bar to find well-dressed, arty types spilling out onto the street. I began to feel a little better about it, though still rather confused. We entered a dingy corridor into an uninviting apartment block and were met by two heavies in black uniforms, with badges sewn to their sleeves. They gave us a cursory nod and grunt and allowed us to go down the stairs. It seems we pronounced the password correctly.

As we hit the bottom of the stairs, reality slowly began to dawn on me. The basement was decked out as a bunker, with uniforms, weapons and other items hanging from the walls. Raucous Ukrainian songs blared out, the beer and local vodka were in full flow, and at every crowded table people were tucking into local food. Photos and newspaper clippings of Ukraine’s resistance heroes were pinned to multiple surfaces, and there was a Stalin picture for target shooting. We’d entered the stylized home of the Ukrainian Insurgent Army.

The UIA (UPA in Ukrainian) were partisans who fought a series of guerilla conflicts in the latter part of WW2 and in the years that immediately followed. They were determined to maintain an independent and united Ukraine and, in the course of their struggle, took on the invading forces of the Nazis, the Soviet Union, and Poland. The UIA had no foreign support but enjoyed popularity across western Ukraine, particularly in Lviv. Although the UIA was formally treated as a terrorist organization by the USSR, since independence the Ukrainian government has recognized UIA fighters as war veterans, introduced their history into school text books, and honored their anniversaries.

In true Ukrainian style, we drank to their memory with the toast “Slava Ukraini” (Glory to Ukraine) and its traditional response, “Geroyam slava” (Glory to its heroes). For us as for them, the beer and half-meter sausages slipped down a treat.

Lviv - Ukraine

2010-05-07T16:14:00.011+01:00

Traffic jams and border-crossing troubles are solved with the aid of the sole English speaking border official. Machine-gun toting heavies, bunkers and honey vodka. It can only be Ukraine!

Steve Dew-Jones: Yesterday was a slog. It took us twelve hours to make it 300km as an endless traffic jam ensued between Krakow and the Ukrainian border. Averaging no more than about 30km/hr, we arrived at the border at 5.30pm, but wouldn’t leave again until three hours later.

At one stage we wondered if we would ever get through it at all. Having queued, had our passports checked, queued some more, and had our passports checked once again, there was a small bit of bother with our vehicle registration document that required the officer in question to say (repeatedly) that we had better return to Poland.

Having slogged it out for so long just to reach the border and then sat and waited for streams of others to gain their own passage, there was to be no casual turning back.

And so we played the waiting game. Sophie and I weren’t short of experience in situations involving reluctant border officials and we had only one recorded failure between us - my own, at the hands of the Burmese in Christmas of 2008. So soul-destroying are such experiences that we were hardly going to roll over and return to Krakow without a significant fight. Our visas for the forthcoming countries were enough to ensure that: fixed dates for Russia between the 5th to the 10th May weren’t to be toyed around with.

In all we must have dealt with five separate unmoved border officials before we came to the first with any understanding of the English language. Still, this large chap was singing the same song: to the tune of us not possessing the correct Interpol “autopassport” and this deeming us unworthy of entry to Ukraine. Having only officially been handed ownership of the Isuzu a week before, this wasn’t a great surprise to us, and our temporary document did little to impress. The rules matter in this part of the world and there are certain standards which must be maintained.

“You pay between six to eight thousand Euros or go back Poland,” our English-speaking friend told us.

Not as suspect as it may first appeared. Apparently the Ukrainians have a system whereby a vehicle owner must pay a substantial deposit to ensure that the vehicle isn’t brought into the county and simply sold-off for profit. Yet, none of us possessing such sums, this wasn’t to be our way out.

Instead, we fell back upon the tried and tested method of documents involving all of the right words and not a smidgen of local authority. Pulling out our travel insurance documents (for general survival rather than anything involving a vehicle), we pointed out the start and finish dates, our names, and a policy number, and they’d had enough.

“Oh all right,” they seemed to say, gave us advice for future Ukrainian border crossings and we were once again on our way.

A further two hours later – enough time for us to wind ourselves over potholed, single-laned tracks in what was then the pitch black, and we arrived in Lviv. Here we were kindly shown the exact location of our hostel by a friendly chap called Sergey, who found us as we scrutinized the first Cyrillic road names we had thus far encountered.

A small incident involving a midnight run-in with a machine-gun-wielding woman, four complementary shots of honey vodka, a password, and an underground bunker, and we headed for bed.

Jo Dew-Jones:

“In the middle of things”

It’s been a long day, this one, and it ain’t over yet.
Didn’t quite see sunrise, but here’s the sunset.
We’re slap bang on the border, and for the time being will be
In a similar motion – fast stationary.

The issue’s with paperwork, not recognised here
Though we’re in the right, to them it’s not clear.
It’s frustrating for us – the journey’s been long
And it’s not obvious how from here we’ll get on.

Soph, Bryn and Steve are out fighting the cause
I’m sheltering in-car for a poetry pause.
Soph’s just given an update – they want a fine
Which we’ll get back again on the UA-Russki line…

That’s how things are; we’re in need of some supper
But the problem’s still here, and so stays the car.
I just hope we can go – turning round’s such a pain;
Though I did like Poland, we’re so close to Ukraine!

We’ve entered the Ukraine at a time that the Lonely Planet describes as ‘when the country more or less grinds to a halt with a series of holidays, which can be both enjoyable and frustrating for tourists’… Igor warned us we’d find nowhere to stay tonight at this notice, and was right, but has offered us inflatable mattresses tonight for half price. That’ll do! Tomorrow the Hyatt awaits…

"A tiny minority even in their own quarter"

2010-05-06T16:01:00.010+01:00

Of nuns, tea houses and Krakow's fascinating history...

Sophie Ibbotson

We checked in to ‘Greg and Tom’s’, encountered solely by chance, often rated as the best hostel in Eastern Europe and, sometimes, the world. Huge rooms, chic décor and not a school trip or stag party in sight, we were given a two bedroom apartment on Jana St, slap bang in the town centre. Krakow’s most popular club is about three doors down, while the best restaurants are all within stumbling distance. In fact, it doesn’t feel like a hostel at all but rather like staying at the house of a friend whilst they are out of town. We’ve got everything we need to hand, and can simply get on with exploring the city.

Centred round its old town, Krakow, seems as if the architects designed it with tourists in mind. As you approach the main square every angle gives you a chocolate-box view of immaculately maintained houses, sections of historic city wall and elegant castle turrets. Cobbled streets are lined with boutiques, bustling restaurants and traditional bars, and every street corner seems to host a stall selling hot, fresh pretzels coated in sesame seeds.

As I write, we’re sat on piles of cushions in a tea house in Krakow’s Jewish quarter – the Kazimierz. The aromas of a hundred or so types of tea mingle in the air with the sweet-smelling smoke of water pipes. Polish folk songs are playing to the accompaniment of a guitar, and an old man is sat by the door, watching the world go by.

Today Kazimierz is bustling once again, but it is harrowing to think that in the 1930s and early 40s it turned almost overnight from a commercial hub into a squalid, over-crowded ghetto and then into a ghost town. Auschwitz is just a matter of miles from Krakow, and it’s there that many of the city’s Jewish community met their fate, the weight of history hangs heavily in the air. Some Jewish families have returned to live and work in the Kazimierz and they’ve restored a number of historic synagogues and opened a museum to the atrocities, but they remain a tiny minority even in their own quarter.

Krakow

2010-05-06T15:42:00.009+01:00

One of the best hostels in the world and discovering Krakow’s old town, tea houses and stuffed dumplings.

Steve Dew-Jones:

Dobre den – we’re in old Soviet territory now. Following a seven-hour, 450km drive from Prague, we arrived into Krakow at around 5pm, having experienced several firsts along the way. For the first time, our suspension was sorely tested as a forty-kilometre stretch of bumpy, pothole-ravaged terrain ensued shortly after the Polish border; for the first time whilst driving we were pulled over by the police for not possessing the correct motorway authorisation (apparently you need a permit); a small fine later and we were on our way again.

In Krakow we were serenaded by a concert pianist as we sat down to enjoy our first Polish meal – dumplings, potato pancakes and stew encased in bread.

Inside the spectacular – although rather scaffolded – market square, we enjoy a morning cappuccino and croissant. It is stunningly beautiful here in Krakow’s Old Town and we are soon set to explore Wawel Castle before lunch at one of the recommended milk bars (a cheap, no frills restaurant – quite what it has to do with milk, we do not know). We have rather landed on our feet here in Krakow, receiving our own apartment courtesy of Greg and Tom’s hostel, which makes a pleasant change from the rowdy Hostel Elf. Apparently Greg and Tom’s have been voted up to the second best hostel in the world in the past, and we are certainly impressed.

Jo Dew-Jones:

There has been a change in the types of road we are on; whilst today’s journey to Krakow is not actually taking as long as we had predicted, at least half has been on single-carriageway roads interjected with road works and towns to negotiate. However, they are all tarmacked and generally in good shape which is likely more than we will say for future countries.

The whole team seemed fully rested and perky this morning, not suprising considering the gorgeous apartment we have found ourselves in. The phrase ‘fallen on our feet’ springs to mind – we are occupying the fourth floor of a seemingly empty building a stone’s throw from the old market square -- two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a lounge and kitchen/dining area (complete with complementary cornflakes). The décor is fresh and newly done, and I could certainly picture living there quite comfortably! The staff were very friendly when we checked in, with breakfast and dinner on the house should we choose to partake. Last night we opted for local specialities instead – pierogi (stuffed dumplings), a meat/cheese/potato pancake, stew served in bread.

“Excellent for writing poetry”

We have come to a place that’s a haven for tea
Serving every kind of speciality;
Mine is made using a traditional Japanese recipe
Specifically declared ‘excellent for writing poetry’.

This spot is a dream for Sophie
Who chose for us from the menu expertly;
And for Bryn and Steve, who discovered with glee
A lovely chess set, and now play intently.

It’s a warm day outside, but in here it’s airy
With the décor set most stylishly
A carpet or cushion in every cranny
And the tea counter like an apothecary.

To pass the afternoon in such pleasantry
Well, that’s ideal for this company.
With brews from Japan, Ceylon and Turkey
We’re a happy group, that’s a certainty.

Prague Continued

2010-05-05T18:37:00.006+01:00

Worsening roads and jaywalking – cause for concern in Czech Republic

Steve Dew-Jones:

The drive from Dresden, Germany was short (a little over 100km), but relatively time-consuming as roads narrowed. Single-lane carriageways and a heavy downpour made the drive much longer than anticipated and I found myself strangely tired upon our arrival at Hostel Elf in Prague (a hippie jaunt not too dissimilar to the Kangaroo Hop in Dresden).

It was here in Prague where we had our first incident with the authorities. A spot of jay-walking (Bryn’s fault) saw us part with a 100 Czech koruna (£3) as we bumped into a couple of uniformed police officers on the opposite side.

It seems the Czechs take seriously the Soviet policies from their time in the Union. Half of me was tempted to blindly refuse to pay due to my observation of an insignificance of our felony, but thankfully my three counterparts were more sensible.

Its hard to believe this is my third visit to the Czech capital. It maintains an instant charm as ever. Pastel colours clothe the houses of cobbled streets in this jolly city, in which we have enjoyed traditional goulash, pastries and Pilsner in its famous square.

Jo Dew-Jones:

A series of long walks

So off we headed down the hill,
And, setting quite a healthy pace,
We found the long way into town;
Rest day, you see – no need for haste.

Grand buildings were our view en route;
With landmarks falling into place
We rounded on the river’s side
And found a café for our base.

When rested, caffeine’d and blogged
We wandered further on, until
We found Charles Bridge and over strode
Ascending then the cobbled hill.

The views of Prague from there were vast –
We gazed until we’d had our fill,
On castle grounds we ate our lunch
And marvelled at the soldiers’ drill.

(Refrain:
I think I’ll put my jacket on –
It’s rather chilly, though still bright.
Oh, now the sun is back again.
So, jacket off? I think I might.)

We ambled down and crossed the bridge
The Jewish Quarter now in sight.
Then, oddly, spotted human cows:
Free ice cream? You’re sure? Mmm, that’s right!

(Refrain)

The time just three, we thought we would
Have tea à l’Elf, so out of town
We walked, a new path found, but oh!
It seems we’re stuck! There’s no way down!

A kindly chap came to our aid
Through building works, down steps and round.
We rested up, then ambled back
To taste good food of Czech renown.

Prague

2010-05-03T00:15:00.012+01:00

Introducing Bryn Kewley.

I had a storming run this morning! Got a little lost but in doing so found a parade ground, stumbled across canoeists navigating a slalom course, helped a man push what I assume was his moped through the front door of his house and took a second to watch Prague grow, as deep foundations for a new building were laid.

The trip has been brilliant so far. Highlights include the Germanic countryside which is as beautiful as its autobahn is smooth, Dresden’s Neustadt (new town) featuring incredibly creative architecture and decoration as well as ear wigging what the hands of Prague’s astronomical clock actually mean!

The accommodation has ranged from Cologne’s five star Hyatt to Dresden’s Kangaroo Stop and Prague’s Elf Hostel, and truthfully I’m not sure which I prefer. Staying in the Hyatt was a wonder; comfortable, relaxing and for a price every convenience can be catered for. Yet the quirky hostels seem to carry less presumption and so long as they are clean and the beds comfortable their exciting sociable verve just might be my preference.

Sophie Ibbotson.

Prague is one of those places that has always been second on my list of places to go – it sounded fascinating but I’d never quite gotten round to going. It was therefore a delight to pitch up here yesterday lunchtime. The drive over from Dresden was only a couple of hours, so there was plenty of time to check out the town.

Prague is definitely a place best seen on foot and, preferably, without a map. I say that because it is a wonderful place to just wander. Around every bend is another surprise. Sometimes you come across something quite charming – a fountain in a courtyard or a string quartet playing Vivaldi – and sometimes something less so. The hen parties dressed as Vikings and the hand-blown snow globes certainly fall into the latter category, though they’re entertaining nonetheless.

Perhaps the most famous site in the old town is the astronomical clock. To look at it is undoubtedly beautiful, but the real accomplishment of its makers is its technical mastery. We were fortunate enough to listen in as an English-speaking tour guide explained how each part worked.

The time is told by the Roman numerals around the outside of the upper face. The golden sun moves outwards along the clock hand as it approaches the summer solstice, and back towards the centre of the clock as it turns to winter. The silver orb that represents the moon moves across panels of black, orange, green and blue depending on whether or not it can be seen in the sky during daylight hours.

On the lower clock face you can see the days of the year. For a reason we couldn’t establish, the date wheel rotates anti-clockwise. The detailed paintings are not zodiac signs as we first thought but representations of different saint’s days. They too change according to the calendar.

As it approaches the hour, huge crowds gather to watch the clock chime. Three figures in medieval dress and a sinister skeleton all spring into life: the people are scared by the passing of time but death does not care. Far above them at the top of the bell tower a single trumpeter pokes his head out beneath the roof tiles and blasts out a note across the square. A chime sounds somewhere within the clock, and the figures once again become still.

Dresden Continued

2010-05-01T19:23:00.012+01:00

In Dresden by Jo Dew-Jones

In Dresden
Wir haben die Vietnamisische essen gegessen
Und haben das Bier und das The und die Kirsch* getrunken
Und haben das Neustadt un has Altstadt gesuchen
Und haben in einen Hostel geschlafen.
Das war gut. Ja.

Rough translation:

In Dresden
We eat Vietnamese food
And drank the beer
And the Kirsch*
And found the new city has old town feel
And slept in a Hostel.
That was good. Yes.

*Kirschwasser, German for “cherry water”, Kirsch is a clear, colourless fruit brandy
traditionally made from double-distillation of morello cherries, a dark-coloured cultivar of the sour cherry. However, the beverage is now also made from other kinds of cherries. Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kirsch

Dresden – 476 km travelled today

2010-04-30T19:06:00.016+01:00

Breakfast - glorious Hyatt breakfast! Today Germany was crossed, nature beheld and Dresden discovered! Oh and there were trees. Lots of trees.

Jo Dew-Jones

I write this in the lobby of the Hyatt Cologne hotel, and will try not to sound like a giddy lass – but it IS wonderful. This sound of water gushing behind me is the fountain flowing neatly down from the second floor; the two-storey windows present a panoramic view of the imposing gothic cathedral, the arched railway bridge and the rest of Cologne’s river front. Steve and I are sitting off our epic breakfast – surely the most mammoth spread I have ever seen – and between the four of us we munched through an impressive quantity of cereal/ fresh fruit/ pastries/ boiled eggs/ bacon/ sausage/ dim sum/ fresh bread/ mackerel/ roast beef/ tomatoes/ leafy salad/ salami/ emmental (not all at the same time) accompanied by plentiful orange juice/ green tea/ coffee. A good start to the day, one might say. To prevent me waxing lyrical for too much longer, in short: the Hyatt Cologne comes thoroughly recommended.

11:55

Hyatt Cologne – an acrostic

Hyatt Cologne, we salute you
Yes, your hotel was a wonder to behold
And such a smorgasbord of Deutsch delicacies for breakfast
To keep us fuelled till lunch
To have as fuel for lunch…

Köln was a pleasant town around which to wander
Ö my, what a vast cathedral!
Look, too, to the strange collection of padlocks on the bridge.
Now we head east. Farewell, Hyatt Cologne!

12:43

Deutsche Lände

Trees trees trees trees trees trees.
Green fields green trees green forests.
Windmill! Bridge! Roundabout? U-turn!
Evergreen spiky green no green (purple).
Deeeeeeeeeep valley. TREES.

Steve Dew-Jones

A bounteous breakfast at the Hyatt in Köln was a wonderful way to start this second consecutive long day on the road. The breadth of Germany in a little over seven hours: Köln to Dresden; Hyatt to Kangaroo Hop – the contrast is stark. Gone are the city slickers; instead we have found Dresden to be the home of the alternative.

Buildings are colourful and quirky. Bars and restaurants clutter the streets of the neustadt (new town), frequented by hordes of hip-looking twenty-something’s, although our tattoo-covered hostel manageress tells us that numbers would be significantly multiplied if this were any other day than a Sunday.

Our meal for the evening was Vietnamese, specific dishes chosen completely at chance due to the lack of an English translation. I ended up with some kind of chicken soup, courtesy of Bryn’s index finger landing upon number 94 on the menu. It was nice enough, so our friendship remains intact.

Tomorrow we head for Prague, and I must say that I am looking forward to venturing further East and into generally less familiar territory. Germany has been fun, but it isn’t very different from home. Our experience can best be summed up with the following words: bakeries, bread, beer, a lot of trees, beautiful mountains and valleys, and a non-decipherable dialect. That is about all I have to say on the matter.

525 Km travelled so far - The journey begins!

2010-04-29T17:48:00.007+01:00

The journey begins…
Read three tales of twisting turns and grand adventure, hear of the amazing manoeuvring skills of one Japanese-made Isuzu as it does a 180 and heads back to London for the missing documents, savour the odes to Belgium men’s rooms and discover the beauty of the Cologne cathedral!

Steve Dew-Jones

Our first day was long, but not unrewarding. Setting off from home in Hammersmith, it took until around Brixton to work out that we had left the passports behind. Problem number one. The Isuzu was soon spun around in an athletic 180 manoeuvre by Bryn, and we had lost thirty minutes by the time we were back in Brixton, passports retrieved.

The challenge ahead was simple: we had two hours to reach Dover to make the 11.35 crossing to Calais. Now this was a Saturday morning in Central London and the traffic was building, but with a bit of encouragement from an excitable Steve (yours truly) and some hair-raising driving from Bryn, we reached the port with thirty minutes to spare.

The crossing was smooth and quick, before it was time for Sophie to take the hot seat for her first taste of driving on the wrong side of the road. After a brief spot of trouble with the immobilizer and the usual few minutes’ worth of bother with the indicator (it’s on the wrong side. Bryn blames the Japanese), Sophie handled the driving well enough.

Passenger-seat-bound as I was, it was tricky not to gasp as she tended to drift slightly closer to the left than I would have preferred, and I have to confess to being relieved when, not long after we had passed into Belgium, Sophie confessed to falling asleep at the wheel, and I was thrust into the chair.

Driving on the right isn’t so bad whilst on a motorway. It was only really once we’d returned to city driving that we encountered any problems at all. Köln was the first scheduled stop – the Hyatt hotel to be specific – and it took us a fair old while to navigate ourselves around the city until we had finally arrived at our plush quarters.

“Zwei grösbiers und zwei weißweins” were soon ordered (for boys and girls respectively) and we wandered the city streets for a few hours until our weary heads could stand no longer.

Jo Dew-Jones

We have, thus far, departed from 22 Greenside Road (0800) to pick up Sophie, and headed out of London (0830) only to discover (0845) than an unnamed member of the group had left the passports behind, thus involving an impressive maneuver to turn us in the opposite direction, return to 22 Greenside Road (0900), and start again. With a mere 2 hours to make it to Dover, would we get there in time?

Meh*, of course. With some determined driving from Bryn (obviously observing all Highway rules…) we arrived at 1057. C’est parfait. We celebrated with coffee/hot choc/orange juice and croissants on board, as England faded behind the sunny haze. Now we have officially left British soil, and I feel I can finally accept that the adventure has begun!

I suggested last night, as we had our final meeting to run through our contracts, that I would write poems for the blog. I’m up for that! I’ve started coming up with the first one (subject: France, which we were in for roughly one hour):

Une poésie au sujet de France

Et finalement, l’attente est finie

Et la commencement du voyage est un fait accompli.

La voiture et les passagers étaient prêts à partir

Et maintenant la France est passé el la Belge est ici. **

Ca va!

Poem written at 17:14.

On the toilets in the Belgian service station
(on behalf of Bryn)

Oh rest-stop urinal, how strange it did seem

That on tip-toes I stood to have a quick pee

I can only assume – it is most logical –

That the man-folk of Belgium must be rather tall.

* "Meh" is an interjection, often an expression of apathy, indifference, or boredom. However, it can also be used to indicate agreement or disagreement. It can also be an adjective, meaning mediocre or boring. Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Meh

** Rough translation:
A poem on the subject of France.
And finally, the expectation is finished
And the beginning of the trip is accomplished.
The car and the passengers were ready to leave
And now France is passed and Belgium is here.

Sophie Ibbotson

It took over 500 years to complete the construction of Cologne Cathedral and, as I stepped through the main doors into the back of the building, little had changed from any one of those five centuries. Sunlight streamed across the nave through richly coloured windows, the congregation rose solemnly to their feet before the priest, and the sounds of the choir and booming organ echoed around the open spaces.

Despite the bombing of Cologne during WWII, the cathedral is remarkably well preserved. Showing valuable foresight, the cathedral’s management removed all bar one of the historic stained glass windows for safekeeping elsewhere. The single window that was left in-situ was irreparably shattered when a bomb exploded nearby. The story is not one of gloom, however, as the empty panes prompted the commission of a modern window to complement the older panels. The resulting work, a geometric window of kaleidoscopic shapes and colours, draws the eye from across the cathedral and leaves the spectator transfixed.