jollyqueenlouise.org

I have just spent the past 3 weeks on an incredible ‘road trip’ along the Pamir Highway which runs from one end of Tajikistan to the other, mostly paralleling the Afghan border on the other side of the Amu Darya river (and its tributaries) from the high plateau (Pamir means ‘roof of the world in Tajik) through stupendous gorges to the fertile plains of the Uzbek border.

We started (I joined a group of six kiwis for this trip) by climbing two passes in the first day and crossing two borders (from Kyrgyzstan, and into Tajikistan, a very slow and often expensive process if bribes need to be paid!).  Our Russian UAZ vans nearly expired, requiring constant cooling by pouring copious drafts of water over the engine (not into the radiator, surprisingly) and both had handy funnels, made out of plastic water bottles, to facilitate this process.  En route we encountered the most bizarre of several cars competing in the Mongol rally – from London to Ulan Batar – a mini complete with red phone box on the roof, almost as big as the car.  Apparently there is a prize for the most useless object carried to UB, and these crazy guys were determined to win it, despite the fact that the car’s suspension had collapsed under the load on the appalling Tajik roads!

We mainly stayed with families in their houses or ‘homestays’, which provides wonderfully warm hospitality if somewhat primitive conditions – sleeping on the floor, with pit toilets and minimal washing facilities.  But the scenery more than made up for it.  On the plateau, the people are nomads and herders, with big flocks of mixed sheep and goats, plus a few cows and lovely horses, which they take up to the wide summer pastures and make yoghurt and curds for winter consumption.  They live in yurts, and if their pastures include a decent river, supplement their diets with trout caught with simple nets – an almost idyllic existence, in summer of course, though the winters are bitter.

Further along the highway, it dives down to the valley of the Pamir, then Gant and later Amu Darya river where there are more permanent settlements, with poplar lined irrigation channels taking water from the frequent glacier-melt streams before they reach the main river.  It was harvest time, and the flat roofs of the houses were spread with drying apricots, and heaps of laboriously cut grass for winter livestock feed.  Wheat and oats were also being cut by hand, and then threshed by putting the sheaves on the road for vehicles to drive over!

The people are Ismailis, a branch of Sunni Islam who revere the Aga Khan as their spiritual leader, and who have no mosques but instead come to shrines of early saints, often Sufis, to pray and give offerings, especially horns of ibex and marco polo sheep.  They share this religion, and many ethnic tribal connections, with the people of Afghanistan just across the river in the Wakhan Corridor ( a totally artificial strip of territory created in the 19th century geopolitics of the Great Game, to provide a buffer between the Russian and British empires).  But if conditions were basic enough in Tajikistan, they appeared to be downright primitive in this part of Afghanistan.  At least the Soviets built a road on the Tajik side of the river, however decayed it has become in the past 20 years; on the other side there were only precipitous donkey tracks connecting small villages clinging to the margins of vast gravel fans deposited by the debris-laden glacial streams from the Hindu Kush mountains.

For a couple of days we crashed our way up a side valley on execrable roads with several quite deep fords, the Uazes grinding along in 4WD low ratio, to a lovely village called Poi Mazar just below a large glacier flowing down from the highest peaks of the Pamir range.  We hiked up the valley for superb views of snow covered ranges, and had a lovely picnic beside a decrepit suspension bridge, as far as our transport – this time a huge 8 wheel Russian truck - could go.

Dushanbe, the capital of Tajikistan, is a wonderful contrast – wide, tree lined boulevards and flower filled parks surrounding some impressive buildings like the Presidential Palace.  There were frantic preparations afot for the meeting of the Shanghai Organization of States, a Central Asian APEC including China and Russia, which was due to take place a few days after we left – fortunately, since there would have been no hotel rooms available then.

One last mountain range confronted us, with the highest pass of all, and a road being reconstructed by the Chinese which meant we had to be across before it closed for the day’s work at 8 am.  We just made, by taking a detour through a tunnel built by the Iranians, which has no ventilation for its 5 km length, and leaks like a sieve but had no proper drains so it is up to 2 feet deep in water in places, nor much lighting so it was a truly surreal experience – and was I glad to see the light at the end!!

Finally we wound our way out of the gorges, and into the plains that run across the Uzbek border.  Once across, one could see that the GDP per capita had increased about 100 times – more cars, bigger villages, much more machinery in the fields, much better roads…I wonder how Tajikistan is going to ‘develop’ since it has few natural resources except water, though the Chinese will exploit it for all they can, I suspect.

Now I am in Kyrgyzstan, about to set out for yurts, nomads and high pastures again – lots of time for horse riding I hope, as well.

More of that next time

Louise

I have got a bit behind, due to the lack of effective internet cafes in Central Asia.  So this is a quick update, from Iran through Turkmenistan and Uzbekistan, although I am currently in Tajikistan on the world’s greatest road trip, the Pamir Highway.  But that will have to wait till later!

This map doesn’t show my final itinerary - I did not go to Khiva and Aral Sea in the end, but came in from Turkmenistan and out to Kyrgyzstan (and will retun to Smarkand from Tajikistan later) ...so I’m not sure if it helps at all!

After Shiraz, I went on to Isfahan, with perhaps the greatest concentration of awe-inspiring Islamic religious architecture in central Asia – though Samarkand, which I am due to visit next week, reputedly outshines even Isfahan!

My favourite was the Jameh – Friday – mosque, which represents building styles ranging over 800 years, from the simple but intricate brickwork of the Sassanian period,

to the gorgeous mosaic work commissioned by Shah Abbas in the 18th century.

His real memorial is the famous Blue mosque, which is covered in painted tiles, because to do it in mosaics would have taken generations, and he was a man in a hurry. 

So the whole style changed, and in many ways the subtlety and intricacy of mosaics has been lost in the continuing preference for tiles, which of course are now mass produced.

The Blue mosque dominates Imam Square, the second largest public urban space in the world, after Tienanmen Square in Beijing,

and is surrounded by arcades full of amazing shops – I reckon there is as much ‘stuff’ in these bazaars as in any western shopping mall! – where of course I fell for some wonderful miniatures painted on camel bone; exquisite work which hopefully will get through Australian customs when I come home.  Unfortunately, the next day my shoulder bag containing quite a bit of money, my credit card and various other useful items was ripped off me as I walked along the sidewalk by a couple of youths on a motor bike….bugger!!  But people were incredibly helpful, and called the tourist police who took a full ‘history’ in excellent English and then insisted on escorting me back to my hotel.  Not a good experience in any country, but much mitigated by the kindness of the local people.  In fact, that had perhaps lulled me into a false sense of security, so it was a timely lesson; though a real hassle getting a replacement card etc.

The most holy place in Iran, the Holy Shrine of Imam Reza at Mashad in the north west,

is still under construction as rich men buy grace by building yet another courtyard onto the complex which already covers over 20 hectares!  And it is quite clear that the standard of workmanship in mosque decoration is steadily coarsening and declining.  I could not take pictures inside the shrine, nor enter the holiest areas, as a non-Muslim, but the place was heaving with pilgrims visiting the shrine, which is second only to Mecca as a place of pilgrimage, during their summer holidays.

From Mashad I went on to Turkmenistan where one has to have a permanent guide attached – mine was a charming young Russian woman named Yelena who certainly earned her keep, in getting me into the country and out again through the unbelievably tedious border process.  From Turkmenistan to Uzbekistan requires showing you passport to no less than 11 assorted officials and military guards, and walking about 1 km across no man’s land between the two border posts – a bit trying in 40+ heat! 

Ashgabat, the capital of Turkmenistan, is the hottest place I’ve struck yet – and was I glad to get rid of that dreadful hijab by then!  It is an extraordinary city, a monument to the ex (now dead) President Turkmenbashi, who obviously decided that after the fall of the Soviet Union, independent Turkmenistan needed a national identity, and he was it!  There are hundreds of statues of him, mostly gold, on top of plinths and towers, some of which change colour all night.

Plus dozens of grandiose government buildings like the Presidential Palace,

and lots of high rise apartments (even though the city was flattened by an earthquake in 1943) all faced in white Italian marble.  There is even a memorial to his version of Turkmen history inscribed in a book named Ruhnama – and an excellent national museum which has a whole section devoted to his life and personality cult.

In Uzbekistan I spent a couple of days in Bukhara, another city of mosques though not quite so intense as Isfahan.  Some wonderful brickwork, in mausoleums and minarets, was the highlight for me, though there is plenty of blue tile work as well.  Many of the madressahs – religious schools – are now craft emporiums, and one put on a surprisingly good dance and fashion show accompanied by traditional music.  With a bit of imagination, one could recreate the sense of Bukhara as a major entrepot on the Silk Road.  There were over forty caravanserais in its heyday, and 18 survive, many of them now being restored.  I stayed in one which has been converted into a hotel and is beautiful.  The streets in the old city are narrow and dusty, and the arcades of the bazaars are tall enough to accommodate a swaying camel with a full load of merchandise….

My main mission however was in Tashkent, where I had to get a visa for Tajikistan, plus permits to visit all the remote autonomous areas along the Pamir highway.  It was a ghastly hassle, even with the help of some extremely intelligent and efficient women at the travel agency, and involved four visits to the embassy, bribing the guard to let me in at the top of the queue each time, and then some frantic email correspondence with my NZ agent, the Tajikistan contact and various other players, when the embassy refused to issue the permits – because there is to be a meeting of the Shanghai Conference of Central Asian nations in Dushanbe, the Tajik capital, at the end of August, and they didn’t want any random foreigners roaming the country….  All the other members of the group I was to join had permits, but I didn’t have time to get the Tajik visa and permits in London, since the nearest embassy was in Vienna… and I had been assured it was no trouble to do it in Tashkent.  Finally, some insistent table thumping by the travel agent in Dushanbe (accompanied, no doubt, a few dollars) produced the desired result and the permits met me at the Tajik border.

But my troubles were no quite over, as I had to get to Kyrgyzstan to meet the rest of the group coming from China; and that was a horror trip!  First the hire car broke down, and I was passed like an uncomprehending parcel via three increasingly hot and decrepit taxis to eventually arrive at the border.  I got out of Uzbekistan OK, but on arrival in Kyrgyzstan – after another walk across no man’s land – the immigration officer informed, correctly, that my visa did not start until the next day!  By that time I was past caring, and my wonderful Kyrgyz guide Talant entered into prolonged negotiations while I sat on the floor hot, exhausted and thirsty – about as close the end of my tether as I get!  Talant murmured to me that there was one way to fix the problem – money of course – so I said go ahead, envisaging fistful of dollars changing hands.  So I was delighted when the issue was resolved for 150 som – about $6 !!

Next day I headed south to Sary Tash, a tiny village in the midst of a vast plain with an enticing view of the Pamir mountains, where I duly met the rest of the group, and we sallied forth for Tajikistan…but more of that next time.

Cheers, Louise

PS Apologies for lack of pics - this is a VERY SLOW internet connection, and I need a beer!!

I’ve been in Iran for more than a week, and I have never experienced such genuine hospitality, or such helpful and charming people who really mean it when they say welcome, and wish you a pleasant stay in their country, of which they are justifiably proud.  Yes, the government did just execute 29 criminals, but most people I have talked do not like the present regime, and young women in particular find its restrictions irksome.

Getting here was a bit tiresome, certainly, as the train from Turkey was over 12 hours late arriving in Tehran.  We stopped for three hours in eastern Turkey while the army checked the line for terrorists – perhaps a valid precaution after the recent bombings in Istanbul – while we sat under a vine covered trellis drinking tea and chatting with the locals; certainly not Eurostar style!  And that evening in the restaurant, the returning Iranians had one final fling, drinking huge amounts of beer and dancing and singing until the wee hours.  By the time we reached Lake Van and left the Turkish train behind,

and made our way by ‘Passenger Attempt’ onto the boat for the five hour crossing,

it was dark so I saw little except a beautiful moonrise.  Once on the Iranian train, the mood changed entirely; women - including me – donned long coats and hijabs, and then spent ages enduring immigration and baggage checks seemingly all night, and another 3 hour delay, apparently due to a fatal accident on the line….

So I was quite tired by the time I arrived around 6am, but had booked an ESG (English Speaking Guide) for the day as Tehran is huge and hard to get around.  So we sallied forth into the appalling traffic, first to the most magnificent carpet museum which luckily had no retail outlet or I would be bankrupt by now,

then to the palaces of the Pahlavi shahs on the edge of the mountains.  The last shah was deposed in 1979 and this is all that’s left of what was once a huge statue outside his palace;

which is arid and formal but has what must have been a superb view of Tehran before the smog came in!

The previous dynasty, the Qajars who ruled in the 18th and 19th centuries, had much better taste and built the superb Golestan Palace with its wonderful tiled facades, set around a classic garden.

Some of the Qajar rulers are depicted wearing jewels that are now in the breathtaking National Jewels Museum,

housed in a vault of the national bank under such extreme security that if a visitor touches a glass case, sirens wail and steel gates clang shut.  Though not a fan of emeralds as big a quail eggs and tiaras with 2000 diamonds, I found the artistry as well as the sheer opulence of the displays overwhelming.  And apparently the national treasury has loads more uncut and unset stones – which was raided in the 1960s to make Queen Farah’s crown and other trinkets.

From Tehran I headed south to Yadz, famous for its wind towers that act as natural air conditioners for houses and water reservoirs – certainly needed in the 40+C summer heat.

The desert and mountains around are so arid that many villages have been abandoned, as qanats, the underground channels bringing water from springs have collapsed.  All that remains are mud walled ruins,

with some beautiful minarets like this one, which is so delicately balanced it can be shaken from the top. 

Yadz also has one of the most spectacular mosques in Iran,

as well as being a centre of Zoroastrianism, the ancient pre-muslim religion of Persia, with some mysterious ‘towers of silence’ where the dead were place to be devoured by vultures so that their bodies did not contaminate the earth.

En route from Yadz to Shiraz I stopped overnight at an exquisitely restored caravanserai, a relic of camel trains along the silk road. 

The interior was rich with carpets,

and from the roof I watched dust storms blowing around,

and later a spectacular sunset

before a sumptuous dinner and a night in a curtained, carpeted alcove, just like a camel master of old!

Shiraz has a fascinating bazaar in which I got comprehensively lost,

while discovering all manner of weird and wonderful stalls.

What puzzled me most was the huge range of elaborate dresses, and exotic materials – who wears these and when, given the all pervasive black of hijab and chador?

And of course I went to Persepolis,

reknowned for its amazingly detail bas reliefs of vassals bringing gifts to demonstrate their allegiance to the Achaemenid emperors of the 5th and 4th centuries BC. These are Sythians, from their head dresses.

It was also a favourite centre for celebration of the Persian new year, symbolized by carvings of lion (Leo) destroying the bull (Taurus) as they succeed each other in the zodiac around the spring equinox.

Even more spectacular, if possible, are the Sassanian (2nd century AD) carvings below the huge rock hewn tombs of the Achaemenid emperors nearby.

Shapur I demonstrates his power by towering over the Roman emperor he defeated,

while another panel depicts the brutal energy with which another he destroys a rival in battle.

And that’s only half of it – tomorrow to Ishfahan, then on to Mashad, reputedly the two most beautiful cities in Iran – not sure I can absorb much more of such amazing beauty of so many centuries of culture, it truly is the cradle of civilization.

It is quite extraordinary what a lot has happened in the last couple of weeks.  From a flying start by Eurostar to Paris, the return journey has slowed in proportion to its increasing interest, and this trend looks likely to continue as I set off on a three day train trip from Kayseri in Central Anatolia, across the border to Iran tomorrow.

With my English friend Christine, who signed on for the first leg of the trip, to Turkey, I set off from London St Pancras on the Paris Eurostar, then transferred to TGV to Strasbourg.  There we picked up a sleeper on what remains of the Orient Express, to Vienna.  It was a huge disappointment, totally lacking in romance and providing only a cramped, hot and noisy couchette.  Much more comfortable was a Serbian train on the next leg to Beograd, though all Western notions of keeping to any kind of timetable went out the window as we idled along single track for much of the distance

– it was over two hours late at our final destination.  But the advantage was that we went slowly enough to actually see the countryside – it whizzes past far too fast on the TGVs.

First, one of the largest wind farms I’ve ever seen, in eastern Austria,

then some delightfully old fashioned harvesters at work in the cornfields,

and an tantalizing glimpse of Hungarians disporting themselves at a water park

before we crossed the Serbian plains at sunset.


At Beograd a very patient travel agent was on the platform with our tickets to Istanbul next day, and even helped us to our find our hotel, and was there to see us off next morning – the world should have more people like Mr Popovic!  The hotel was filled with chain smoking Serbian businessmen, though we managed eventually to get a room which did not reek to badly – the receptionist was amazed when we asked for a non-smoking room – and we had fun in a local supermarket stocking up on goodies for the next 24 hours, with a quantity of dinars selected at random from an ATM as we had no idea of the exchange rate.

The sleeper on the Turkish train was infinitely more spacious and comfortable than the Orient Express, and we shared food and drink with various other Westerners on board.  There were interminable delays at the Bulgarian and Turkish borders, and the train was bout 3 hours late into Istanbul as a result.  Our arrival was heralded by another wind farm

above some extraordinary new housing on virgin hillsides,

which contrasted with decayed wooden dwellings in the city itself.

For a change of pace – even slower! – we spent the afternoon cruising up the Bosphorus, which is crossed by bridges,

and flanked by superb Ottoman palaces

and a majestic fort at the narrowest point.

A trip to the Grand Bazaar

turned into a mammoth carpet buying session, and to protect ourselves from temptation we spent most of the next day at the Topkapi Museum, marveling at the selection of 12,000 Ming ceramics on display,

and the unbelievable beauty and luxury of the harem and private apartments of the sultans.

main courtyard

throne room

marble dunny with gold taps

fountain in private garden

I revived my love affair with Islamic tiles,

and we reeled out almost as dizzy as the whirling dervishes we saw perform later.  One cannot help wondering how an empire could produce both art of such exquisite delicacy, and social repression of such savage brutality.  I guess the Ottoman empire was by no means unique in this regard, but the paradox struck me very forcibly.

After a couple of days, too short but I’ve been to Istanbul before, we set off down the coast to Gallipoli where I experienced an even stronger sense of paradox. Wonder at the courage of the Anzacs who tried to conquer such appalling terrain, outrage at the futility of it all, sadness at the huge sacrifice of young lives on both sides – Australia lost 8,700 dead, but Turkey’s toll was over 100,000 - irony that the only successful part of the entire operation was the withdrawal.

In the silence of Anzac Cove

it was hard to imagine the chaos and squalor on the beach and cliffs for nine months, and looking down from the Turkish trenches on the ridge, it is astonishing that any points along it were ever taken.

The Turkish memorial is much more triumphal than the muted tone of the Allied ones,

and Ataturk holds pride of place on the highest ridge.

Overall, a powerful experience, though I’m not sure I understand the significance of Anzac Day any better.

All down the Aegean coast are remains of ancient civilizations superimposed on each other, and Troy, apart from the horse,

(there is another one in Çanakkale donated from the Brad Pit film, which is probably more realistic)
is the hardest to appreciate partly because Schliemann disturbed so many of the nine levels of the city in his early treasure hunting excavations.

Pergamon is more appealing with a superb hilltop location, a huge Roman theatre and dramatic pillars topped by intricate carved friezes.

But the jewel in the crown is Ephesus. It is huge, with dozens of baths, fountains and gateways,

dominated by the Celsus library

with its superb carved lintels,

a unique setting for a rather grand dinner party! 

And of course, a magnificent theatre

Some of the houses of the richer inhabitants of the Roman period have been excavated and restored,

including some lovely mosaics. 

Many of the finer sculptures from the site are in the museum, such as a many-breasted Artemis

and a delightful Eros on a dolphin.

We had a complete change of pace for a couple of days, sailing with some friends on their catamaran out of Bodrum

anchoring in a lovely bay along with dozens of the local gullets, spacious wooden ketches that take tourists on trips around the coast, but rarely sail.

We ourselves had a spanking reach back to port, clocking over 8 knots, but as I was helming I had my hands too full for taking photos!!

Bodrum castle was built by the Knights of St John on their way back from the crusades,

and is full of ancient heraldry

and delicate glass recovered from the many shipwrecks along the coast – a dramatic juxtaposition!

From Bodrum we turned east towards Anatolia, via the weird travertine terraces of Pammakule, formed from the evaporation of mineral springs that have dissolved undeground calcium deposits, to leave dazzling white stone waterfalls

and the lovely lake at Egidir where a fierce storm brought the first rain we have seen in Turkey.

It has been consistenly hot and dry, up to 40C on a couple of days which is not good ruin weather !

Our final stop was Goreme in Cappadocia, and a superb climax to our experience of Turkey. 
We went ballooning at dawn

– much the most spectacular way of taking one’s feet off the planet! – over and into valleys filled with fantastic rock formations,

many of which have been hollowed out into dwellings and churches,

or served as forts defending important trade routes

and finished with a champagne party in front of the flower decorated basket which the pilot had landen with amazing precision right back on its trailer.  Truly and immaculate operation for a dazzling two hours!!

There are hundreds of rock churches in the area, some covered with beautiful frescoes, for example

Adoration of the magi

The last supper

St George and the dragon

There are whole underground cities too, dug by Christians to escape persecution by Arab raiders in the 5th to 10th centuries, and only rediscovered in the 20th.

There is much, much more that we did and saw, but that is probably more than enough for now!

I am not sure what internet facilities there may be in Iran, or points east (I know there are no ATMs, so I am loaded with cash, rather apprehensively!) but I will try and keep this going,

Until then, Cheers from Louise

I have spent the past month mainly in Devon at a friend’s cottage, while my passport has raced around obscure embassies in London, garnering visas at great expense for the next stage of my journey, homewards across Europe to Turkey, Iran, Turkemenistan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, Kyrgyzstan, China, Vietnam, Cambodia , Thailand, Malaysia, Singapore....whew!! then to Darwin, Adelaide, Melbourne, Devonport, Hobart and HOME!  Mostly by train, some bus, an inescapable plane from Singapore to Darwin, ferry to Tasmania...both still trying to complete the journey as far as possible without taking my feet off the planet.

Surprisingly, the weather has mostly been beautiful in Devon, and I have spent a lot of time out of doors, mainly enjoying the many walking tracks and rights-of –way with which Britain is so richly endowed.  My favourite is the South Coast Path, which runs for 600 miles round the coast of south west Engalnd, and I have found lots of ways of linking public transport, mainly buses, to sections of the Coast Path, with occasional overnight B&Bs en route – a vastly different environment from the Andes or the Pantanal but with its own special charm.

Golden Cap, the highest point on the South Coast Path

The sunny day belies the force of the onshore wind on the south coast

For all lovers of John Fowles The French Lieutenant’s Woman, this the cobb at Lyme Regis, where she stood looking out to sea, waiting in vain for him to return!

Dirdle Door, a famous landmark on the Dorset Coast

I’ve also spent a lot of times with friends, visiting them and vice versa, and enjoying driving the Prius hybrid car my friends also left me.  They are away for three months, and it needs ‘exercising’ to charge the battery, a chore I was delighted to perform.  I got used to checking the fuel consumption on the display that shows where the energy is coming from/going to – and trying to maximise the periods when it was 99.9mpg (going downhil or decelerating, when all the potential energy is stored in the battery and the engine idles) or 0.00mpg when the engine stops entirely, (at traffic lights, or creeping along in a traffic jam when the battery alone can drive the car).  Brilliant!! If only someone made a 4WD version that could cope with track to my yurt on Bruny Island…

I used the Prius traffic jam capacity on a visit to the Royal Cornwall Show - only the British can do 10 mile creeps like this!! -

where the horses

and cattle

competed with motor bike acrobatics
in a weird emonstration of what turns on the great British rural public these days!

In more cultured mode, I spent a perfect summer’s evening on the banks of the Tamar, enjoying a superb picnic dinner with hundreds of othe fans

while several jazz bands entertained us well into the night, under a full moon!

I’m off on Monday across Europe,

first by Eurostar to Paris then the Orient Express to Belgrade and Istanbul, and a couple of weeks in Turkey before boarding the Trans- Asia Express to Tehran.  I have acquired scarves, body hiding jackets and skirts, long socks (?) as instructed to make me as inconspicuous as possible without the need for a full burkha which would be suffocating in the heat of August.  So as long as I get there before GWB I should be OK, I hope!

I’m not sure what the interenet café scene will be like in Iran and the ‘stans - there are no ATMs apparently, not a good omen for state of the art technology – but I will try and keep this going as much as I can.

Till then, cheers from Louise

I finally managed to get on board NYK Espirito in Rio, about 5 hours before it sailed, and then spent 13days en route to Rotterdam, the world’s largest container port.  From there I took the Eurstar train to England, where I’ll be for the next month – grateful to be stationary, and in a house instead of a hotel or cabin!

We left Rio on a humid, foggy day which obscured the famous statue of Christ on Corcvardo, but revealed harbourside sights such as the Brasilian navy’s only aircraft carrier,

and planes landing at the city airport,

with a backdrop of high rise buildings beyond. 

The entrance to Guanabara Bay is dominated by the huge bulk of Sugarloaf to the west,

and an ancient Portuguese fort to the east. 

The passage was very calm, with a few spectacular sunrises

apart from the obligatory storm in the Bay of Biscay, and I spent hours on deck watching the masked boobies which accompanied us far out to sea, dive bombing for fish then using the ship’s slipstream to regain their lookout position above the bow. 

We went through the Canary Islands, though the channel is wide enough to afford only a distant view of land,

and celebrated with a crew party, with jugs of caipirinhas and a barbecued sucking pig as a prelude to a lively karaoke session.  The Filipino crew really let their hair down, while the German deck officers were much more restrained, and the passengers, only one other besides myself, abstained!

When we entered the English Channel off Cherbourg, it was in thick fog with visibility down to about 20 metres.

So I for one was glad the ship had the latest navigation aids, including GPS digital charts on which the positions and course of all nearby vessels are shown, by green dots and lines.  There were many other vessels on a similar easterly course to us in southern lane of the traffic separation scheme, others heading west in the northern lane, and cross channel ferries darting out from Cherbourg at right angles to both traffic lanes. 

Each ship is required to relay a continuous radio beam carrying details of its dimensions, course, speed, ports of departure and destination and its name and number as part of the Automatic Identification System, and all other ships receive this information on a special digital recorder.

When the weather cleared we found one of them was a large ocean racing yacht,

sailing unconcernedly in the middle of the traffic lane, as part of a virtual convoy of container and bulk ships that altered course in unison at the same waypoints as the traffic lane would through the sandbanks of the Dover Strait,

taking us close to the French coast of Cap Gris Nez.

We arrived at Rotterdam around midnight, and I woke to the usual ordered chaos of cargo operations

while the ship took on fuel from a spotless barge for the next voyage

– which the Master, to his great disgust, discovered only on our arrival would not be back to Brasil, but to Singapore via Suez, for which he had no charts or other navigational information!

I left them to sort out these problems, and within five hours I was in London, via Eurostar, hurtling through the Dutch, Belgian, French and English countryside at terrifying speeds – up to 180 kph, I haven’t been that fast for months! - and through the Channel Tunnel I had sailed over the day before.
After surrendering my passport to a visa agency that promises to obtain six visas for obscure countries like Iran and Uzbekistan in three weeks – for a price!- I am heading for Devon for a welcome rest, in one place for a while, with visits from and to local friends and family.  At the end of June, the saga will resume, across Europe to Turkey and points east….

Till then,
Cheers from Louise

I have to admit to a love-hate relationship with Brasil.  I have had some of the best of times here, in beautiful wilderness and urban settings, but also some of the most stressful experiences of the whole trip, even of my life, mainly due to the fact that Brasil is vast, noisy and PORTUGUESE, a language I cannot speak, and still less understand – it sounds like Chinese to me, and in fact precise stress and exact vowel sounds are just as important to meaning and understanding in both languages. 

The first stressful time was helping to organise the Global Greens Congress in São Paulo– an exhausting 10 days.  The local Brasilian organiser went AWOL a month before the date, leaving a huge mess.  So Margaret, an Australian friend who organised the first conference in Canberra in 2001, stepped into the breach, and recruited me and a couple of others to help.  Suffice it to say it was a succession of 18 hour days, but with some fantasitc help from brilliant local professionals and an amazing team of youg volunteers, it came together by the skin of our teeth for 700 delegates from 88 countries. 
But we had a great party to thank all the volunteers when it was all over

and especially the Brasilian couple who organised the venue and the catering, here with Margaret without whom it would never have come together

I never want to do anything like that again, but mercifully the next Congress will be in Europe, where fast photcopiers, multiple computers with good internet connections, user friendly websites, and easy transport are the norm – none of which were avaialble in São Paulo!

To recover, I and some other Aussie delgates went to Ilha Grande, a beautiful island off the south coast, with no cars, lovely beaches, tiny fishing villages and a peaceful eco-tourism resort with superb food to stay in – when I eventually found it.  I thought it would be a breeze because one of the others had organised it, but I lost the instruction on how to get there before I had looked at them, I was so busy....and spent a day on a hilarious (in retrospect) wild goose chase before reaching the right village

and the lovely guesthouse, with tropical breakfasts

eaten looking across the channel to the mountains of the mainland,

in the company of colourful birds,

curious monkeys

tiny hummingbirds that came to a sugar dispenser

and inquisitive squirrels which came to eat our leftovers.

One day, three of us walked across the island over a steep path through lush jungle

inhabited by howler monkeys – though we only heard them - to a village on the other side.


And another day I spent almost entirely in a hammock, watching birds and reading, with an occasional swim at our private beach,

and watching the local fishermen catch squid for our dinner at sunset.

We left regretfully, and with many thanks to Mel hour host (second from left)

and then I set off northwards towards Salvador, on the north east coast where I was due to catch a container ship to Europe – more of that later!

Enroute I visited two fascinating towns, Belo Horizonte the capital of Minas Gerais which is famous as the prototype of Brasília, with some of Oscar Niemeyer´s earliest buuildings, and Ouro Preto the first settlement in the 16th century which laid the foundations of Brasil´s wealth – the name means ´black gold´.

BH as it is known is a sprawling modern city,

but Niemeyer´s buildings are in a lakeside suburb, and include a beautiful little church of San Fracisco

with a superb altar painting,

and lovely tiles on the outside depicting scenes from his life. 

The Art Museum - which used to be a casino! – is a bigger, more conventional but equally dramtic building in landscape gardens in a superb lakeside setting.

I also went to the Musuem of Arts and Trades which hás a magnificent collection of 19th century technology, including an early Pelton wheel in wood,

a treadle lathe

and a lovely kitchen,

all in the restored original train station, with exhibits on the platforms as well. 

I loved it – remember I am a museum buff from Powerhouse days – and old machinery really turns me on!!  And this was all beautifully restored and dsiplayed.  To complete my feast of culture, I went to a modern dance performance in the evening – two hours of exhilarating althleticism, combined with creative choreography, beautiful costumes, lighting and music that left my head in a whirl – and all the more exciting from being totally unanticipated (and even half price for a sênior!!)

The next day I took a 2 hour bus ride to Ouro Preto, a World Heritage Cultural site, and beautifully preserved colonial town, dominated by dozens of churches on prime sites

while the houses line the steep cobbled streets.

It is famous for the sculptures of Alejandinho, who became crippled at the height of his powers but still continued to do some of his best work with only stumps of hands and feet!  Most of it is inside the churches where photography is not allowed,
but the baroque sopastone decorations on the exteriors of some chuches

illustrate his extraordinary talent.

After this, things began to go pear shaped as the saga of catching my ship to Europe developed.  I had already emailed all the ship´s agents in Brazil on the list I was given by my travel agent, in order to findo ut when and how I should board the ship, but none replied - and I since discovered the list was completley out of date.  I had no phone numbers, and when I emailed my travel agent for more information, she sent the same list!!  So I decided the only thing to do was to go to Salvador where I was due to join the ship on 20 May, and find out what was going on in person at the agent´s office there.  It was a 20 hour bus ride, and I arrived in the middle of the most torrential downpour, and could´t find the guesthouse I´d booked into and got totally drenched in the process! 

Then when I finally got to the ship´s agents office, they told me the voyage had been cancelled!!  At first I thought they meant the whole voyage, but it transpired it was only the ship´s port call at Salvador, and I could still join it if I got back to Rio by this evening (this was yesterday afternoon!) But also, apparently, the Master did not have any authority to let me board, unless the owners gave the OK.  So I sent a flurry of emails to various people in Europe, as it was too late to phone – including to my travel agent who never mentioned that the ship was not calling at Salvador when she emailed me a couple of days ago, and she surely should have known.  Then I had to buy an air ticket from Salvador to Rio - it´s over 1000km, 30 hours and $R300 by bus, but only 2 hours and $R200 by air (though I did have to get up at 4.30 am to get that price...) which makes a mockery of my determined policy of keeping my feet on the planet!  And then the traffic from airport to city in Rio was AWFUL, but when I finally got to the ship´s agent office there, all was solved, and they have been quite wonderful, apologising for the problems, they are only responsible for cargo not passengers...and gave me a room in a flash hotel for the night, and a car to take me there…

Whew!!  it was a really close thing - if I hadn´t gone to Salvador yesterday - and I nearly didn´t, I was going to stop off at the beach on the way - I would have missed the ship entirely.  But I am really looking forward to just staying in one place - even though it´s moving! - for a while which will be a great relief.  Sometimes I think I´m getting a bit old for this caper!!

So the next installment will be from England, with luck.

So for the last time, hasta luego (and I DON`T know the Protuguese!)

Louise.

Just a quick update from Sao Paulo where I arrived a couple of days ago, to help prepare for the Global Greens Conference next weekend.  Having descended from 5000m in the Andes to 500m at Santa Cruz in the eastern lowlands of Bolivia, I finally made it to sea level in Brasil, through the steamy wetlands of the Pantanal. Here are a couple of maps

Santa Cruz is the third largest city in Bolivia, and the capital of the largest and richest state which is trying to gain autonomy from the very centralized government in La Paz which is focused mainly on the interests of the Andean region.  Santa Cruz state contains most of Bolivia´s oil, and much of its cattle ranches and agriculture, ranging from citrus to wheat to soya and other oils, and tropical fruit and vegetables of every description.  In fact it doesn´t feel like Bolivia at all!

I had to spend a couple of days in the city, to get a visa for Brasil which generated only the average aggravation of such transactions, once I had established I was NOT a US citizen and therefore not subject to the extra $150 fee which Brasil imposes in some kind of tit-for-tat response to US imposts on Brasilian visitors.  As a result, there are remarkably few American tourists in Brasil!!  I also had to get a ticket on the infamous ´death train´ to the Brasilian border, which turned out, surprisingly, to be booked out for the next several days – a nuisance in some ways, but a good omen in others!

So in the meanwhile I went to Samaipata, a delightful town from which I trekked to a high scarp above a deep valley that is renowned for its condors.

If you are lucky – which I wasn´t – the condors fly at eye level along the scarp, rising on the thermal generated by it.  However, on that day it was too cloudy and so they were much higher most of the time, too distant for good photos

but wonderful to watch nonetheless in their effortless soaring flight, perfectly at home in this wild kingdom. 
Nearby was another amazing environment, of huge sandstone monoliths intersected by gorges filled with tropical rainforest

and threaded with crystal clear waterfall-laced creeks,

and a lovely lodge nestling in a clearing on the valley floor – magic!!

It was a very welcome interlude before the mayhem of the death train – I decided it was so-called because you had to be dead to get a wink of sleep in the 14 hour overnight trip!  Not only was it hot and crowded, but the narrow gauge track was so uneven that the carriages swayed alarmingly and banged and thumped incessantly on the bogies, so that at times I thought the whole lot would fly apart!  But they didn´t and I survived – surely that´s worth a T-shirt! – and made it across the border with no trouble, thanks to my shiny new visa in my increasingly disreputable passport. 

About 100km into Brasil I found an eco-lodge on the Mariana river, a tributary of the huge Paraguay river that eventually empties into the River Plate.  It is just the end of the rainy season, and the rivers run fast and brown, while the countryside is still flooded about a metre deep, with the only access via dirt roads on high embankments punctuated by frequent wooden bridges over channels between the flooded paddocks.  It is paradise for all kinds of birds, and quite a lot of animals which inhabited the small islands of dry land amidst the wetlands.  Because the country is much more open than the jungle in Ecuador for example, it is easier to see the wildlife but more often from a distance, so you need binoculars and photography, especially with my little point-and –shoot camera, is much harder.  But every few metres there is something to look at, and I spent several days exploring by boat, safari truck, on foot and by horse (or rather mule).
It was really hot and humid during the day, but cooler at night with spectacular sunsets and sunrises, and brilliant stars…a wonderful environment that I am so glad I took time to experience, before heading on to Sao Paulo.

Here are a few of the things I saw
Armadillos

Caimans

Capibaras - the world´s largest rodent - this one was a pet at the lodge and came ashore from the river every morning for a back rub!

Coatimundis, which mostly live in trees on the dry islands

Jabirus stalking the banks of the river

Tiger herons hiding in the bushes

Scarlet and green macaws chewing up blossoms in the tree tops

And spectacular sunsets every evening

Brasilian buses are luxurious, and expensive, compared to any form of transport in Bolivia – a compromise I was more than happy with, so a 20 hour trip was almost a pleasure after the death train – and it´s good to be with friends from Australia and elsewhere for a week or so.  I´ve even unpacked my rucksack for the first time in four months!

Cheers, Louise

For the last couple of weeks I’ve headed south from Peru through Bolivia, getting higher and more breathless, and into increasingly more remote country with worse and worse roads…until rescued by a train and Pullman buses which took me back to lowland civilization and warmth at last.
http://www.jollyqueenlouise.org/images/uploads/Bolivia.jpg

From Cusco at 2500m, which I thought plenty at the time, a rustic bus followed the fertile valley upwards,

then quite suddenly reached the altiplano, cold, dry and sterile where crops were sparse under neighbouring snow peaks, and llamas replaced cows as the dominant herbivores.

From Puno at 3000m I spent a wonderful day on Lake Titicaca, first visiting the floating islands built out of totora reeds which grow profusely in the shallows.  Although this is almost exclusively a tourist enterprise now, some families still live on the islands, - and apparently cut them in half and float away separately if divorce occurs! 

The famous reed boats are almost entirely for show now, but at least tourism keeps these skills alive, though wooden boats are more common.

The ‘real’ islands are more thickly populated, and have a wonderful Mediterranean feel, with steep terraces set against the deep azure of the lake,

and small harbours dotted round the shores. 

En route to La Paz by bus I crossed the border into Bolivia, spanning a narrow channel of the lake by launch while the bus made its own way by barge – a bizarre but safe enough transit in the calm conditions, it could be a lot more hazardous in strong winds and waves. 

La Paz at 3660m is the world’s highest capital city, but to keep it a bit warmer than the surrounding plateau, it is built in a canyon, which presents a few town planning problems – like impossibly steep streets on which pedestrians and cars fight for space, forcing the river that runs through it underground to give more space (though it is in fact little more than a sewer now)

and houses built almost on top of each other up the side of the canyon; luckily this area is not earthquake prone or the whole lot would have come tumbling down by now! 

an artist´s view of La Paz
I spent a day visiting the nearby pre Inca site of Tiawanaco, noted for its monolithic figures reminiscent of Easter Island,

and for being the site of the inauguration of the current President, Evo Morales,

to emphasise his cultural heritage as Bolivia’s first indigenous president (there have been 93 presidents since Bolivia became independent in 1825, so he’s already beaten the average in surviving over two years so far!) I wondered how this heritage fitted with a spectacular military extravaganza I came upon, changing the guard at the Presidential palace, with highest goose-stepping officers I´ve ever seen,

supported by a superb oompah band which included a detachment of women xylophonists! 

Fascinating cultural insight, especially as suddenly all traffic and pedestrians within earshot came to a standstill when the band played what I assume was the national anthem.

From La Paz I came down a little to Sucre, at 2800m against built in a valley, but with a much more spacious feel than La Paz.  It was the cradle of the first independence movement in 1809

and is still the judicial capital of Bolivia with a street lined exclusively with laywers’ offices leading to the imposing Supreme Court building.  It also had some lovely parks,

with a few old cedar trees though many had been used for the choir stalls of several churches; and a quaint custom of decorating street corners with uplifting poems on painted tiles; this is one of many I found. 

From Sucre I went up again to Potosi at a breathless 4070m,

and the most distressing experience so far, of visiting one of the mines in the Cerro Rico, the huge hill of silver, lead and tin that dominates the city both physically and in every other way.

It made Potosi one of the world’s biggest and richest cities in the 18th century, but as many as 8 million miners have died in the four centuries of its exploitation.  Even now, the life expectancy of miners is less than 40, with accidents and silicosis the main causes of death.  The working conditions are appalling, hot and cramped and most drilling and blasting is done by hand not machine, with OHS unheard of.  The yield is pitifully small by such primitive methods, and miners earn a pittance, and propitiate the evil god of the mountain, the Tio, with offerings of coca and alcohol

– but I couldn’t forget the eight million for whom this had not been enough.  It brought home forcibly and visibly the fact that the ‘free market’ totally fails to include the human, and environmental, costs of production in the prices it charges.  Why can we not pay a bit more for the minerals in manufactured products so that these miners can work more safely and live longer?  Altogether I found Potosi a disturbing and depressing place – and the existence of 40 churches, some dripping with gold and silver, plus what was at one time the world´s largest mint

sat cruelly beside such squalor and suffering.

So I headed higher and further south to Uyuni and the plateau beyond which goes up to 4800m.  Uyuni is surrounded by lakes which evaporated long ago leaving the world’s richest and biggest deposits of salt – over 12,000 sq km, and up to 20m deep in places!  I felt a weird sense of déjà vu – for Antarctica!  The white flat surface , surrounded by distant mountains, felt just like the sea ice – and it had the same combination of blinding sun and biting cold wind!

The only difference was the ‘islands’ in the middle, which were covered in coral, having been beneath the ‘sea’ in the past, and cactus which was the only plant that would grow there now! 

Further south, towards the Chilean border, the landscape got even drier with amazing coloured mountains,

above deserts peppered with llamas,

and weird wind sculpted rocks,

and alkaline lakes inhabited by three species of flamingo, beneath snow capped peaks,

hot springs where we temporarily escaped the freezing cold of dawn,

and the odd steam plumed dormant volcano. 

A quite extraordinary environment, but three days bumping across tracks that make most bush roads in Australia look like super highways, in an ancient Landcruiser with no springs and bald tyres that produce the inevitable flats, was enough! 

So now I am down to a mere 415m in Santa Cruz, after a spectacular descent via Cochabamba,

and having obtained a visa, and a ticket on the ´death train´ to Brazil, I’m heading to the Pantanal for a spot of bird watching en route to Sao Paulo and the ostensible reason for this whole trip, the Global Greens Conference at the beginning of May.

Cheers for now
Louise.

I’ve spent the past week in Cusco and the Sacred Valley of the Incas – the Urubamba - and I’ve become totally fascinated by the mystery of Inca culture, since they had no written language so virtually all their traditions and rituals disappeared, or rather were brutally exterminated by the Spanish conquest.  Their cities and religious sites can tell us some things, but even so, no one really knows how, or why, they were built.

Cusco is still an Inca city, though Spanish and more modern overlays obscure some of it.  Wherever the roads are wide enough – but only just! – for cars, there is absolute chaos, even though those huge Mercedes buses can’t get in.  But there is a network of steep and peaceful streets where only peatones can penetrate, all with vistas of the surrounding hills at the end. 

And this is how a local artist sees it

In many the lower walls are Inca masonry, including the famous twelve-angled stone, fitted with absolute precision to its neighbours.


I had fun exploring the various alleys and finding tiny craft shops like this wood carver,

and women weaving on backstrap looms, picking out the traditional patterns laboriously by hand.

Most of the churches are built, purposely, on the sites of Inca temples, the most obvious and cruel sign of the conquest.  However, the churches tend to crumble in earthquakes while the Inca foundations stand firm, and so these have been gradually revealed over the centuries – a metaphor pehaps! 

High on a hill above the city - puff, puff, but worth it for the view on the way up -

is the temple of Sacsahuayman which was also the site of one of the bloodiest battles of the Spanish invasion, and the beginning of the end of the Inca empire.  The triple zigzag formation of the walls is a strong motif in all Inca art from pottery to textiles to temples,

but the size of the stones is awesome; the corner salients are about 3 metres high and weigh up to 300 tonnes.

So how on earth did they get them there – and then fit the only slightly less massive courses above?  I have to admit I have become obsessed with the beauty of Inca stone work and have dozens of pictures, with which I will not bore you!

Equally remarkable is the ‘agricultural laboratory’ – or so it assumed – located at Moray on the altiplano above the Cusco valley, where the Incas used natural depressions which they terraced to a depth of about 30 metres, resulting in a temperature difference of 5 degress C, from top to bottom which enabled them to adapt various crops to different altitudes – maize to higher altitudes, potatoes to lower, by planting them on successive terraces.

The air at this altitude is exhilarating, and the views are spectacular!

Further down there is a remarkable natural salt works which has also been exploited since Inca times, where a natural salt spring has been led into terraces all down one side of a valley – a stunning sight.

I walked from there down to the Urubamba valley, here quite wide and very fertile, meeting a local shepherd on the way.

Further downstream the valley becomes much narrower as it heads deeper into the mountains,

near the town of Ollantataytambo,

where there is another temple and fort, where the retreating Incas fought rearguard action against the Spanish, before being forced further down the valley to their last stronghold where they survived for 40 years before being finally defeated, and the last Inca ruler was beheaded in Cusco in 1572.  The main temple has a remarkable wall of huge flat slabs, with smaller pieces of rock exactly fitted into the gaps- yet another example of their extraordinary skill. 

But all this was just prelude to the Big One – Macchu Picchu.  I took the train rather than the Inca trail, the only two ways of getting there, and then the bus up the 20-hairpin road to the ruins.  I got there around 6.00am, in the misty dawn,

which gradually cleared to reveal the familiar but incredible majesty of the place – photographs, not even mine (!) cannot convey the extraordinary feeling of the place. 

It is the setting as much as the city itself.  Perched on a ridge between two mountains,

with precipices plunging on three sides down to the Urubamba river which makes a 180 degrees turn around it,

and surrounded on all sides by even higher mountains, it literally takes your breath away.  I went up to the Sun gate, the traditional entrance to the city from the Inca trail for the classic view as the mist cleared.  Then I explored the ruins and the wonderful angles and vistas they afford.

I found a quiet spot overlooking the river, despite the hordes of people swarming over the site, and tried to think myself back 500 years to imagine what it must have been like to live there.  Certainly, it is not hard to understand the Incas veneration for nature, their earth mother, their sun god, their worship of water, of the stars....in such a place.

Not only living but getting around in such an environment called for incredible engineering skill.  I walked around one side of the Macchu Picchu mountain to the so called Inca bridge, where they forced a path around a vertical rockface,

and then cut a track across the next bluff using a natural fault. 

And they took pack llamas along it as it was an important trade route...whew! I have to say I’m quite glad there are bulldozers to make 20 hairpin roads nowadays.

Tomorrow I am off to Lake Titicaca and then Bolivia, before heading to Brazil and Sao Paulo for the Global Greens Conference at the beginning of May – the original purpose and ostensible excuse for this amazing journey....