Leafy, hilly Buda and busy traffic clogged Pest ‑ two cities united in 1111 by a king and a bridge to become Budapest.
As we were pulling into Keleti train station, the reflections of rainbow coloured neon lights caught at the periphery of my gaze, Turning my head I was confronted with a sight that founded my first impression of Budapest. If there is anywhere in the world where fairies and elves come to do acid and design lighting displays on very large buildings, it must be Budapest. The 'arena' shopping centre was the culprit of this neon glow and I was suddenly, desperately in love with this crazy, vibrant maze of a city.
Budapest defies comparison. Even as I write this, I am sitting on the rug adorned floor of an unmarked teahouse, where a mirrored hallway leads to a rope playground, ladders spiral upwards to secret hideaways above the masses, little tables dot the room and teacups and matching saucers dance around in the haze of shisha smoke. I feel like I'm in Alice's wonderland but in a city like this, such a place makes perfect sense.
My timid romance with Budapest blossomed into a love affair when, on a dreary, wet morning I wandered aimlessly through her streets and ended up on the Chain Bridge. I paused to take in the spectacle of the riverbank architecture and took out my camera, swiveling to see the sun glint off the river and the huge Parliament building filling the lens. Never before have I seen such breathtaking and unexpected beauty in such a large, populated city.
My days in Budapest have been spent ambling back and forth, squinting against the snow which darts towards my eyes like little icicles determined to blind me. I've skipped through the Christmas markets and eaten a disgustingly huge crepe‑log thing (made of pancake stuff but cooked on a spit so that you end up with a big hollow roll of sugary sickness). My visit was happily timed with the Art Fair so I spent a day looking at beautiful art that I can't afford, but not before visiting the "Mákos Briós Kutyaszar Fesztivál" (brioche with poppy seed dog shit festival) that I'd heard about through my intrepid seeking of underground news (thank you google).
You'll no doubt be curious as to what happens at a dog shit festival. First, there are hippies. On the ground are brioche twirled into the shape of a dog's street offering, which passing dogs sniff at in some consternation. Then there are smaller brioche‑turds in a basket, which are handed out to passers by who stop to dance to the hippy music. People talk about the scourge of dog doo and dance around eating free brioche and laughing at the disapproving looks thrown their way by nearby cafe owners. It was crazy, but plenty of fun.
The fact that this event existed underlines what is perhaps my favourite thing about Budapest ‑ that it doesn't shut down for winter the way so many places do. There are still festivals, parties, meetings, shops still open for their normal hours, tourist places still run and people still smile.
Even though Hungarians are statistically the most depressed people in Europe, and in spite of the way many people have commented to me that Hungarians are unfriendly, my own experiences have led me to a different conclusion. People smile and help even when you approach them clumsily with English. Ladies in shops take the time to help you out and orders in cafes are taken down with a smile. I like Hungarians, at least the Budapest version.
While the idea of unfriendly people seems undeserved, Budapest certainly does deserve the fame she has been granted for her stunning and challenging architecture, her mysterious nature and her position, both geographical and metaphorical, as gateway to the east.
Of course, what Budapest is most famous for is her thermal baths, but that's an experience worthy of a post of its own...
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
snowy steamy heaven
There are many thermal baths in Budapest and their quality is varied, but the general consensus is that the Szechenzyi Baths in City Park are the best. On a snowy Sunday I went there and getting off the metro stop I walked to where I could see steam rising from the water. There were no people, only ducks. Two Italians had made the same journey as me and we got chatting, I was surprised to discover that my Italian was better than their English and we slipped into Italian as we walked away from the dirty duck infested water in disappointment. Coming across a large yellow building we decided to take a look, and as it turned out these were the actual baths!
The Budapest bathing ritual is fairly simple. You go in, change, leave your things in a locker, get a massage if you like (you will) and a dreamy half hour later you walk through two large doors into a grandly decorated room full of fat people, steam and hot water. Avoiding the hungry gazes of Hungarian men, you delicately lower yourself into the water and exhale. It's warm and relaxing and the heat in the air makes you sleepy...until a blast of freezing cold air startles you awake and you turn your head to see a door that goes outside, to where the 'real' baths are.
Oh dear, you think, I have to walk out there in a bikini, through the snow, to get to the water. Bracing yourself, you take a breath and run for it, down the slippery stairs, through the crowds, past the fat people, wash your feet in the little pools around the edge and then jump, relieved that you are still alive, into the 38 degree water.
Typically there are three pools, a hot one, a warm one, and a cooler one for swimming laps. The hot one is for spacing out and relaxing in the mineral thick water until you start to feel faint. The cool one you swim through to get to the warm one at the other end, where there is a whirlpool which takes you back to age 10 as you whirl around it giggling.
Being brave and holding fast to the theory that hotcoldhot is good for one's circulation, I walked the 50 frozen metres back to the hot pool and stayed there a while longer. People bring plastic chess sets to the pool and there are always at least four games going on. The steam rising into the sub zero air envelopes people in a false sense of privacy and lovers can be seen kissing while men are caught out staring. I chatted to the Italians and some English lads, on who's recommendation I then went to the sauna.
The sauna is part of another circulation stimulating hot‑cold‑hot ritual. It's about 50 degrees, maybe more. The heat teases the chill from your skin and prickles at your face. Your lungs complain as you try to breathe and everyone in there looks somewhat distressed. You sit there until the goosebumps have disappeared and then you walk into the next room where there is a deep plunge pool. Jumping in, your body is subjected to water of only 5 or so degrees and your blood vessels come alive, singing and zinging. Thirty seconds is all I bother to handle ‑ more than that is for people with numerous fat rolls. Then it's back to the sauna to repeat the process until you don't even notice the heat or the cold anymore ‑ they are just sensations equally comfortable or uncomfortable as each other. It's a strange feeling and leaves you a little high, giggly and childlike.
Finally you shower off, change back into your clothes and, hair wet and dripping, you get back on the metro and make your way towards the gluhwein (hot wine) stall at the christmas markets.
We need one of those in Perth.
The Budapest bathing ritual is fairly simple. You go in, change, leave your things in a locker, get a massage if you like (you will) and a dreamy half hour later you walk through two large doors into a grandly decorated room full of fat people, steam and hot water. Avoiding the hungry gazes of Hungarian men, you delicately lower yourself into the water and exhale. It's warm and relaxing and the heat in the air makes you sleepy...until a blast of freezing cold air startles you awake and you turn your head to see a door that goes outside, to where the 'real' baths are.
Oh dear, you think, I have to walk out there in a bikini, through the snow, to get to the water. Bracing yourself, you take a breath and run for it, down the slippery stairs, through the crowds, past the fat people, wash your feet in the little pools around the edge and then jump, relieved that you are still alive, into the 38 degree water.
Typically there are three pools, a hot one, a warm one, and a cooler one for swimming laps. The hot one is for spacing out and relaxing in the mineral thick water until you start to feel faint. The cool one you swim through to get to the warm one at the other end, where there is a whirlpool which takes you back to age 10 as you whirl around it giggling.
Being brave and holding fast to the theory that hotcoldhot is good for one's circulation, I walked the 50 frozen metres back to the hot pool and stayed there a while longer. People bring plastic chess sets to the pool and there are always at least four games going on. The steam rising into the sub zero air envelopes people in a false sense of privacy and lovers can be seen kissing while men are caught out staring. I chatted to the Italians and some English lads, on who's recommendation I then went to the sauna.
The sauna is part of another circulation stimulating hot‑cold‑hot ritual. It's about 50 degrees, maybe more. The heat teases the chill from your skin and prickles at your face. Your lungs complain as you try to breathe and everyone in there looks somewhat distressed. You sit there until the goosebumps have disappeared and then you walk into the next room where there is a deep plunge pool. Jumping in, your body is subjected to water of only 5 or so degrees and your blood vessels come alive, singing and zinging. Thirty seconds is all I bother to handle ‑ more than that is for people with numerous fat rolls. Then it's back to the sauna to repeat the process until you don't even notice the heat or the cold anymore ‑ they are just sensations equally comfortable or uncomfortable as each other. It's a strange feeling and leaves you a little high, giggly and childlike.
Finally you shower off, change back into your clothes and, hair wet and dripping, you get back on the metro and make your way towards the gluhwein (hot wine) stall at the christmas markets.
We need one of those in Perth.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
oswiecim/auschwitz
I read a short dialogue that puts into words what ran through my mind as I stepped over the ground that so many people are buried under.
The burning question: "In Auschwitz, where was God?".
The resonant response: "Where was man?"
Contrary to the image I held in my mind, Auschwitz wasn't covered in snow the day I went with five of my friends. I was glad of their company as we disembarked from the bus and entered the huge hall containing the ticket office. We were standing in a crowd of people, being assigned little stickers with the date scribbled on them, feeling strangely nervous at the disorganised chaos and drawing comparisons between our stickers and the tattoos of the original victims. The air shudders with nerves and the mind conjures stupid comparisons. When we watched the introductory documentary we became even more frazzled as we could all swear that we smelt gas!
The entrance to the Auschwitz camp still bears the iron letters "arbeit macht frei" ‑ work brings freedom. If death is considered freedom then this seems true enough. The many Poles, Romanians, Gypsies, Jews and others who were brought to this place were worked through Summer's fire and Winter's freeze, up to 18 hours a day, until they died of exhaustion, starvation, cold or disease. The 'lucky' ones were assigned jobs such as cleaning the toilet blocks or stripping the dead, gassed bodies of people for their gold teeth, hair, anything found on their body that could be used. These people lived a little longer, sometimes even six months.
As you begin your tour the facts assault your consciousness, but you won't remember any of them. The numbers are too huge and the atrocities too unimaginable for now, but soon you will see for yourself the horrors of this place that linger in your mind long after you leave. Everybody knows about the gas chambers, but to stand in the place where people were forced to strip naked before being herded into them brings new light to what happened here. In other parts of the museum/camp you see piles upon piles of glasses, women's make up products, children's toys, shoes and clothes that were taken from the people who came here. Huge hessian sacks containing human hair were discovered by the camp's liberators; the Nazis in their retreat hadn't had time to remove all the evidence. Walking along a huge corridor you start to feel sick as plaits, ponytails, masses and masses of hair rests disheveled on the other side of the glass. At the end of the corridor is a piece of cloth woven from this hair and your breath deserts you as you wonder: who weaved this cloth? Who wore it?
The next room holds a mountain of shoes. Then prosthetic limbs, so many of them that your mind boggles ‑ in my life I've met three people who had a prosthetic leg; here there is a room full of these plastic and metal limbs ‑ how many people died here! Then it's the dolls, little toys that were taken from children who would die and given to other children who would live.
The museum continues to the grey/black execution wall in a courtyard surrounded by basement windows. The windows look into the torture rooms, the starvation room, the dark room, the standing room, the suffocation room into which enough people were forced that they would slowly suffocate to death. The entrance to these basement rooms is through another long corridor lined with the mug shot style photographs of victims that were taken in the early days of the camp. Most people look vacant and shocked. Some look confused, others defiant, a few have a wry, sardonic smile on their face that seems to say "do your worst, my body is not my soul". Flowers adorn some of the photos and bring the faces to life; these were real people!
After hours of this your mind starts to shut down and you simply absorb the truth without question; perhaps this is how people performed these atrocities, their minds switching off at the extent of the horror.
In the early days, those arriving on the cattle trains thought that they were being taken to a new camp, like the ghettos they had left but in the open air and away from other people, where they could continue to live out their lives and have their freedom. On arrival, they were told that this is not a sanitarium but a concentration camp, that Jews were to die immediately and others would not live beyond three months. They were divided into groups of healthy and unhealthy; the healthy ones were sent to work as slaves while the unhealthy ones went straight to the gas.
It's certainly true that greater atrocities have occurred in this world. Genocide is not new to human history. Rwanda's 1994 genocide saw the deaths of 1 million Tutsis in only 100 days - one sixth of the number of Jews killed in the entire war. What makes Auschwitz and similar camps so much more horrifying is the methodical, relentlessly cold blooded nature of the 'final solution' that was put into action here.
At the end of the tour, after seeing evidence of unimaginable evil, I reflected on the question of where was God and where was man. I stood gazing at the barbed wire etched against the sky, surrounding the lurking gas chambers of Birkenau, and beyond it I watched the sunset colour the clouds in bright shades of orange and pink. I took it as a metaphor, found the answer to the question.
It might sound abhorrent, but to do evil is easy. To herd weak, scared, travel weary, confused people into gas chambers and flick a switch is simply a matter of being weak yourself. But to risk your life and your family to save these people takes great strength and boundless courage. The glow of the sunset is reflected in the entrance hall of Auschwitz, which is lined with the stories and photographs of ordinary people who found the strength to risk everything they loved for the sake of a stranger.
These people represent the best and brightest that humans are capable of, and their deeds came at such great cost that their worth is so much more than any act of cruelty.
Staring at these people's faces you realise why you can still appreciate the beauty of a sunset over such cursed ground. You realise that humankind goes to greater lengths to fight evil than to create it, and therein lies our salvation, therin lies God, therein lies man.
The burning question: "In Auschwitz, where was God?".
The resonant response: "Where was man?"
Contrary to the image I held in my mind, Auschwitz wasn't covered in snow the day I went with five of my friends. I was glad of their company as we disembarked from the bus and entered the huge hall containing the ticket office. We were standing in a crowd of people, being assigned little stickers with the date scribbled on them, feeling strangely nervous at the disorganised chaos and drawing comparisons between our stickers and the tattoos of the original victims. The air shudders with nerves and the mind conjures stupid comparisons. When we watched the introductory documentary we became even more frazzled as we could all swear that we smelt gas!
The entrance to the Auschwitz camp still bears the iron letters "arbeit macht frei" ‑ work brings freedom. If death is considered freedom then this seems true enough. The many Poles, Romanians, Gypsies, Jews and others who were brought to this place were worked through Summer's fire and Winter's freeze, up to 18 hours a day, until they died of exhaustion, starvation, cold or disease. The 'lucky' ones were assigned jobs such as cleaning the toilet blocks or stripping the dead, gassed bodies of people for their gold teeth, hair, anything found on their body that could be used. These people lived a little longer, sometimes even six months.
As you begin your tour the facts assault your consciousness, but you won't remember any of them. The numbers are too huge and the atrocities too unimaginable for now, but soon you will see for yourself the horrors of this place that linger in your mind long after you leave. Everybody knows about the gas chambers, but to stand in the place where people were forced to strip naked before being herded into them brings new light to what happened here. In other parts of the museum/camp you see piles upon piles of glasses, women's make up products, children's toys, shoes and clothes that were taken from the people who came here. Huge hessian sacks containing human hair were discovered by the camp's liberators; the Nazis in their retreat hadn't had time to remove all the evidence. Walking along a huge corridor you start to feel sick as plaits, ponytails, masses and masses of hair rests disheveled on the other side of the glass. At the end of the corridor is a piece of cloth woven from this hair and your breath deserts you as you wonder: who weaved this cloth? Who wore it?
The next room holds a mountain of shoes. Then prosthetic limbs, so many of them that your mind boggles ‑ in my life I've met three people who had a prosthetic leg; here there is a room full of these plastic and metal limbs ‑ how many people died here! Then it's the dolls, little toys that were taken from children who would die and given to other children who would live.
The museum continues to the grey/black execution wall in a courtyard surrounded by basement windows. The windows look into the torture rooms, the starvation room, the dark room, the standing room, the suffocation room into which enough people were forced that they would slowly suffocate to death. The entrance to these basement rooms is through another long corridor lined with the mug shot style photographs of victims that were taken in the early days of the camp. Most people look vacant and shocked. Some look confused, others defiant, a few have a wry, sardonic smile on their face that seems to say "do your worst, my body is not my soul". Flowers adorn some of the photos and bring the faces to life; these were real people!
After hours of this your mind starts to shut down and you simply absorb the truth without question; perhaps this is how people performed these atrocities, their minds switching off at the extent of the horror.
In the early days, those arriving on the cattle trains thought that they were being taken to a new camp, like the ghettos they had left but in the open air and away from other people, where they could continue to live out their lives and have their freedom. On arrival, they were told that this is not a sanitarium but a concentration camp, that Jews were to die immediately and others would not live beyond three months. They were divided into groups of healthy and unhealthy; the healthy ones were sent to work as slaves while the unhealthy ones went straight to the gas.
It's certainly true that greater atrocities have occurred in this world. Genocide is not new to human history. Rwanda's 1994 genocide saw the deaths of 1 million Tutsis in only 100 days - one sixth of the number of Jews killed in the entire war. What makes Auschwitz and similar camps so much more horrifying is the methodical, relentlessly cold blooded nature of the 'final solution' that was put into action here.
At the end of the tour, after seeing evidence of unimaginable evil, I reflected on the question of where was God and where was man. I stood gazing at the barbed wire etched against the sky, surrounding the lurking gas chambers of Birkenau, and beyond it I watched the sunset colour the clouds in bright shades of orange and pink. I took it as a metaphor, found the answer to the question.
It might sound abhorrent, but to do evil is easy. To herd weak, scared, travel weary, confused people into gas chambers and flick a switch is simply a matter of being weak yourself. But to risk your life and your family to save these people takes great strength and boundless courage. The glow of the sunset is reflected in the entrance hall of Auschwitz, which is lined with the stories and photographs of ordinary people who found the strength to risk everything they loved for the sake of a stranger.
These people represent the best and brightest that humans are capable of, and their deeds came at such great cost that their worth is so much more than any act of cruelty.
Staring at these people's faces you realise why you can still appreciate the beauty of a sunset over such cursed ground. You realise that humankind goes to greater lengths to fight evil than to create it, and therein lies our salvation, therin lies God, therein lies man.
Friday, November 14, 2008
pierogis in poland
Three cities is not a country, but in spite of not existing all throughout the war, Poland has kept enough of her sense of self that even after only three cities, her personality is evident.
Ravaged by the Germans and Soviets, like all countries in this part of the world, Poland was occupied for many years and still has some cities with names in both Polish and German. Even Auschwitz is the German name for Oswiecim.
Polish people are closed, not exactly a surprise in Europe, but they do seem to have a sense of pride, determination, and are willing to greet the murder of their language by foreign tongues with a wry smile.
Polish food is great in winter time, Most of the weather we've had has been sunny but it's still cold, so the "pierogis" ‑ dumplings ‑ are always welcome. They also do some great soups here; sorrell soup with egg, borscht hot or cold with egg, sour soup with sausage, soup with dumplings... It's ok, I've done lots of walking too.
Still travelling with Taro, I've been to Warsaw, Wroclaw (pronounced 'vrotswahv' as if that makes any kind of sense) and Krakow. All three cities had a strong personality which is interesting, given that the cities in the Baltics all have basically the same vibe. Warsaw is large and open with a few treats. Wilanow is a nearby park with a large yellow palace and a poster museum ‑ Polish graphic design is extremely good. In the city centre, the Church of the Holy Cross holds Chopin's heart in one of the altar naves. The museum of Madame Curie is on a little street that swings around from the main square and there is a castle on the hill surrounded by colourful, unique buildings jostling each other for attention.
Wroclaw is an arty city, with little gnomes hidden throughout the streets. Tourists and locals can be seen hunting them. Each one has its own personality, name and occupation and it's not at all unusual to find yourself surprised by a little man skiing, napping, climbing a tree or even sleeping outside a hotel. There's a large indoor flower market, a beautiful old cathedral on an island, lots of bridges and buildings painted in all colours.
Krakow is a central hub useful for getting to the nearby salt mines and to Auschwitz, but it's also a nice city in its own right. It boasts the largest medieval town square in all of Europe, a leaning tower, a strange giant hollow head statue, plenty of museums and the world's coolest, funkiest, cosiest second hand bookstore. Founded by a king who slew a dragon, Krakow has an air of self assurance. The castle is built right on top of the alleged dragon's lair and the dragon statue outside it breathes real fire. There is a lively Jewish quarter where all the funky artistic types hang out (this is the case in most European cities because the ghettos are cheap and so are artists). Krakow is attractive and interesting but it's still just another city.
Overshadowed as it is by the dark history of anti semitism (some Polish people murdered jews after they were released from Auschwitz, though it must be noted that others helped to save them) Poland has a grey mood to it. Having a notorious death camp as its main tourist attraction probably doesn't help. In Poland, one gets the impression that the scars left by such a dark history will not be slow to fade. It feels like an injustice to a country that's already suffered so much, but these shades of past horrors are what make the country most memorable, and most valuable. Here, humankind's greatest crimes seem so recent, so close, that when you leave the country you feel as though you are throwing off a cloak of ice. It's a fascinating, unnerving place.
Ravaged by the Germans and Soviets, like all countries in this part of the world, Poland was occupied for many years and still has some cities with names in both Polish and German. Even Auschwitz is the German name for Oswiecim.
Polish people are closed, not exactly a surprise in Europe, but they do seem to have a sense of pride, determination, and are willing to greet the murder of their language by foreign tongues with a wry smile.
Polish food is great in winter time, Most of the weather we've had has been sunny but it's still cold, so the "pierogis" ‑ dumplings ‑ are always welcome. They also do some great soups here; sorrell soup with egg, borscht hot or cold with egg, sour soup with sausage, soup with dumplings... It's ok, I've done lots of walking too.
Still travelling with Taro, I've been to Warsaw, Wroclaw (pronounced 'vrotswahv' as if that makes any kind of sense) and Krakow. All three cities had a strong personality which is interesting, given that the cities in the Baltics all have basically the same vibe. Warsaw is large and open with a few treats. Wilanow is a nearby park with a large yellow palace and a poster museum ‑ Polish graphic design is extremely good. In the city centre, the Church of the Holy Cross holds Chopin's heart in one of the altar naves. The museum of Madame Curie is on a little street that swings around from the main square and there is a castle on the hill surrounded by colourful, unique buildings jostling each other for attention.
Wroclaw is an arty city, with little gnomes hidden throughout the streets. Tourists and locals can be seen hunting them. Each one has its own personality, name and occupation and it's not at all unusual to find yourself surprised by a little man skiing, napping, climbing a tree or even sleeping outside a hotel. There's a large indoor flower market, a beautiful old cathedral on an island, lots of bridges and buildings painted in all colours.
Krakow is a central hub useful for getting to the nearby salt mines and to Auschwitz, but it's also a nice city in its own right. It boasts the largest medieval town square in all of Europe, a leaning tower, a strange giant hollow head statue, plenty of museums and the world's coolest, funkiest, cosiest second hand bookstore. Founded by a king who slew a dragon, Krakow has an air of self assurance. The castle is built right on top of the alleged dragon's lair and the dragon statue outside it breathes real fire. There is a lively Jewish quarter where all the funky artistic types hang out (this is the case in most European cities because the ghettos are cheap and so are artists). Krakow is attractive and interesting but it's still just another city.
Overshadowed as it is by the dark history of anti semitism (some Polish people murdered jews after they were released from Auschwitz, though it must be noted that others helped to save them) Poland has a grey mood to it. Having a notorious death camp as its main tourist attraction probably doesn't help. In Poland, one gets the impression that the scars left by such a dark history will not be slow to fade. It feels like an injustice to a country that's already suffered so much, but these shades of past horrors are what make the country most memorable, and most valuable. Here, humankind's greatest crimes seem so recent, so close, that when you leave the country you feel as though you are throwing off a cloak of ice. It's a fascinating, unnerving place.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
cod tow ahsh‑ease k'ellneh‑say eezhdeakoo
//let the hedgehog appear in your pants (lithuanian saying)
Like most parts of the world, the Baltics are characterised by a few things unique to this area. Shops sell amber trinkets, knitted handicrafts, mittens, linen and rag dolls. Outside of the cities, the landscape is covered with lush green and red grasses, yet somehow in winter it comes across as barren. The trees have long shed their leaves and the paddocks are unfenced; crops abound here but there is very little livestock. Billboards dot the landscape along major highways, advertising products that belong in another world. The cemeteries you see are the most colourful part of the view, perhaps because so many of the graves are relatively new they are scattered with bright flowers. House loom out of the mist and people sit at unsheltered bus stops, braving the freezing wind. Frost adorns the grass and a heavy mist can persist well past noon. The country is flat and frankly, while it is interesting I wouldn't call it beautiful.
I've seen this from various bus windows, but noticed it most on one particular trip in a car, hitching with Taro and bound for Lithuania's Hill of Crosses.
Taro and I had planned to stay a night in Liepaja, visit Karosta and then catch an evening bus to Siaolaiai. We wandered the town, played some pool, ate dinner and killed time until it was time to catch the bus... which we missed. Let's not go into that, suffice to say that trams do NOT come every 5 minutes as advertised.
So, after another night in Liepaja we headed out bright and early to the southbound road, our hitching thumbs at the ready. Taro had hitched in the Baltics with locals and was confident that we'd get a ride fairly soon. We passed the time by listening to music and compiling very scientific statistics on how many cars stop for hitchers in the Baltics ‑ one in ten! Many Baltic locals hitch as students and as a result they are always willing to take travellers with them. We had 8 cars stop for us in 45 minutes and the last car was going our way ‑ he ended up taking us all the way to the Hill of Crosses once we mentioned that we wanted to see it. He told us about Lithuanian food, taught us some basic words and answered all our curious questions, so very kind but apparently not rare in this area.
It's strange here. People don't look at you when you hold doors open for them ‑ the best you can hope for is a muttered thank you. They won't return any smiles and the locals can sometimes seem a bit faceless; yet they'll pick you up and take you across international borders before dropping you right at the gate of your chosen destination. When it comes down to it, even the coldest people seem to have a soft spot if you know where to find it.
We jumped, warm hearted but cold fingered, out of the car and into the icy windscape of the Hill of Crosses (don't look it up, windscape isn't a real world, but it's an accurate description).
The Hill of Crosses is a persistent sign of Christianity in a country that held on to paganism for much longer than those around it. It means many things to the people who pilgramage here, but most of all it's testament to the strength of the human spirit. Bulldozed by the Soviets at least 4 times, the hill never remained without her adornments for long. People risked being shot to plant their crosses here all throughout Soviet occupation and the tradition continues today. The two mounds that make up the 'hill' are resplendent with shining silver, burnished wood, faded paint, tinkling rosaries and a single 'no candles' sign. The chill and the mist made an already unreal place seem like something straight from the realms of magic. If a medieval Christian crusader knight in full armour and shining sword materialised in this place you'd simply shrug and think "well of course". Even an atheist can respect the ferver and faith that has driven people to place crosses here since the 1800s, undeterred by any force of man or nature.
Well, we were deterred by nature. It was bloody freezing out there so we took some photos, mumbled something about how amazing it all was, then hitched our way to the nearest bus station, this time bound for the bustling and bubbly university town of Kaunas.
Like most parts of the world, the Baltics are characterised by a few things unique to this area. Shops sell amber trinkets, knitted handicrafts, mittens, linen and rag dolls. Outside of the cities, the landscape is covered with lush green and red grasses, yet somehow in winter it comes across as barren. The trees have long shed their leaves and the paddocks are unfenced; crops abound here but there is very little livestock. Billboards dot the landscape along major highways, advertising products that belong in another world. The cemeteries you see are the most colourful part of the view, perhaps because so many of the graves are relatively new they are scattered with bright flowers. House loom out of the mist and people sit at unsheltered bus stops, braving the freezing wind. Frost adorns the grass and a heavy mist can persist well past noon. The country is flat and frankly, while it is interesting I wouldn't call it beautiful.
I've seen this from various bus windows, but noticed it most on one particular trip in a car, hitching with Taro and bound for Lithuania's Hill of Crosses.
Taro and I had planned to stay a night in Liepaja, visit Karosta and then catch an evening bus to Siaolaiai. We wandered the town, played some pool, ate dinner and killed time until it was time to catch the bus... which we missed. Let's not go into that, suffice to say that trams do NOT come every 5 minutes as advertised.
So, after another night in Liepaja we headed out bright and early to the southbound road, our hitching thumbs at the ready. Taro had hitched in the Baltics with locals and was confident that we'd get a ride fairly soon. We passed the time by listening to music and compiling very scientific statistics on how many cars stop for hitchers in the Baltics ‑ one in ten! Many Baltic locals hitch as students and as a result they are always willing to take travellers with them. We had 8 cars stop for us in 45 minutes and the last car was going our way ‑ he ended up taking us all the way to the Hill of Crosses once we mentioned that we wanted to see it. He told us about Lithuanian food, taught us some basic words and answered all our curious questions, so very kind but apparently not rare in this area.
It's strange here. People don't look at you when you hold doors open for them ‑ the best you can hope for is a muttered thank you. They won't return any smiles and the locals can sometimes seem a bit faceless; yet they'll pick you up and take you across international borders before dropping you right at the gate of your chosen destination. When it comes down to it, even the coldest people seem to have a soft spot if you know where to find it.
We jumped, warm hearted but cold fingered, out of the car and into the icy windscape of the Hill of Crosses (don't look it up, windscape isn't a real world, but it's an accurate description).
The Hill of Crosses is a persistent sign of Christianity in a country that held on to paganism for much longer than those around it. It means many things to the people who pilgramage here, but most of all it's testament to the strength of the human spirit. Bulldozed by the Soviets at least 4 times, the hill never remained without her adornments for long. People risked being shot to plant their crosses here all throughout Soviet occupation and the tradition continues today. The two mounds that make up the 'hill' are resplendent with shining silver, burnished wood, faded paint, tinkling rosaries and a single 'no candles' sign. The chill and the mist made an already unreal place seem like something straight from the realms of magic. If a medieval Christian crusader knight in full armour and shining sword materialised in this place you'd simply shrug and think "well of course". Even an atheist can respect the ferver and faith that has driven people to place crosses here since the 1800s, undeterred by any force of man or nature.
Well, we were deterred by nature. It was bloody freezing out there so we took some photos, mumbled something about how amazing it all was, then hitched our way to the nearest bus station, this time bound for the bustling and bubbly university town of Kaunas.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
e's ass'mo koo a koo t'arps
// i am a woodworm (Latvian)
Moving on from Riga after only a couple of nights, we made our way to Liepaja which is Latvia's biggest rock music town, churning out a number of Latvia's most popular bands. The purpose of our visit was the nearby Karosta Prison, a former Soviet military prison where tourists can pay to be treated like a prisoner and in summer, can stay the night in the cells. I'd read about it and was terrified at the prospect ‑ it sounded fairly harrowing and the guy working in our hostel said his friends had been reduced to tears of terror. Naturally, I had to do it! Taro has a similar adventurous spirit so he was hooked, and so began our time in tandem.
At 9pm we got off the bus in Liepaja and made our way through the quiet town to the hostel. A thick mist languished in the cold air. It shrouded the street lamps in a pale glow and muted the sounds of life, parting only to allow the screams of small children to waft to our ears. (We assume they were playing). Our hostel had a very haunted house feel to it and we had it to ourselves, so we grabbed some burgers and watched a movie before crashing.
The mist still lingered in the morning but this time it was a pretty complement to the thick frost that covered the ground like snow. We jumped on the bus to Karosta, wondering what to expect.
In Karosta we were taken to the prison entrance by a kind bus driver, where we stood for an age with frozen toes until one of our guards arrived. He spoke some French, Taro spoke some French, I used my Italian to understand the conversation but was unable to take part. We were invited by the kindly guide (who's job in a few more minutes was to be our tormentor) into his car, where it was warm. We waited there with him, chatting about various things in broken French until our other guards arrived, decked out in proper Soviet uniforms and yelling at us.
We were made to squat on the ground before waddling into the prison grounds with our hands on our heads. Lots of yelling in Latvian ensued, with some French aimed our way as it was the best lingual compromise (it seems I can understand French now, not sure when that happened). There were pushups on the freezing ground with no gloves on, but as we were with a school group it was only the school kids who had to do it. The Aussie tourists were a bit of a tag‑along so we hung about on the edge clutching our English audio guide.
After the discipline session, there was a history lesson in Latvian while we stayed in a squatting position on the ground (we still had the audio guide but we wanted to get a feel for the place). We were pushed around, told off, forced to stand in the cold and then taken into a room containing a stern nurse and lots of scary looking implements. We were quizzed on our health and told off for not having listened to the audio guide yet, then sent outside to stand with our hands on our heads, facing the wall, waiting.
A guard collected us and took us to the interrogation chamber. In real Soviet times, this was where the sleep deprived prisoners would have been tortured. For us, it was a simple interview.
"I see you are Australian. Why are you in Latvia?"
"For a holiday."
"What? WHY are you in Latvia!?"
I laughed and the guard smiled, then asked in great detail about my drinking habits before taking us to a pitch black cell and slamming the door behind us.
Finally we had time for the audio guide, so we stood in silent, cold darkness and listened to tales of the prison's grim history.
The door was suddenly thrown open, a fellow tour group member was thrust inside and the door was slammed shut again. This was the most poignant moment of the tour; in this particular prison the inmates were all military people who knew what they had done wrong, but in other Soviet prisons there would have been a lot of terrified silences and a lot of unanswered questions. We stood quietly until the room gradually filled up with other school kids who naturally started to giggle and whisper. Moment lost.
After a few more cell visits, a ghost story and some time to contemplate the words and symbols scratched into the walls by prisoners, we were let out, subdued but a little disappointed that the scary Soviet challenge was so easily overcome. I imagine that with a more serious tour group it would have been a far more gruelling experience.
The frost, the barbed wire, the still‑standing guard towers, Karosta wasn't terrifying but it's certainly nothing to be laughed at.
Moving on from Riga after only a couple of nights, we made our way to Liepaja which is Latvia's biggest rock music town, churning out a number of Latvia's most popular bands. The purpose of our visit was the nearby Karosta Prison, a former Soviet military prison where tourists can pay to be treated like a prisoner and in summer, can stay the night in the cells. I'd read about it and was terrified at the prospect ‑ it sounded fairly harrowing and the guy working in our hostel said his friends had been reduced to tears of terror. Naturally, I had to do it! Taro has a similar adventurous spirit so he was hooked, and so began our time in tandem.
At 9pm we got off the bus in Liepaja and made our way through the quiet town to the hostel. A thick mist languished in the cold air. It shrouded the street lamps in a pale glow and muted the sounds of life, parting only to allow the screams of small children to waft to our ears. (We assume they were playing). Our hostel had a very haunted house feel to it and we had it to ourselves, so we grabbed some burgers and watched a movie before crashing.
The mist still lingered in the morning but this time it was a pretty complement to the thick frost that covered the ground like snow. We jumped on the bus to Karosta, wondering what to expect.
In Karosta we were taken to the prison entrance by a kind bus driver, where we stood for an age with frozen toes until one of our guards arrived. He spoke some French, Taro spoke some French, I used my Italian to understand the conversation but was unable to take part. We were invited by the kindly guide (who's job in a few more minutes was to be our tormentor) into his car, where it was warm. We waited there with him, chatting about various things in broken French until our other guards arrived, decked out in proper Soviet uniforms and yelling at us.
We were made to squat on the ground before waddling into the prison grounds with our hands on our heads. Lots of yelling in Latvian ensued, with some French aimed our way as it was the best lingual compromise (it seems I can understand French now, not sure when that happened). There were pushups on the freezing ground with no gloves on, but as we were with a school group it was only the school kids who had to do it. The Aussie tourists were a bit of a tag‑along so we hung about on the edge clutching our English audio guide.
After the discipline session, there was a history lesson in Latvian while we stayed in a squatting position on the ground (we still had the audio guide but we wanted to get a feel for the place). We were pushed around, told off, forced to stand in the cold and then taken into a room containing a stern nurse and lots of scary looking implements. We were quizzed on our health and told off for not having listened to the audio guide yet, then sent outside to stand with our hands on our heads, facing the wall, waiting.
A guard collected us and took us to the interrogation chamber. In real Soviet times, this was where the sleep deprived prisoners would have been tortured. For us, it was a simple interview.
"I see you are Australian. Why are you in Latvia?"
"For a holiday."
"What? WHY are you in Latvia!?"
I laughed and the guard smiled, then asked in great detail about my drinking habits before taking us to a pitch black cell and slamming the door behind us.
Finally we had time for the audio guide, so we stood in silent, cold darkness and listened to tales of the prison's grim history.
The door was suddenly thrown open, a fellow tour group member was thrust inside and the door was slammed shut again. This was the most poignant moment of the tour; in this particular prison the inmates were all military people who knew what they had done wrong, but in other Soviet prisons there would have been a lot of terrified silences and a lot of unanswered questions. We stood quietly until the room gradually filled up with other school kids who naturally started to giggle and whisper. Moment lost.
After a few more cell visits, a ghost story and some time to contemplate the words and symbols scratched into the walls by prisoners, we were let out, subdued but a little disappointed that the scary Soviet challenge was so easily overcome. I imagine that with a more serious tour group it would have been a far more gruelling experience.
The frost, the barbed wire, the still‑standing guard towers, Karosta wasn't terrifying but it's certainly nothing to be laughed at.
Monday, November 3, 2008
cool runnings
Near Riga in Latvia is the bobsledding track used by the Latvian olympic team for practise. Arcing down a steep hill, with views of a forested valley showing off her autumn colours, the track is like a white plume of smoke snaking away to certain death. Travel insurance double checked, Taro, Steve (also from our hostel) and I stood at the top of this dubious adventure trail and made jokes about "feeling very olympic today".
There were no release forms to sign, just a couple of dudes who said "ok we go now", jammed helmets onto our heads and then told us where in the bobsled to sit.
One, push ‑ pull, two, push‑pull, just like in Cool Runnings, good to know the movies are accurate sometimes...or wait...maybe these guys just SAW it in the movie? Too late to back out, 'treeee!' is Latvian for three and the guy was yelling it.
The ground dropped away and my head was pushed down by the force of the descent; my job as the second person was to make sure my helmet didn't slam into the pilot's. We were thrown around the first corner and the freezing air dragged tears from my eyes, drying them off almost instantly. I heard myself laughing as we hit the second corner, the turns were too fast to prepare for and it was like being bodyslammed by a crowd of Rugby fans. I was glad of the helmet as it hit the sides at every turn, but didn't hit the pilot, good work! A few more corners, the slope dropping away beneath us and the sled hitting 100km per hour, my heart quite literally crawling somewhere around in my stomach, the exhilarated yells of the guys behind me and my own voice echoing in my ears; persistent laughter and there we were, safely at the bottom.
The whole thing was over in a lot less time than it took you to read about it, but judging by my maniacal giggles all along the slow home stretch, it was a pretty good way to spend 40 seconds.
Afterwards, a quick wander through town and a 2 hour train ride back to Riga at 40km per hour.
Olympic bobsledder at your service.
There were no release forms to sign, just a couple of dudes who said "ok we go now", jammed helmets onto our heads and then told us where in the bobsled to sit.
One, push ‑ pull, two, push‑pull, just like in Cool Runnings, good to know the movies are accurate sometimes...or wait...maybe these guys just SAW it in the movie? Too late to back out, 'treeee!' is Latvian for three and the guy was yelling it.
The ground dropped away and my head was pushed down by the force of the descent; my job as the second person was to make sure my helmet didn't slam into the pilot's. We were thrown around the first corner and the freezing air dragged tears from my eyes, drying them off almost instantly. I heard myself laughing as we hit the second corner, the turns were too fast to prepare for and it was like being bodyslammed by a crowd of Rugby fans. I was glad of the helmet as it hit the sides at every turn, but didn't hit the pilot, good work! A few more corners, the slope dropping away beneath us and the sled hitting 100km per hour, my heart quite literally crawling somewhere around in my stomach, the exhilarated yells of the guys behind me and my own voice echoing in my ears; persistent laughter and there we were, safely at the bottom.
The whole thing was over in a lot less time than it took you to read about it, but judging by my maniacal giggles all along the slow home stretch, it was a pretty good way to spend 40 seconds.
Afterwards, a quick wander through town and a 2 hour train ride back to Riga at 40km per hour.
Olympic bobsledder at your service.
es uz has kah brud jak mens
// i feel like a cobblestone (Latvian)
From Tallinn I went south to Riga, pretty town ruined by cheap Ryanair flights that have made it a stag party haven. It shows in the attitude of the locals and the many hostels that have banned stag parties from staying there. You have to dodge around the drunkard Brits and Irish lads to peel back the town's culture, but it's there.
You'll notice I haven't written about Berlin, Frankfurt or my stint at home; it's hard to motivate oneself to write about places that you've already left. Unfortunately the city of Riga is to suffer the same undeserved fate. It's a cool town, but essentially there are lots of pretty art nouveau buildings, the aforementioned Brits and a cool tour guide called Alex. Other than that, there isn't really a great deal to report.
I did, however, meet a travelling companion there. Taro is a med student taking a year off to travel, he lives around the corner from me in Perth and I went to school with his sister. We did the obligatory small world chat and then discovered several common goals, so set out to achieve them together. Read on.
From Tallinn I went south to Riga, pretty town ruined by cheap Ryanair flights that have made it a stag party haven. It shows in the attitude of the locals and the many hostels that have banned stag parties from staying there. You have to dodge around the drunkard Brits and Irish lads to peel back the town's culture, but it's there.
You'll notice I haven't written about Berlin, Frankfurt or my stint at home; it's hard to motivate oneself to write about places that you've already left. Unfortunately the city of Riga is to suffer the same undeserved fate. It's a cool town, but essentially there are lots of pretty art nouveau buildings, the aforementioned Brits and a cool tour guide called Alex. Other than that, there isn't really a great deal to report.
I did, however, meet a travelling companion there. Taro is a med student taking a year off to travel, he lives around the corner from me in Perth and I went to school with his sister. We did the obligatory small world chat and then discovered several common goals, so set out to achieve them together. Read on.
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