Croatian Bamboos

An old man fishing to the sound of our harmonicas.

I had mentioned that Jelena was an intense person. When we split ways she told us that it should only be about a 20-minute walk to the ferry. It turned out to be more like 10 kilometers, and we eventually just ended up embarking sweatily on one of the half dozen or so buses that passed in that direction. We arrived just in time to jump on the departing ferry, which offered amazing views of snowy mountain peaks and small villages comprised of old stone buildings. The ferry was apparently run on an honour system, as nobody asked as us for any money. Naturally, we opted for the “dishonourable” distinction, and traded our souls for a free ride.

We were off to Croatia without a map, a phone, a place to sleep, or any Croatian currency. I hadn’t been able to confirm a Couchsurfing host, but I did have a few ‘maybes’ and a list of cities along the way to Dubrovnik. We hopped on a local bus that brought us to our hitching spot, just 7 km short of the Montenegro-Croatia border. On the bus I tried to imagine what it would be like to be on a bus in India again: the horns, blaring Bollywood, cows in the road, potholes, and sight of people squatting on the side of the road for their morning business. It was snowing, and we waited a long time, but eventually a man picked us up on an unlikely stretch of highway as we were walking to a better spot. He was a poor man driving a beat up car, and wasn’t going to Croatia, but did us the favour of bringing us to Montenegrin customs.

Waiting for the bus and sharing a Snickers.

A fair warning to anyone planning to retrace our steps: do not hitchhike across the coastal border between Montenegro and Croatia. If you do, you have to climb a mountain. We walked uphill in a blizzard for about 2 km to Croatian customs. A total of maybe 2 cars passed, though neither of them wanted to pick up hitchhikers between countries (understandable). The woman we gave our passports to was really cute, and gave us our first proper interrogation: “Where are you coming from? Where are you going?” Unfortunately, I couldn’t really remember the name of the place we were going, but she must have decided we were too stupid to be dangerous, so she let us through anyways.

We waited on the other side of the border for nearly 3 hours, playing a game that I invented called “kick rock”. The game requires both brains and brawn, and involves kicking a rock with your shoe and seeing how far it will go. Once we’d cleared pretty well every kickable-sized stone from that side of the border we decided that we should probably just start walking. For ages we walked through endless forest. We were passed by more “Welcome to Croatia” signs than potential lifts. There was one young guy in a tiny old car who drove by us about 4 times, each time staring at us (thumbs high in the air) staring back at him (jaw hanging open; furrowed brow). On the fifth run he stopped for us, but since he was working in the region he was only able to drive us a short way. We walked again after being dropped off. We tried to get on a bus, but the driver was miserable and wouldn’t let us pay with Euros, American dollars, or credit card. We tried to make him feel guilty by looking really sad as he drove away.

The old town - Dubrovnik.

Now, Croatia is a beautiful place, but for some reason people do not like hitchhikers. We thumbed all day, and the closest we came to a ride was an offer from a lady to bring us to a nearby airport. Eventually we got fed up and walked into town. I took out some money (leaving my debit card in the machine - someone found it and figured it must belong to one of the two foreigners with backpacks who’d been sulking around town for the better part of the afternoon) and bought us a Snickers and some bus tickets. We made it as planned to Dubrovnik, just as the sun was setting. Unfortunately we were sort of ditched by the two guys from Couchsurfing who said they could maybe host us (further consolidating our impressions that Croatia was slightly inhospitable). For the first time in Europe we were forced to stay at a hostel. We were the only ones booked in, and they fed us for free and even gave us some beer. The owner showed us how to work the movie projector. He encouraged us to take advantage of his extensive collection of amateur footage of Russian women running around giggling in their underwear and bikinis. Instead I called home and reflected on the day: I visited my 20^th country, I hiked up a snowy mountain, I sat by the sea, I tried a new beer, I met at least a dozen new people who’s names I’ll never remember, and early in the morning - way back in Montenegro - I saw the snow-obscured outline of a 1000 year old church on a distant peak.

The next day, I woke up and changed my plane ticket. I was booked to fly home on March 24^th. Now it would be June 20^th. My intention was to eventually get a job, but I had no idea what I would do or where I would work. Before blowing the popsicle stand that is Dubrovnik, we had a quick look around. I’ll have to say that despite the people (we had now established that the majority of Croatian people are grumpy, miserable, and simply unkind), Dubrovnik is one of the most beautiful cities I’ve ever seen. We explored the old town for exactly 1 hour, so that our city bus tickets wouldn’t expire and we could still find our way to the bus terminal without having to pay again. Everybody was unpleasant: the woman at the tourist information booth, the local bus driver, the interurban bus driver, the woman who sold us water, an obese chain-smoking lady at the restaurant where we ate, the couple running a café who wouldn’t let us use their telephone (there are no public phones, and the woman actually told us that a phone call would simply not be possible - from anywhere). Of course, the occasional person was friendly, but the few times that it happened were a surprise. It’s no wonder we weren’t able to hitchhike.

A model at a bus stop.

Our bus to split took us through Bosnia. We had to present our passports upon entry and then again after leaving only about an hour later. We arrived, got off the bus, and went into a fancy bar called ‘Imperium’, which had all kinds of fancy flashing lights and futuristic fish tanks, to use the WiFi to call our Couchsurfing host Tamara. As it turns out it was February 14^th - Valentine’s Day. I have a good laugh each time I picture Ben and myself in that fancy café, surrounded by cuddling couples, with our backpacks, cappuccinos, dirty (and highly unfashionable) clothes, and messed up hair.

We moved quickly the next two days, traveling lots and staying only briefly with our hosts. In Split we stayed Valentine’s Day with a girl Tamara (who had a fascination with Finland) and her boyfriend Davor. The were very hospitable - not only did they invite us to stay with them on the most romantic day of the year, but they even made us sleep in their bed, while they slept on the couch. Between waiting for them at a supermarket and arriving at their flat I slowly came to realize that I had left my passport on the bus (thanks to Bosnian customs), which had by now surely left with both the grumpy driver and the even grumpier baggage man on board. We called the bus station as soon as we arrived back, but no answer… they appeared to be closed. We called again in the morning. My passport had been found (though it was on the other side of the country) and it would be back in town later that afternoon.

Old church in Split.

Our next stop was Zadar, which was as beautiful and grumpy as the rest of Croatia that we’d seen thus far. We arrived at the bus station, which was a hilarious building that had room for about 70 (or more) buses to park and board. It was overambitious, to say the least, as there were only 3 buses there at the time, and the city wasn’t all that big. From there we walked to the center of town, where we waited in a café with a pack of cigarettes that we had broken down and bought. If you’re planning to quit smoking, do not go to Croatia. Every man, woman, and child chain smokes in every possible public space.

Snow and Stone. It was still very cold.

Gordana (or G-dana, as I cleverly nicknamed her by replacing the ‘or’ with a hyphen), our Couchsurfing host, was an anthropology student living in a tiny flat at the historical center of Zadar. Unfortunately we didn’t get to know her very well, as she had an exam the next day and had to go off to school to study. We had met her in person for only about 10 minutes before she handed us our keys and left us in charge of her apartment… and everything in it (which included a new Macbook pro). Ben and I went to the grocery stored and then made dinner. The woman at the store laughed at us when we asked whether or not there was coconut milk. We then made about 15 people stand in line behind us while paying because we didn’t know we had to weigh and apply all of our own price stickers to our produce. I skyped with Mackenzie in Fernie while cooking. That night Ben shared the couch/bed with Gordana in the only room in the house while I slept comfortably on the floor. She left us again with her keys, which we slipped under the doormat before heading off to Rijeka.

We had only planned to stay in Rijeka for one night, but our hosts Andrej, Stella, and DiDi managed to convince us to stay for three so that we wouldn’t miss the Karnival. It was a good thing that we did, because it was here that we were able to see a completely new side of Croatia. After arriving, we found a café where we were able to call Andrej using skype. Somehow we had managed to find the fanciest café in Rijeka, which had cakes that I still think about and about 100 kinds of espresso. We then found out that we could have just sat outside, as the city provides free WiFi in the downtown area. They picked us up in their little car and drove us home to a nice Hungarian Goulash and plenty of Bamboos (red wine with coke). Afterwards we watched clips on the computer of South Park and Flight of the Conchords, Andrej and Stella’s favourite shows (respectively). It was quite clear from this that we would get along.

Ben and Andrej at the fisherman's restaurant.

They had to work the following morning, so Ben and I took the opportunity to go and explore. I wanted to buy a new guitar case, which we did, and he wanted to find a thrift store, which, surprisingly, we also managed to do. He had tried in nearly every city we’d visited in the Balkans to find a thrift store, and this was the first time he had success. I bought a sweater in the thrift shop for a couple of dollars, but the only thing Ben wanted was this horrible, purple sweater vest. The price tag on it was at least ten times greater than everything in the shop, at well over $100. When he asked the owner why it was so expensive, she replied by indicating that for Ben it would cost an additional $50, simply because it looked so bad on him.

Kids dancing in the street.

Ben had also been wanting to go to a casino, so I thought “What the hell” and we went after 30 minutes or so of playing harmonicas with legs dangling over the pier. We played digital roulette. I won $20 and Ben won $50. We celebrated over beer and fresh fish with Andrej and Stella in their favourite restaurant, which is run entirely by a group of fisherman who bring in bits of this and that at the end of each day. Later on we went for a few drinks at a rock bar. The highlight of my night was a guy dressed up as a zebra who made us drink from his hip flask. It also turns out that Rijeka is great and has a policy where drunken people get free public transport in the wee hours of the morning.

We were woken up the next morning to sounds of music coming from outside. We put on the costumes given to us by Stella’s Italian Grandmother (myself a nun, Ben a chef, and Andrej a pirate) and went off to explore the day. The first thing we saw was out friend Zebraman from the night before, who proceeded to give us more drink and even some sausage. He was preparing for a race comprised of vehicles with a theme. Each vehicle also had a crew of people driving and/or riding on top. The themes were meant to cause laughter, discomfort or outrage, and ranged from cowboys to lumberjacks to hippies to priests. Everyone was drinking heavily (especially the priests - who were making good fools of themselves) despite it being only 9 o’clock in the morning. Many of the vehicles even had kegs of beer attached to them in some way (including the hippy truck, upon which was also mounted a giant, smoldering spliff that was powered by a genuine wood stove. The mayor, a fat man in a leather jacket, waved his arm and the race was on. It started, though everyone was so drunk and/or good-naturedly waving to children that it seemed to be more of a parade than a race.

That Saturday was the “Kids Karnival”. The following day would be the adult’s Karnival. We had been lucky because they are normally separated by a week, though the kid’s day had to be moved up due to bad weather the week before. Basically what happens is that there are dozens of groups, each up to 100 or more people, all dressed up the same. Taking turns, they parade through the streets, dancing, and when adults, drinking a large amount of booze. It is absolute madness, and completely fun. Everyone else lines the streets, dressed up as well, and watches. The idea is to be as contentious as possible, and it is not uncommon to see something along the lines of a priest necking with a nun or a police officer wielding a dildo. In fact, we once had to ask someone whether they were a real cop, as the outfit was perfect, yet they had a large beer in each hand.

The second (grown-up) day was by far the crazier of the two. We ended up meeting the thrift store lady who had refused to sell Ben the purple jacket. They bought us warm wine and we then went to ride on this large machine that swings you all around in different directions and made me feel as if I would vomit for the next 2 hours. I spent those two hours sitting on a magnificent balcony of the “Italian Building”, reserved only for the local Italian community (Stella scored us entrance), queasily overlooking the festivities and eating free homemade biscotti and sausages. That night I made Indian food for a party of eight people. I used some of the hot peppers that Andrej grows to make a sauce, and it was the first spicy thing I ate since coming from India. The eight of us had to struggle to finish the tablespoon or so of the sauce.

Here are some photographs of the adult's Karnival:

Our crew. The individual with a plastic bag instead of a head was the elusive thrift store lady.

Andrej and Stella

Ben and I went out that night and ended up dancing until six in the morning. Before leaving, I’ll never forget what Stella said to me: “Can you do me a favour? Can you cut off the dreadlock [Didi] has on her butt?” I used the excuse that I was allergic to guinea pigs, and Ben did the dirty work. The next morning, before leaving in a disgruntled state, Andrej gave us a great rundown of the wars in various parts of the Balkans following the breakup of former Yugoslavia. It really put a good deal of what we had seen in perspective, and was really interesting to hear about it from someone who had spent their life living in the region. We left and Andrej accepted stickers of Hanuman and Ganesha. He gave me some of is special hot peppers for the road.

On our way to the bus station we stopped off to say goodbye to the thrift store lady, and to see if she would give Ben the purple jacket. Despite having become friends, she again refused, saying that it was not his style and that he looked way too ugly in it. When it came to paying for the bus, we were in a bit of a dilemma because the bus was 150 kuna and we only had 20 remaining. I didn’t really want to use the atm again for only enough notes to get our tickets. Ben, however, had a plan: “You wait here, and I’ll be back in 10 minutes with 150 kuna”. I was a bit nervous because we only had about 20 minutes before the bus left, but in the end it didn’t take him long to come back empty handed, having lost the rest of our money at the casino. Fortunately for us, my bank account was a more reliable source of cash than gambling, and we were able to buy our tickets just in time to get on the bus and head to Trieste, Italy.

I thought of home as the bus drove out of the station and through the banners and confetti still out from the day before. I knew that despite all that we’d been through, for me the story of coming home and seeing everyone I love and miss would be the best of them all.

Montenegro: State of Emergency

‘Montenegro is a bit sad in winter, but a beautiful sad.’

This was one of the last things Ingrid said to us before we got on the bus that brought us away from Tirana. The bus traveled slowly, passing dilapidated rural communities and old abandoned military turrets, and took us right up to the North of Albania, where we were hoping to hitchhike to the Montenegrin border and beyond. We managed to get dropped off on the side of the road that we suspected would be the best hitching spot, though it wasn’t easy, as we shared no common language with the driver. Thankfully we were helped by a sweet girl who was quietly studying maths next to us and who spoke English. She advised Ben to not take another year off school and move to Australia. Yet another sign - but I suppose that by this point he was keeping his eyes and ears open for them.

Albanian bus headed North.

It was very cold when we got off the bus. After bundling up into every bit of clothing we had, Ben and I trekked across a long bridge that brought us to the last Albanian stretch of highway. The road was tiny, full of potholes, and if asked I would never have expected it to lead to another country. We were picked up almost immediately by 3 men in an old car. Ben threw our bags and guitar into the trunk while I stood next to the car door with it open to prevent them from driving away with our belongings. We drove for about 5 minutes before we stopped for another guy, who was just walking and didn’t seem to be hitchhiking at all. He sat down heavily next to us with a bag of groceries, a mouth full of gold teeth, and an odd bit of string dangling from his gray beard.  He rode with us for approximately 15 seconds before reaching his destination and getting out again. It would have taken less time for him to walk.

The two other passengers took it in turn to get out of the car, bidding us friendly goodbyes and not offering the driver any money. The driver dropped us at the end of the road in front of the border and gave us a lovely smile before driving back in the opposite direction. It was yet another classic example of finding the greatest and most inspiring, unconditional generosity in the people who have the least to give.

The border crossing was one of easiest that we’d encountered. In fact, we only had to show our papers to the Albanians. The Montenegrin border control consisted of an abandoned shack with broken windows. We walked in anyways, in the case that we were breaking some sort of law by not getting a stamp. I was met by a room empty of all but broken glass and used diapers (I have yet to solve the diaper mystery - maybe the contents were frozen and hurled with great resolve at the frigid windows).

Our second lift in Montenegro. He spent his last dollar on a bag of milk.

We stood in the cold for ages. Like most borders in the Balkans (at least the ones we’ve crossed), there was very little traffic. A strange gothic guy in a small car stopped, couldn’t speak any English, and didn’t end up taking us. I was a bit relieved, because he was a seriously freaky dude. A taxi then pulled up, as they tend to do. The man driving was very kind, and invited us into his car even after we explained that we didn’t have any money to give him. We smoked his cigarettes and talked about a number of things during our 30-minute ride, but most of the conversation consisted of him telling us stories about his life. He spoke a great deal about his son, Emil, whose great uncle was supposedly a world famous boxer, and at one point #1 in Slovenia. He also told us about how he had been a police officer for 6 years until he was fired for beating a woman. He very adamantly expressed that the claims were untrue, and both Ben and I believed him. It also became apparent that his wife left him at around the same time that he lost his job as a police officer. I didn’t get the impression that the events were unrelated. One of his best cop stories involved single-handedly taking down a group of armed men who had recently robbed a gas station. We gave him a sticker of Ganesh for Emil when he dropped us off. It was the best taxi ride of my life.

Happy birthday Benjamin!!!

We journeyed across town on foot, stopping at an ATM along the way, until we found ourselves standing on the side of yet another highway with our thumbs out. A most peculiar big old man who wanted the equivalent of 5 Euros in exchange for a lift picked us up. He kept speaking to us in Montenegrin, despite our not being able to understand a thing he said. In between talking he would whistle loudly and merrily, occasionally gulping milk from a 2-litre plastic bag that was spilling all down the front of his plaid button-up shirt. He did manage to communicate one thing to us: he had no money and no gas (he did this by pointing to the gas meter and then showing us that his pockets were empty). He would repeatedly up the coastal mountains at full speed and then turn off his car to coast down the other side. At one point there was a huge lineup of cars stopped by construction workers. He casually drove into the lane of oncoming traffic, passed everyone, and somehow arrived at the front just in time to scoot in front of the first car in line as the light turned green. I thought for sure that we would run out of gas, but somehow we eventually visited a gas station before being left at the side of the road.

We were picked up almost immediately by a Latvian in a soccer mom minivan who could talk about nothing other than his addiction to extreme sports and various sexual conquests of foreign (predominantly Taiwanese) girls. He explained to us quite clearly that Montenegrins are lazy and Bosnians are stupid. He left us at a bus station where we were able to catch a cheap, 20-minute bus to our final destination for the day, a city called Tivat. I sat behind a woman wearing a red fur coat and a leather baseball cap. I was really enjoying Montenegro.

The next morning we woke up in Jelena’s house to find that Montenegro was under a national state of emergency. The weather system had hit Europe that brought with it snow for all sorts of places that don’t normally get it, including Madrid and the Sahara desert. An inland train transporting some 50 people had been trapped under an avalanche. It ended up taking them a number of days to dig in out, and a passenger ended up dying in the process. All the roads in Montenegro were closed, and no buses were running. Villages were cut off from their food supply, and there were reports of mothers in rural areas who were running out of food and getting to the point of not being able to feed their children. The Prime Minister was on the television, shoveling snow, and clearly solving all of the country’s problems.

Myself, Jelena, and Ben - pre-castle disco masquerade.

Somehow, Tivat remained the only city in all of Montenegro with electricity and without snow. We were stuck there though, as the next day there seemed to be even less happening in the country. Conditions everywhere were getting worse. We were going to have to change our plans, seeing as it would be near impossible to get to Sarajevo, or any part of Bosnia for that matter. Coming to terms with this was a bit of a shock, as Bosnia was the country I had been most excited about visiting in Europe. On the news the Prime Minister was up to his old tricks again, yet this time the entire Montenegrin army seemed to be helping with the effort.

What turned out to be our last full day in Tivat was the eleventh of February: brother Ben’s birthday. I bought him a bottle of Absynthe and cooked him a great feast. I tried to make Indian food but spices other than paprika are a bit hard to come by in Montenegro. Jelena made a chocolate cake for Ben, but didn’t think it would be necessary to include baking powder, so it was more like a huge, crunchy cookie covered in what must have been a pound of butter mixed with melted chocolate. It was much more edible after a few shots of absinthe (in her defense, she redeemed herself the next day with a really delicious cake).

Our hostess was the lovely Jelena, and for all intensive purposes her best friend Nina. Jelena was an avid Bosnian mountaineer, obsessed with all things mountainous. She was a very intense, no-bullshit kind of person with a big heart. She also had a horrible addiction to sodium chloride, and each meal that I shared with her was immersed in enough salt to last most mortals a lifetime. Her life goal was to climb K2, or die trying. I clearly remember having a discussion with her about a group of mountaineers who had to turn around after a member of their team died of frostbite during the ascent. She seems to think that they should have left him behind and continued the climb, regardless of whether or not they were risking their own lives. Being in the presence of Jelena was a great pleasure, especially when we got to talking (maybe debating is a better word) about any one of her many opinions.

Ben's birthday party.

That night Jelena and Nina brought us to a huge party for Ben’s birthday. We all got dressed up, downed the absinthe, and ventured off into the snow (the “disco” was in the next town over). Despite the snow, despite the avalanche, despite the national state of emergency, and despite the fact that the size of the town was no more than 10 000 people, the party was madness. The theme was dress-up party meets masquerade. Every single person was in costume; I’d never seen anything like it before. There were penguins, scuba divers, people with large diamonds instead of heads, and an army of little red riding hoods. There were others as well - three thousand of them in total. There were lasers and smoke. And the best part? The whole thing took place in a magnificent castle. It was easily the best party I’ve ever been to.

The next morning we were sad to say goodbye to Nina, who had been living us for the time that we’d been there. She was a character as well. Addicted to hair, from what I recall, though this was mostly a joke between us and I cannot remember the basis for it. If there was one word to describe Nina it would be honest. She says it like it is. It was really refreshing to meet someone like her. You don’t often realize how funny everyday life can be until you meet someone who has that unique ability of being able to put their thumb right down on top of it. Nina spews truth, and yes - I suppose if it came down to it I would be her disciple.

Jelena walked us part the way towards the ferry we needed to catch to make our way towards Croatia. I vividly remember walking down the street in the morning mist with her and Ben, looking up at a 1000-year old church on top of a nearby mountain. I was contemplated the distinction between ocean and sea. There is a very important difference in Europe. I had always considered them synonyms, but I suppose I have an excuse, coming from the Great Plains and all.

A dead snake on the side of the highway as we entered Croatia. An omen?

Varanasi (a.k.a. Very Nasty)

Mitch tries to serenade us with a Sitar.

Crossing the border between Nepal and India provided a sudden insight to the way that we would be living for the next three months. Without delay, there were far more people. Buildings were taller and more crowded together. The streets were full of ever kind of garbage imaginable, and my sole focus became trying to avoid stepping in one of the innumerable cow, dog, and human organic landmines. Burning garbage on both sides and in the middle of the street added to the filth. People were smiling less, walking faster, and speaking much more loudly; often yelling. Though it sounds awful, and in a way was, it was also fresh and exciting. As wonderful and relaxed as Nepal was, we were ready for India’s excitement, energy, and potential for exploration.

We walked through the border crossing, and once we were 500 meters from Nepal, we got on a bus bigger than anything we’d seen on a road anywhere in the last month. The bus defied almost everything I’d expected. When I try to conceive of a bus in India, I think of a rickety old machine held together by an assortment of odds and ends. In my mind there are people everywhere: in all the seats, standing, on the luggage racks, hanging out the windows, and trying not to fall off the roof. I also imagine there being an assortment of goats and chickens accompanying the many travelers. Instead the bus was massive, consisting of nearly 100 seats with ample legroom. However, it was incredibly dirty and broken, with sharp things sticking out all over the place. The best part was that we (Ben, Danielle, Grayson, myself, Mitch, and Ryan) were the only ones on the bus for the first few hours, and it didn’t really fill up until around hour #10 (the entire ride was about 15 hours). Even when it did fill, they never stopped for more people than there were seats, and there certainly weren’t any animals. It was a good first lesson for India: never expect.

Chai man on the street - Ten cents for tea.

All in all, the 15-hour bus ride was a great deal of fun. Mitch and Ryan sat behind us, occasionally blasting out classic rock hits to which we would all momentarily rock out. There was always something to look at out the window, and it was comfortable enough to have the occasional nap. At our first stop, the boys got to use the bus stop urinal (a designated wall) while Danielle walked around a bit confused until she managed to find a shop owner she could pay. We filled up on 3 rupee samosas (and made sure to eat them with only our right hands) before getting back on our new home, the bus. The best part of the ride was the incredible coincidence: seeing Valentine walking down the street. Ben yelled at him from the bus window, which was followed by a moment of stunned silence, before the bus rolled away out of sight. He had been the first tourist we’d seen all day (and we weren’t even sure of the city we saw him in or what he was doing there).

We abandoned our bushome for Varanasi after living in it for around 15 hours. I’m going to have trouble talking about Varanasi, as it was simultaneously the ‘greatest’ and ‘worst’ place I’ve ever been (but mostly just the greatest - it has since become the #1 city I hope to one day re-visit). We expected to be instantly swarmed with touts and rickshaw drivers after exiting the bus, but were happy to find that there were only two or three milling about. After negotiating a price, we decided to take 2 rickshaws between the six of us. For those of you who have never done this sort of traveling, note that getting a taxi or a rickshaw from a train station, bus station, or airport almost never works out. The driver always, always tries to rip you off.

A woman begging on the ghats.

After awhile, most people figure out what the common tricks are, and avoid being had. However, in Varanasi we done got had real good by these rickshaw hoodlums. What we later learned was a 20-minute walk (and thus 3 minute drive) to our guesthouse ended up being a 10-minute drive to a place further away than we had started. Following this, we split up: four stayed behind because the rickshaws “couldn’t get through the narrow streets”, while Grayson and I went into the narrow spaghetti streets with our guide to find our hotel. We walked for at least half an hour before arriving. Once we arrived, we checked to make sure our reservation was still good before heading back. The walk only needed to be about 2 minutes, but the idea is that you get so sick of walking the long distance that you decide “screw it” and you go somewhere closer after going back to get your stuff. The change in guesthouse results in a nice commission for your faithful guide. Fortunately for us there was a great someone at our hotel (Leslie) who was not too impressed with our driver. He walked back with us, the entire time lecturing the guy who tried to cheat us. In the end, we had a great pre-tour of the old city streets, though it took about 2 hours to do what should have taken 10 minutes. Chris and Caitlyn were at the same guesthouse (our reason for going) and the eight of us chatted briefly over veg korma before collapsing into bed.


We didn’t really get to see Varanasi until the next day. I woke up early, as I usually do, and since nobody else was in operation I decided to go for a walk on my own. Being a city of around one million, there are a number of large, dusty, noisy, and dirty streets. However, these can be avoided if you stay in the “old town”, which is the carless (motorbikes fit, so people ride them, though they should never be allowed) area just behind the ghats that line the Ganges. The place is a labyrinth, full of shops, street food, delicious smells, awful smells, crazy colour, crazier people, and you name it. It’s almost impossible not to get lost at first, as the buildings are all several stories high, and all the alleyways look the same. You feel like a rat running through a maze (though you then see rats running through the maze, which confirms that you are, indeed, only a human much less knowledgeable of the puzzle than said rat, and with fewer shortcuts at your disposal).

A man selling useless plastic junk.

Needless to say, I was very careful when venturing from our guesthouse alone. I would count each turn and make note of several landmarks as I changed direction. The roads were beautiful: stone paths surrounded by old buildings and, despite being between around 1-4 meters in width, full of people, motorbikes, and huge grumpy bulls, unwilling to budge from their pile of delicious garbage if you need to pass. While the senses are on fire, the most exciting stimulus for me was the human diversity. Within 6 strides you pass a grumpy police officer, a beggar with missing limbs, a great fat man resembling Chinese Buddha deep-frying samosas in a blackened wok, a group of women in saris, a camera-toting tourist, and a saddhu in saffron robes and covered with face paint, a long white beard, malas, and dreadlocks exploding in every direction. And they’re all yelling, eating, farting, spitting, singing at the top of their lungs or staring at you as if you’ve got a cucumber growing from your forehead. Then add the sounds: a pinch of hindi trance music, a dollop of hair-pullingly loud motorbike horn blasting, a dash of tabla, and a touch of unapologetic throat flem clearing. Just as you feel as though you couldn’t experience one more thing without your brain melting, a monkey tries to steal your bag and a group of chanting men rush by you carrying on their shoulders a dead body.

After exactly 3 left turns and one right turn (and not in that order) I found the Goddess Ganga, flowing eternally from the top of Shiva’s head. The Ganges is the massive holy river that flows through Varanasi, and is the central attraction for Hindu pilgrims (and the occasional non-Hindu tourist). It is lined along the North shore with ghats, which are essentially just stairs leading down to the river. Pilgrims come to Varanasi to pray, to be cleansed by the river, and to die. To die or be cremated in the holy city is considered auspicious (if you do, it is said that you are freed from the cycle of rebirth/reincarnation).

I didn’t want to stray too far and risk not being able to find my way back. I had also been warned countless times about the many people who hang out along the ghats waiting to rip you off or take your money in any possible way. Though I still wanted to stand beside the famous river, so I walked carefully down the huge staircase covered in a green slippery substance (among many other things). After almost falling at the bottom, I met Chen-Tu, a local silk producer and University student. He was a gem, and I was very lucky. We walked together for a while, and he told me all about the ghats. We sat together beside the bigger of the two burning ghats, and drank chai while we watched human bodies burn over wooden debris. He told me how 300 bodies were burned daily between the two ghats and that each body takes almost 3 hours. Later, when I came back, I counted 15 bodies burning at one time. Afterwards, the ashes and whatever unburned remains are shoveled into the river. Bodies are burning 24 hours per day, and at night it’s an incredible sight. In the morning is the most quiet, but there are many more people who take advantage of this to pan for gold jewelry in the water. Chen-tu also showed be the hash smoking temple, the heroin-addict hangout, and the burning ghat wood stock before I finally returned back to the guesthouse (to find Ben just waking up).

A firee guy (holy cow) on the banks of the Ganga.

We spent the majority of our time in the marvelous Varanasi just experiencing. There aren’t really “things to do” or tourist attractions. You walk along the ghats. You get lost in the labyrinth of ancient alleyways. You try to avoid being overwhelmed by doing nothing. You escape for a little while to a western-style café with espresso. It was a perfect reintroduction to India.

If you ever make it to Varanasi (if I could add only one thing to your bucket list, it would be to go) you absolutely MUST go to Blue Lassi. In fact, this hole-in-the-wall lassi shop is a good enough reason in itself for you to quit your job, buy a plane ticket to Delhi, hop on a hot and crowded train to Varanasi, and fight your way through the streets and alleys to get there. For those of you who don’t know what a lassi is - google it. For the rest of you (and the now newly enlightened) I will tell you that there is no better lassi on earth. The shop is several generations old, and the old man making your drink looks as if he’s done nothing else for the last 60 years (and he probably hasn’t). You can get apple, banana, coconut, chocolate, orange, plain, salty, mango, any combination of the above, and more. Each one takes about 10 minutes to make (I took a video of the entire process). During this ten minutes, don’t be surprised to witness two or three mobs run by carrying a human corpse on their shoulders and chanting in Hindi. They’re running to the ghats to burn it and throw it in the river. When your lassi arrives, if you’re lucky enough to have found a seat, you try to simultaneously drink it and prevent it from spilling all over your lap, as they are always overflowing. The flavour is like nothing your mouth has ever experienced.

Ryan (back), Ben, and Mitch (front) as we shimmy along a
metal bar so as to avoid walking through a river of sewage
and mud as the ghats are cleaned after the monsoon.

Varanasi is mind-blowing because of the little things, yet it still manages to be greater than the sum of its parts. There are monkeys everywhere, and they live on the roofs. Ninety-nine percent of buildings have flat rooftops where people dry laundry, grow plants, and hang out. They provide optimal monkey-watching towers. My memories seems surreal: monkeys soaring gracefully across the urban landscape, with the setting sun behind them, and hundreds of children, one standing on nearly every roof, flying homemade kites.

We couldn’t keep away from the burning ghats. Understandably, photography isn’t allowed, but if you google image search then you can see better photographs than I would have been able to take anyways. My most vivid memory of the ghats is standing within 3 meters of a burning body, and having the smoke blowing in my face. I was slowly being covered with the smell of burning flesh and a thin layer of black burning human sludge. Meanwhile cows and dogs are milling around, and some of them are eating left over bits of flesh and licking the ground where a corpse was recently burnt. I stare into the fire and realize what I had previously thought was a log was actually a large, intact femur. I can nearly reach out and grab it.

Candles lit and lined along the rim of our boat; waiting to be set afloat in banana leaf cups.

We met some Calgarians in Varanasi, Jason and Sarah. They were the ones who told us about Blue Lassi. They also told us that they had seen a number of bodies thrown directly into the river without burning, and watched them drift slowly away downstream. After asking some locals later on, we learned that they akip the burning step if the body is that of a holy man, a pregnant woman, or a child. I can’t imagine how many bones are in the bottom of that river, or the types of creatures that, over the centuries, have evolved to take advantage of this unique niche. I can’t imagine anyone would actually want to study that. To be honest, with dozen or so point sources of raw sewage entering the holy river in Varanasi alone, I can’t imagine there would be much living in there.

We had initially planned to only stay in Varanasi for about 4 days, as the majority of people you talk to will tell you that it is a complete shit-hole and that you should leave as soon as possible after doing the essentials. Danielle, Ben, Grayson and I all had train tickets for Bodhgaya, where the Buddha achieved enlightenment. I was so in love with Varanasi that I decided to cancel this ticket and stay for an extra couple of days. The biggest factor responsible for helping me to make this decision was the occurrence of a huge festival on the day following our scheduled departure. So Danielle and Grayson left, while Ben and myself stayed behind. Mitch and Ryan also left the morning of the festival (after a couple hours of frantic searching for Mitch’s suddenly lost passport - a horror story for backpackers in India), leaving us there with Jason and Sarah to celebrate.

During the day, the festival was wild. There were so many people in the streets and along the river that you actually couldn’t move. It was loud. It was hot. People had come to bathe, be cleansed, pray for luck, bathe their water buffalo, eat, die, steal, beg, and so on. Everyone was there. Kids painted entirely blue as Kali, a cow eating marigolds, a man rushing around in a suit, yelling into two cell phones at once, people throwing rice on the mats of disfigured beggars for good luck, and hairy wet men in underwear everywhere. I’ve never experienced an event like it. It was like my previous description of Varanasi times 10. I took a video, and I’ll try to make it available.

Ben, Sarah, and Jason.

As the sun set and disappeared, the chaos turned to magic. Jason had heard of a “free” boat ride, apparently put on by the owner of our guesthouse. Ben and I weren’t too keen, as we have become more than a little bit wary when it comes to the F word (free) in India. However, we didn’t have a set plan, so we decided to walk along the ghats and look for this boat. It was scheduled to depart an hour before the time when we started looking for it, yet we found it anyways, docked and just getting ready to go (we weren’t surprised to find it waiting… Indian time is something else). As we walked down to the boat, which had about 30 people in it, we were stopped in our tracks. Inside the boat, out of the hundreds of boats full of peopl (and thousands of people all around) was Lucie! We couldn’t believe the coincidence. She was apparently visiting from Kolkata for a few days only, and was walking along when someone invited her into the free boat. For a few minutes we were stunned by the coincidence, and had trouble saying anything at all.

The boat finally left just as it was getting dark (at about 6 o’clock). As we paddled out into the dark water, with hundreds of other boats all around, we started to get a better view of Varanasi and the ghats lining the Ganges. It was an incredible sight, and one I’ll never forget. On every ghat and property there were candles lined on the ground, each separated from the other by only two feet (it reminded me fondly of Lethbridge, where you can’t even keep a match lit long enough to light a cigarette). There were also Christmas lights everywhere. There was music too, and it was everywhere. The moon was full, and a steady stream of fireworks poured into the sky all night long, lighting the river with blue, green and gold fire. The burning ghats seemed to have been intensified along with everything else, because even from way out in the river we could see the flames of more than a dozen bodies soaring high into the air.

We were on the boat for 4 hours. During that time, we collectively lit 5001 candles (the 1 for good luck) and placed them in banana leaf boats on the river. As the river flows slowly at this time of year, and there isn’t even the slightest breeze, you can almost imagine what the river would look like with all of the boats out there doing this. Almost. We had to tow an extra boat behind us that was filled exclusively with candles and banana leaf carriers. Everyone on the boat worked hard for 4 hours, but it was completely worth it. A month later, my clothes are still stained with wax. I couldn’t imagine a better way to cap off our stay in Varanasi.

The next day was our last day in Varanasi. We had booked a train to Jaipur followed by a train to Jodhpur, in Rajasthan (the opposite side of the country). This is where we were to meet Danielle and Grayson. Our train was waitlisted number 4 and 5, but everyone we talked to said that it wouldn’t be a problem, as people that close on the waiting list nearly always get on.

Bhang: The leaves and flowerheads of cannabis, used as a narcotic.

Since our first train (18 hours) was scheduled to depart in the evening, we went in the morning for a lassi with Lucie and some other friends. It turns out that we got Bhang lassis (even though I had asked for one without). I only ate half of mine, since I was worried about getting on the train, and I had never experienced the effects before (though was told that they were quite mild- all in all I am fairly risk averse). Everyone else finished theirs. I was not prepared for the effect that they had, and, though I won’t go into detail, can say quite confidently that my first bhang lassi will also be my last bhang lassi.

I was still “uncomfortably altered” 7 hours later when we went to catch our train. After an awful rickshaw ride, during which we got stuck in a gridlock traffic jam (like a Chineese finger trap - where the vehicles are all interlocked and nobody can move without the other moving), we arrived to have our first ever train station experience. Now, when I arrived to the airport in Delhi, I expected it to be BAD… really really bad… but it was fine. I had heard the same horrific warnings about train stations, but was not so concerned after the airport false alarm.

Enjoying some chai after a refreshing swim.

Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that the festival was the day before. We walked in and we couldn’t move. We were in a massive dark room, resembling a warehouse, and it was full of yelling and pushing people. We had no idea where to go, where to ask where to go, or where to even begin. There wasn’t even a train in sight, so we left the building immediately in hopes that maybe (just maybe) we had accidentally walked into a prison or government building. No such luck. Eventually we found our train, and were able to talk to the station attendant standing nearby (none of this would have been a problem if we had seats). He took one look at our waitlisted tickets, took out his pen, and wrote “TICKET CANCELLED” in capital letters over the piece of paper. I almost had a nervous breakdown. The situation was desperate. We ran around with our luggage for the next 30 minutes (the train left in 60) trying to find some way, any way, of getting on the train. We found a nice security guard at a tourist help office in a corner who didn’t speak English, but dragged us along to a dark hidden room. They made Ben wait outside, and pulled me into the room. We walked down a hallway, and entered a room without windows full of people. He point to a long thin room, and told me to go in (supposedly to buy tickets). I went in, and immediately saw that he had brought me into the staff entrance for the ticket booth. Before me were a dozen ticket sellers at their booths. Before them were over a thousand people lined up in Indian style. If you’ve never seen a lineup in India, you’ll know that this actually means “a large mob of desperate yelling people waving their arms in the air because there isn’t enough room to bring them down by their sides again”. It was true chaos, unlike any that I’d ever seen before.

I bought both our tickets from the man at the booth, and was confused at how the cost for both of us was only 258 rupees (5 dollars) each for an 18-hour ride. Nevertheless, we got on the train and we left Varanasi.

Varanasi was one of the wildest experiences of my life. From the cobra charmers to the rats; from the river ceremonies every night to witnessing a sketchy opium deal at a government hash shop; from the Sadhu who claimed to sleep only 3 hours per night to the people sleeping on the ghats for the festival; from the beggars to the cop breaking his bamboo rod over a rickshaw driver’s back in broad daylight. I won’t ever forget Varanasi. I plan to one day return.

Thessaloniki

The Kavala crew left us on the side of the highway at midday on the 6^th of February. We walked up a roundabout and found a place as good as any for hitching to Thessaloniki. There was a small shoulder and about one in ten cars was merging in and going slow enough to be able to stop safely. The weather was far from terrific, and we weren’t sure whether or not we would get a ride, but we figured that if everything went wrong we could easily walk back into Kavala and spend another night (I think we secretly wanted to do this anyways).

We were picked up after not so long by a woman who was kind enough to drive us only 10 km (just far enough to eliminate the option of giving up and heading back Kavala). She left the main road, and us along with it, in the middle of a very cold nowhere. We waited a long time for our next ride. The Mediterranean Sea was beating violently against the cliffs and shores of Greece. Dark cyclonic activity was brewing in the distance and appeared to be headed our way. We were lucky with what turned out to be our second but last ride of the day. Two sisters picked up us brothers and carried us all the way to Thessaloniki. They were slightly older than Ben and I, good English speakers, and not incredibly interesting. We were so happy to finally be warm again. Ben fell asleep in the back seat with the guitar wedged between his legs. I managed to stay awake and listen to the younger of the sisters (who was wearing what might just have been the most vibrant red lipstick in the universe) as she postulated rhetorically about how we might be serial killers or rapists and how she probably shouldn’t have stopped to pick us up.

Pretending to be pensive in a Thessaloniki café.

Thessaloniki is a huge city, and we were relieved to have been left by the sisters in front of the main port downtown. If you’ve ever been to Europe, traveling from place to place and trying to reorient yourself in a new environment on a daily basis, you’ll quickly learn that everything revolves around a city square or, in the case of coastal cities, the harbor. Ben and I Skyped with Danielle and had a hot chocolate while waiting for Steve, our Canadian Couchsurfing host, who showed up and paid our entire bill at right around the same time that he introduced himself.

We drove back to his place in his new car, which was driven by his fiancé Mahi. We rolled in and wasted no time in having a delicious meal of Pastichio (which was in fact so good that I proceeded to write an improvised song about it on the guitar). Steve is a great guy. He was born into a Greek family in Montreal, though moved to Greece when he was still quite young. He has a ponytail, his English is near perfect (maybe better than mine), he works for some kind of agricultural pesticide company, and he’s the reason I started this blog. Steve was so good to us that I don’t think we paid for a single thing (despite trying) throughout the duration of our stay. According to him, we were only staying with him because he wanted to prove to Mahi that Couchsurfers are good people so that he could invite hot Russian girls the next time (apparently he gets a disproportional number of couch requests from this demographic).

"Just wait, I have to look cool
for this photo"

We spent two days in Thessaloniki. Steve took a couple of days off work to hang out with us and show us around. There isn’t all that much to see, but it is nevertheless a fantastically Greek place. We spent time eating Mahi’s great cooking (best pizza I’ve ever had - even better than in Italy… props!), smoking a massive cigar, visiting various pubs, drinking one and a half litre plastic bottles of wine (only 3 euros a pop!), shopping for warm clothing in the cheapest parts of town, complaining about the unprecedented cold weather, and trying to convince Steve to quit his job and go traveling. One of the highlights of the stay was buying a new razor and having the most incredible shave. It was then that I learned that Indian razors are more like chainsaws than devices used for shaving.

We wrapped up our visit to Thessaloniki in a downtown bar. Steve bought us beers and shots of tequila. We were served free nuts, pizza, and so on, which is a business tactic that seems to be prevalent in Greece and which I very strongly condone. We sat around having our last chat as Steve explained to us that Greek people don’t dance (the subject had inevitably come up when a great live DJ was playing dance music and nobody was moving a muscle). According to Steve, dancing is an “unnecessary step” (the pun was almost surely intended). I am still unable to decide whether the free pizza is worth the lack of dancing.

The next morning we decided to skip Skopje because of the weather (it was almost to the point where we weren’t able to leave Thessaloniki at all). Our plan was to hitchhike to Macedonia. Steve was so kind that he drove us 25 km out of town to a poll station that would make hitchhiking easiest. He also gave us a pack of cigarettes, which once again foiled our plans to quit by having a “no buying of tobacco” policy. It was cold, windy, snowy, and miserable. Steve took a Hanuman sticker and the weird unidentifiable guru dude who was probably responsible for making the stickers (and decided to make one of himself while he was at it). He said they reminded him of us. I’m guessing that Ben was Hanuman.

Steve and Ben in the same café (I seem to have not taken all that many pictures in Thessaloniki).

Kavala

Oranges in Kavala

We crossed the border by foot. There didn’t seem to be anyone too interested in going to (or coming from) Greece that day, apart from a few truck drivers. When we left Turkey, to our delight, the border guard informed us that it was against the law for us to walk across the bridge to cross the river delineating Turkey from Greece. We had to drive. We waited about 15 minutes before getting lucky. Some Turkish guys crossing the border let us get in the back of their scary, windowless, creepy-guy-who-gives-candy-to-children van. It must have looked slightly suspicious when we crossed the border and proceeded to tumble out of the back of the van (though nobody seemed to mind - I don’t think too many people are trying to sneak into Greece at the moment - it could have something to do with its current economic problems).

The charming and hilarious Nikos

Once finally on the other side of the border, we found a great place to hitchhike. In fact, it was such a great place that we only had to wait two hours for a ride. We were eventually picked up by one of the first cars that passed (it was a pretty deserted place - there was nobody around apart from us and a truck driver cooing his dinner over a fire on the side of the road). The old couple that saved us from the freezing cold was very friendly, gave us chocolate biscuits, and provided us with about an hour of luxury transportation in their new BMW. They didn’t speak much English, but they were able to teach us Greek words such as efreristo (thank you) and oreila (beautiful). The old man drove fast, and I have a very vivid memory of simultaneously being on the cell phone with their English-speaking daughter (trying to figure out where we should be dropped off), eating a cookie with the other hand (the same mouth mind you), and cruising along at 160 km/hr.

 The transition from Muslim to Christian was very sudden. I also immediately began to understand why Greek Gods were worshipped. The skies were dark and turbulent; the sea to the one side of the highway was angry and vast; the rivers we crossed were violent and swollen; the sky was filled with prototypical, jagged lightening bolts; the mountains loomed aggressively over us. It was straight out of Mordor, but with more vegetation and fewer orcs.

The old couple pointed out their village as we were driving, but for some reason they didn’t turn off the road or let us out. The eventually let us out about 30 minutes later, gave us a loaf of bread (they had been grocery shopping in Turkey - it must be significantly cheaper), and bit us farewell. We weren’t sure why they had left us where they had, but it soon made sense when they turned around and we watched them drive back in the direction we had come. They had done us a big favour by bringing us half an hour further.

Greek flag on the castle in Kavala

Our fourth ride of the day picked us up just as the first drops of rain were starting to fall. He was just in time, as it started to pour just as we set off again. From what I remember, the guy was a mechanic of some kind, played an accordion, was sick, and was a pseudo-hippy. Though he wasn’t going there, he drove us right into the outskirts of Kavala, which is a little ways off the road. He saved us a lot of trouble- it would have been a long walk in.

Now Kavala, our first destination in Greece, turned out to be your stereotypical coastal Greek paradise, with white buildings built along one side of a mountain leading down to the sea. We stood at the top of town, looking out in wonder at the beautiful city before us, and smoked what might have been our last clove cigarettes from India. It was a great moment in a great day. It only got better when we heard a voice yelling from behind us: “What in the world are you doing?”

The sweet and kind Kostakis

I suppose it must have looked a bit strange: us with our feet dangling off a cliff in the middle of winter; our backpacks to the side; wearing toques, gloves, and every other article of clothing we had available. We turned around to find that a very blonde 60-year-old woman with very red lipstick and a very furry fur coat was approaching us. It turns out that she was British, but living in Kavala. She was very animated, very honest, and a little bit crazy. She invited us in for a drink. We obliged.

So there we are, sitting at a table full of at least 12 old Greeks in a fancy hotel with free cakes and little desserts and other such delicacies. She bought us espresso. She bought us amaretto. She bought us a pack of cigarettes (in fact, she only wanted one cigarette, which is why she bought them in the first place - her regular brand were waiting for her at home). After drinking with them for a couple of hours and repeatedly turning down invitations to join her that night at her place (her husband was out of town), we decided that the time might be right to go and meet our Couchsurfing host. We said goodbye and her friends (who didn’t speak English) drove us down to the city square in their luxury SUV.

Kostakis' sister, Anastasia

Our hosts, Kostakis and Nikos, were pure gold. There was a little bit of a language barrier, but we got along right away. We had a good walk around, and they bought us pork gyros stuffed with French fries and some Amstel beers, which we drank in the rain next to the harbour. Their generosity was astounding in light of the economic problems plaguing the country. In only one day we were already beginning to develop a fairly good understanding of how serious these problems were/are. We met a large group of their friends that night, who all sat around chatting and smoking rolling tobacco. There were about ten of them, but only Nikos had a job. Many of them had University degrees and work experience, but they still spent most of their time each day looking for work. Nikos was working every night in a fish factory, from 23:00 - 07:00, and was very grateful to have a job.

We stayed up late, chatting and enjoying each other’s company. They were all such friendly people; somehow full of curiosity, optimism, and plans for the future. I devoured some anti-histamine to spite their cat before crawling into bed and having a great sleep.

The next day I got up early and went for a walk to buy new guitar strings. We then all met up for coffee at a place where they meet and hang out each morning. Anastasia brought us breakfast. After a deliciously murky Greek coffee (which turns out to be exactly the same thing as a Turkish coffee) we (Ben, Nikos + girlfriend, Kostakis + sister, and I) set off to explore the old town and the castle. It was a lovely day of navigating the old labyrinthian streets and standing on top of the world in the turret of an old castle-turned-museum. Our lunch together was Greek salad (of course),that was delicious and made by Kostakis. Nikos put 10 Euros worth of gas in his car so that he could drive us to the highway. We exchanged stickers of Indian Gods for an autographed seashell.

Left to right: Kostakis, Thomas, Ben, Nikos