Reading the World

Tales of a Middle Eastern Hedgehog: Stories from Syria

2012-01-15T13:04:00.000-08:00

“My mother went to visit our neighbour, Umm Bahaa, but refused to take me with her, on the pretext that women visit women and men visit men. So she left me alone, promising not to be gone more than a few minutes. I told my cat I was going to strangle her, but she paid no attention and continued grooming herself with her tongue.”

Thus we meet the five-year-old narrator of The Hedgehog – my stop-off in Syria - who introduces us to his world: his house (with the djinn girl who lives in his bedroom), his garden (where he wishes to be a tree), and his best friend the black stone wall. This tightly told novella confirms that Zakaria Tamer remains at the height of his powers into the 21st Century (having published his first stories in 1957). The twenty-seven short stories that follow were first published in the collection Tigers on the Tenth Day. Economical and controlled, they deal with man’s inhumanity to man (and to woman) and showcase the author’s typical sharply satirical style.

The stories are full of childish reasoning, as when he is asked what he wants to be when he grows up and he explains he wants to become a thief:

I'll steal from the poor and give what I steal to the rich so that everyone will become rich, and not a single poor person will be left.

And when he finds his older brother's stash of magazines with pictures of nude women (the wall told him where they were hidden ...) he wonders why his brother pays for magazines to see: "what I see for free when I'm at the public bath with my mother."

The remaining stories in the collection are much more varied, describing often harsh conditions and circumstances, but generally with a somewhat satirical edge. Some are very blunt, as in the effective allegory, 'Tigers on the Tenth Day', which describes how a tiger is tamed and concludes devastatingly:

On the tenth day the trainer, the pupils, the tiger, and the cage disappeared -- the tiger became a citizen and the cage a city.

In 'Death of the Jasmine' a woman becomes a teacher, but her class of seven-year-olds are preternaturally (and predatorily) adult - even while retaining elements of their childishness; it ends creepily with them pulling her clothes off as she lies on the floor and:

a frenzied sense of alarm suddenly seized her as the small teeth began gnawing her flesh and striking against solid bone.

Though the stories are short they tend to be very dense, too, and it often isn't clear from the start where Tamer will wind up going with his tale. Violence - political and personal -, sex, and politics mix in many of them, often to surprising effect. A story such as 'The Smile', in which a boy walks in on his mother having sex with a stranger and also imagines being executed is a typical impressive riff in the space of a single page.

Often unsettling, and rarely with anything like a conventional happy ending, Tamer's stories are weightier than most, and give an interesting, personal, sense of the traumas and tribulations of a wider Syrian society. It is timely that the inevitable outcome of such a repressive regime, in the form of public revolt and lethal government crackdown, is playing out daily in Syria on TV screens across the world as I read this book… it also shows that Syrian culture goes far beyond the stereotypical images of Middle Eastern conflict that we are shown via the media.

From Syria I travel to another country that has had it’s fair share of trauma (as have most in this region) – that of Lebanon, with the memoir “Beirut: I Love You” by Zena el Khalil.

For this trip I decide to take the quicker (and cheaper!) option of going overland. I head to the taxi station in Damascus and pick out three other people who look like they are waiting to head across to Lebanon.

The Syrian taxis that ply the 127-kilometer route between the two cities are almost all 1974 Dodge Coronets painted yellow. Some shine with new paint, others look like they're falling apart, but either way, ingenuity has kept them on the road.

The shared taxi costs a mere $10 and the trip over the mountains takes about 2 hours…the border stop off - where I get my Lebanese visa and pay my $10 Syrian exit tax - is surprisingly quick and easy, and in no time I am in Beirut, the capital of Lebanon.

An Iraqi in Cyberspace: The Baghdad Blog

2012-01-15T09:42:00.000-08:00

In the run-up to the US-led invasion of Iraq, the major international news channels invested many millions of pounds to guarantee the quality of their coverage. Ambitious young journalists flocked to Iraq, to make their names by reporting the dramatic events in Baghdad. Yet it was a twenty-nine-year-old Iraqi architect, posting a weblog in English ("blogging") from a middle-class Baghdad suburb, who became one of the most authentic voices chronicling the build-up to war, the invasion and its chaotic aftermath. Salam Pax, in a witty, sometimes catty monologue, managed to do what the combined weight of the international media could not. Using a cheap computer and unreliable internet access, he documented the traumas and more importantly the opinions of Iraqis as they faced the uncertainty of violent regime change. My book for Iraq, “The Baghdad Blog,” collects those blog entries together to form a diary of this key period.

"Blogging" was once an obscure activity dominated by those with too much time on their hands and an unhealthy obsession with the internet. Computer geeks would write weblogs detailing the minutiae of their lives, their day-to-day activities and strident opinions. This was a closed, insular and self-referential world, largely concerned with the consumption of popular culture as seen from a darkened bedroom. This is how Salam Pax's own blog began - as a letter to an absent friend.

His early dispatches from Baghdad were dominated by his enthusiasm for obscure pop music and his personal trials and tribulations. But as the US invasion became imminent, the blog was transformed. Pax, increasingly angered by the presumption of Western media who professed to speak for Iraqi public opinion, converted his chronicle, detailing with skill and insight a Baghdad on the verge of war.

The Baghdad Blog then became a window on a population living under tyranny. Risking certain death if discovered, Pax describes the attitude of his friends and family towards the US but also to Saddam Hussein's Baathist dictatorship. For those seeking to understand Iraq, Pax's narrative, straightforward and sincere, is revealing.

If decision-makers in London and Washington had taken the time to consult Pax's musings before the war, their understanding about the country they are now failing to control would have been greatly enhanced. The dominant theme of the blog is mistrust of US motives. As early as October 2002, Pax berates his fellow bloggers outside Iraq who demand that he welcome the coming invasion.

Excuse me. But don't expect me to buy little American flags to welcome the new colonists . . . . how does it differ from Iraq and Britain circa 1920? The civilised world comes to give us, the barbaric nomadic Arabs, a lesson in better living and rid us of all evil (better still, get rid of us Arabs since we're all evil).

Having suffered American indifference in the wake of the 1990-91 Gulf War, when George Bush Sr urged the population to rise up and then left them to their fate, Iraqis have little time for US claims of altruism.

Informing this cynicism is a tenacious Iraqi nationalism. In popular punditry Iraq is all too frequently described as hopelessly divided by race, religion and clan. Yet any visitor to the country over the past decade has been confronted by an active and pervasive nationalism. Born of the eight-year war of attrition against Iran, it was solidified during the impoverishment caused by sanctions that followed the invasion of Kuwait. Iraqis now take a militant pride that their country survived all that the international community could throw at it. Pax laments the betrayal of this nationalism and all who fought for it, first by Saddam Hussein and then by what he sees as the quasi-colonial invasion of US forces. In late March this year, as he and his family watch Iraqi troops surrender, they are caught between the shame of seeing their own troops give up and a relief that in doing so they managed to save their own lives. Ultimately Pax and his family want Saddam to be consigned to hell, but quickly to be followed by George Bush Jr.

This sense of nationalism, combined with a deep scepticism about American motives, has proved the pre-war predictions of Washington-based exiles to be inaccurate. US troops were not welcomed into Baghdad by hordes of flag-waving Iraqis, but instead by a sullen mistrustful population. Pax argued that "No one inside Iraq is for war (note I said 'war', not 'a change of regime')". And in a comment that must now resonate with Tony Blair, "I think that the coming war is not justified . . .. The excuses for it have been stretched to their limit, they will almost snap".

Explanations for the nationalism that has increasingly come to haunt the occupation are not hard to find. The Baghdad Blog is full of moving examples of the damage done to Iraqi society during the twelve years of sanctions. A young couple that Pax knows became engaged but were unable to get married for lack of money. Finally they each resorted to selling one of their kidneys to raise the $500 needed to build two extra rooms onto the paternal house. Pax goes on to detail the stupidity of sanctions. They "had no effect on Saddam and his power base, (instead) turning us into hostages in a political deadlock between the Iraqi government and the US government". The result was a population swept up by bitterness and poverty that increasingly turned to the certainties of Islam and the mosque.

Despite setting up numerous offices around Baghdad, publishing party newspapers and spending large sums of money, the two main exile groups, the INC and the Iraqi National Accord, have not put down roots in society. Pax treats the exiled opposition with disdain, ridiculing their grandiose meetings in the run-up to war as irrelevant. Once back in Baghdad in the aftermath of the ceasefire, his attitude to them hardens:

What is it with these foreign political parties who have suddenly invaded Baghdad? Do they have no respect for public property? Or since it is the "season of the loot" they think they can just camp out wherever they like and -- ahem "liberate" public buildings. Out! Out! Out! Liberate your own backyard. You have no right to sit in these buildings.

In a highly armed country, Pax describes the rioting and disorder that swept his home city:

To see your city destroyed before your own eyes is not a pain that can be described and put into words. It turns you sour (or is that bitter?). It makes something snap in you and you lose whatever hope you had. Undone by your own hands. Close your doors. Shut your eyes. Hope the black clouds of this ugliness do not reach you.
Pax laments the actions of his fellow Iraqis who steal or smash up public property, "destroying what is theirs".

But he reserves his bitterest indictment for US troops, who stood by while this happened:

If I open the doors for you and watch you steal, am I not an accomplice? They did open the doors. Not to freedom, but to chaos, while they kept what they wanted closed. They decided to turn a blind eye. And systematically did not show up with their tanks until all was gone and there was nothing left.

Finally, by the middle of June, Pax is describing those events that have now come to dominate our television screens, the daily killing of US soldiers by the shadowy forces behind the insurgency. The attacks might be disorganised and sporadic but they achieve the desired result, making it nearly impossible for the American administration "to do anything good or to keep their promises or change people's sentiments. The 'coalition forces' don't feel safe and we don't feel safe either".

Since the publication of The Baghdad Blog, Pax has continued his intermittent chronicle of life in Baghdad under occupation on his own website
(www.dear_raed.blogspot.com). As usual it is well written, highly informative and traces the themes that come to dominate coverage of Iraq. Salam Pax realistically concludes that US forces cannot now withdraw. His great fear is that, having made this mess, they will wash their hands of it prematurely, leaving Iraq to slide into further chaos: "What we all agree upon is that if the Americans pull out now, we will be eaten by the crazy mullahs and imams. G. has decided that this might be a good time to sell our souls to the (US) Devil".

It is often said that journalists get the chance to write the first draft of history. In the US-led regime change in Iraq, the most insightful dispatches were not written by the crowds of well-resourced international journalists sitting in the air conditioned comfort of five-star hotels, but by a scared and irreverent middle-class Iraqi. He was communicating to the world from his bedroom, reporting the feelings of people just like him, Iraqis badly treated by their own government, the United States and the international community. Let us hope he has the chance to report better news in the future.

(Review by Toby Dodge, TLS, Sunday, November 2nd, 2003)

My next stop is Damascus in Syria – a country that has seen its own turbulence of late…the book for this stop “The Hedgehog” is a short novella and collection of short stories by reknowned Syrian author, Zakaria Tamer.

For my journey I shell out the princely sum of £444.80 for a one-way, nine and a half hour flight from Baghdad to Damascus.

Not as straightforward as it could be; this involves leaving at 13.00 from Baghdad airport on an Egyptair flight to Cairo. After a 2 hour connection I take another Egyptair flight to Amman, the capital of Jordan, from where I catch a Royal Jordanian flight that deposits me one hour later in Damascus, at the civilised time of 18.20…

A Nation Without Borders – Journeys Through Kurdistan

2011-12-22T03:00:00.000-08:00

Kurdistan comprises a craggy, mountainous stretch through the epicenter of the Middle East and is home to as many as 30 million Kurds, the fourth largest ethnic group in the region. Long marginalized and brutally repressed--as in the late 1980s, when Saddam Hussein attacked Iraqi Kurds with chemical weapons and destroyed more than 4,000 Kurdish villages--the Kurds are notoriously independent, passionate, and proud, and today they hold tremendous geopolitical importance, as evidenced by their role in building the new Iraqi government.

The author of the book that represents this region (“A Thousand Sighs, A Thousand Revolts”), Christiane Bird, first became fascinated by the Kurds during her 1988 visit to Iran. Here, she explores Iraqi Kurdistan - which, with a decade of protection as part of the "Northern No-Fly Zone," has flourished as a near-autonomous democracy - and makes stops in Syria, Iran, and Turkey, showing Kurdish history and culture along the way.

Though the Kurds played a major military and tactical role in the United States’ recent war with Iraq, most people know little about this fiercely independent people. Christiane Bird’s travels through this volatile part of the world, provide us with a glimpse of the Kurds’ story, using personal observations and in-depth research to illuminate an astonishing history and vibrant culture.

For the twenty-five to thirty million Kurds, Kurdistan is both an actual and a mythical place: an isolated, largely mountainous homeland that has historically offered sanctuary from the treacherous outside world and yet does not exist on modern maps. Parceled out among the four nation-states of Iraq, Turkey, Syria, and Iran after World War I, Kurdistan is a divided land with a tragic history, where the indomitable Kurds both celebrate their ancient culture and fight to control their own destiny. Occupying some of the Middle East’s most strategic and richest terrain, the Kurds are the fourth-largest ethnic group in the region and the largest ethnic group in the world without a state to call their own.

Whether dancing at a Kurdish wedding in Iran, bearing witness to the destroyed Kurdish countryside in southeast Turkey, having lunch with a powerful exiled agha in Syria, or visiting the sites of Saddam Hussein’s horrific chemical attacks in Iraq, the intrepid, Bird sheds light on a violently stunning world seen by few Westerners. Part mesmerising travelogue, part action-packed history, part reportage, and part cultural study, this critical book offers timely insight into an unknown but increasingly influential part of the world. Bird paints a moving and unforgettable portrait of a people uneasily poised between a stubborn past and an impatient future.

The book's title comes from a Kurdish poem about the Kurds' determination to be masters of their own lands, an effort that brings about "a thousand sighs, a thousand tears, a thousand revolts, a thousand hopes." Bird deftly describes each of those aspects of Kurdistani culture, from the sighs and tears of women who offer Bird both flavourful dinners and wrenching stories of loss, to the hopes of Kurdish artists who believe their ethnic group's artistic traditions can survive beyond war. Where Bird focuses most, however, is the revolts that have plagued the Kurds for decades. The largest ethnic group in the world without a state of their own, the Kurds live in an arc of land that stretches through Turkey, Syria, Iraq, Iran and parts of the former Soviet Union. As Bird travels through Kurdistan (a country that isn't on any map), she meets an array of people, from scholars to bus drivers. Each story of conflict, poverty, homelessness and suffering is like a brushstroke in a larger portrait of the Kurdish experience.

The journey to my next port of call – Iraq – should be relatively easy, as technically I am already there! This trip is covered by “The Baghdad Blog” by ‘Salam Pax’. Salam Pax is the pseudonym of Salam Abdulmunem, under which he became the "most famous blogger in the world" during and after the 2003 invasion of Iraq. Along with a massive readership, his site "Where is Raed?" received notable media attention. The pseudonym consists of the word for "peace" in Arabic (salam) and in Latin (pāx). His was one of the first instances of an individual's blog having a wide audience and impact. In 2003 Atlantic Books, in association with The Guardian, published a book based on "Where is Raed?" under the title "The Baghdad Blog". It comprises Salam's blog entries from September 2002 to June 2003 - at the epicentre of the build up to and invasion of Iraq by Allied forces.

Rather than risk an overland journey through Iraq (still not advised for foreigners), I shell out £334 one a one-way MEA flight that takes me from Erbil (the capital of Iraqi Kurdistan), into the Iraqi capital itself, Baghdad (via Beirut on a 16.5 hour journey…leaving at 22.25 and arriving bleary-eyed at Baghdad International Airport (formerly Saddam International Airport) at 01.30 in the morning…

Censoring an Iranian Love Story

2011-11-28T13:46:00.000-08:00

When a story comes to an Iranian writer's mind, he or she is doomed to think of two different versions: the story as it is, and a bowdlerised version that might avoid the scissors of official censorship. The latter is the one that will be submitted to the Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance, which vets all books before publication; but this is just the beginning of the odyssey for the poor writer.

In “Censoring an Iranian Love Story“, his first novel to be translated into English, Shahriar Mandanipour, who moved to the US in 2006 but had previously published dozens of stories in Iran, puts both versions in one book. In this playful tale, both writer and censor appear as fictional characters; while for his lovers Mandanipour has chosen Sara and Dara, jaunty figures familiar from first-grade textbooks that were pulped after the Islamic Revolution.

Dara first sees Sara in a public library, where she is looking for a copy of The Blind Owl, a banned novel by the acclaimed Iranian writer Sadeq Hedayat. He falls in love with her, and poses as a street pedlar to sell her the book. When she reads Hedayat's novel, Sara notices a collection of purple dots - Dara has left her a message in code. The lovers use the technique to exchange letters, as first Dara and then Sara borrow from the library The Little Prince, Dracula, The Unbearable Lightness of Being and more, until they meet up for the first time on a street protest in front of Tehran University.

As their love story progresses, Mandanipour elucidates the history of censorship in Iran, dating back hundreds of years to the intricate metaphors and complicated allegories employed by such poets as Rumi, Hafez and Khayam. However, it was only with the Islamic Revolution that censorship became official. Under this regime it could take the ministry weeks, months or sometimes years to respond to a manuscript; and this response would range from a simple yes or no to a detailed list of contested chapters, dialogues, sentences or even individual words.

In Mandanipour's novel, the ministry censor, Mr Petrovich - named after the detective in Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment - argues with the author about words and phrases he wants removed from the story on the grounds that they might sexually arouse readers, harm Islamic values, endanger national security or ignite revolution.

He underlines every word, every sentence, every paragraph, or even every page that is indecent and that endangers public morality and the time-honoured values of the society. In a further complication, Mr Petrovich has gradually fallen in love with Sara while censoring her story, and is now trying to persuade the author to kill Dara off and leave the field open for himself.

“Censoring an Iranian Love Story” is a brilliant novel about the complexities of writing and publishing in Iran. It will help to further understanding of the frustrating and sometimes perilous situation of the book industry in a country where copyright is not respected, where writers struggle desperately to publish and can be jailed simply for exercising their imaginations.

The above review is by: Saeed Kamali Dehghan, The Guardian, Saturday 15 August 2009.

My next port of call is a nation that does not officially exist – that of Kurdistan, courtesy of a book called “A Thousand Sighs, A Thousand Revolts” and account of journeys throughout the region by journalist Christine Bird. Kurdistan literally means ‘Land of the Kurds’ and is a roughly defined geo-cultural region wherein the Kurds form a prominent majority population, and Kurdish culture, language, and national identity have historically been based

Contemporary use of Kurdistan refers to parts of eastern Turkey (Turkish Kurdistan), northern Iraq (Iraqi Kurdistan), northwestern Iran (Iranian Kurdistan) and northern Syria inhabited mainly by Kurds. Kurdistan roughly encompasses the northwestern Zagros and the eastern Taurus mountain ranges, and covers small portions of Armenia.

Iraqi Kurdistan first gained autonomous status in 1970 agreement with the Iraqi government and its status was re-confirmed as an autonomous entity within the federal Iraqi republic in 2005. Some Kurdish nationalist organisations seek to create an independent nation state of Kurdistan, consisting of some or all of the areas with Kurdish majority, while others campaign for greater Kurdish autonomy within the existing national boundaries.

My first port of call in Kurdistan is in the Iraqi region is Duhok, the capital city the autonomous region of Iraqi Kurdistan in the north of the country.

To get into Iraqi Kurdistan I take the Penjwin (Bashmak) border crossing, I am pleasantly surprised by the ease of corssing, and it takes me less than half an hour to pass. I then take a taxi from Sanandaj for 35 USD. On the other side I hitch a ride to the bus/taxi terminal 9 km away from the border. At the terminal a shared taxi costs less than 8 USD to get to Sulaimaniyah, from where I travel on to Duhok.

Armenia: Portraits of Survival and Hope

2011-10-16T09:55:00.000-07:00

An insightful - and relatively unbiased - view of how geopolitics affects ordinary people, this book documents, in words and pictures, the lives of Armenians in the last two decades. Based on intimate interviews with three hundred Armenians and featuring Jerry Berndt's superb photographs, it brings together firsthand testimony about the social, economic, and spiritual circumstances of Armenians during the 1980s and 1990s, when the country faced an earthquake, pogroms, and war. At times shocking and deeply emotional, “Armenia: Portraits of Survival and Hope” is a story of extreme suffering and hardship, a searching look at the fight for independence, and an exceptionally complex portrait of the human spirit, written by Americans Donald E Miller & Lorna Touryan Miller.

A companion to the Millers' highly acclaimed work "Survivors: An Oral History of the Armenian Genocide", which documented the genocide of 1915, this book focuses on four groups of people: survivors of the earthquakes that devastated northwestern Armenia in 1988; refugees from Azerbaijan who fled Baku and Sumgait because of pogroms against them; women, children, and soldiers who were affected by the war in Nagorno-Karabakh; and ordinary citizens who survived several winters without heat because of the blockade against Armenia by Turkey and Azerbaijan. The Millers' narrative situates these accounts contextually and thematically, but the voices of individuals remain paramount. The Millers also describe their personal experiences in repeated research trips, inviting us to look beyond the headlines and think beyond the circumstances of our own lives as they bring contemporary Armenia to life.

This book forms an interesting counterpoint to the other books I have read regarding neighbouring Azerbaijan and the disputed area the two countries have warred over, Nagorno-Karabakh.

From Armenia, I make my way into the Middle East and Iran, with the novel “Censoring an Iranian Love Story” by Shahriar Mandanipour.

As a UK citizen I need a visa to enter Iran, and I go for a tourist visa. Having not allowed the requisite 8 weeks to arrange for a visa at the consulate, I need to use an ‘Iran Visa Service’ (I opt for Magic Carpet Travel Ltd) in order to get a visa processed in 7 working days. The price for my disorganisation is a charge of £200 (excluding Consular stamp fees).

In order to save some money I opt for the slow – but simple – transport option of a bus from Yerevan to Tehran.

Often used by people conducting import/export business between Armenia and Iran, there are two buses a week traveling between Tehran and Yerevan in either direction. Tourists can also take the bus.

I catch the bus to Tehran in front of Hotel Erebuni. Hotel Erebuni is located behind the arch by the central Post Office on Hanrapetutian H'raparak (Republic Square), opposite the singing fountains, across the park from Hotel Armenia. The bus leaves every Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday and Sunday at 09:00 and a ticket is $35.

I am able to buy my tickets and get my bus information in the Persian bus office on the second floor of the Hotel lobby. After a gruelling 34-hour journey (which would have been much less without the lengthy border stop), I arrive in Tehran and am dropped off at the Russian Bazaar in Tehran.

Labours of Love: Childhood and Nostalgia in Abkhazia

2011-10-15T06:59:00.000-07:00

The status of Abkhazia is a central issue of the Georgian–Abkhazian conflict. The wider region formed part of the Soviet Union until 1991. As the Soviet Union began to disintegrate towards the end of the 1980s, ethnic tensions grew between Abkhaz and Georgians over Georgia's moves towards independence. This led to the 1992–1993 War in Abkhazia that resulted in a Georgian military defeat, de facto independence of Abkhazia and the mass exodus and ethnic cleansing of the Georgian population from Abkhazia. In spite of the 1994 ceasefire agreement and years of negotiations, the status dispute has not been resolved, and despite the long-term presence of a United Nations monitoring force and a Russian-dominated CIS peacekeeping operation, the conflict has flared up on several occasions. In August 2008, the sides again fought during the South Ossetia War, which was followed by the formal recognition of Abkhazia by Russia, the annulment of the 1994 cease fire agreement and the termination of the UN and CIS missions

As with South Ossetia, literature for this barely recognised state is thin on the ground, and so I have chosen a collection of short stories entitled “The Thirteenth Labour of Hercules” by Fazil Iskander – arguably the most famous Abkhaz writer – which are largely childhood recollections of the post-WW2 era, although some are more contemporary.

The stories range over a great deal of territory--growing up, going to school, rembrances of eccentric characters from the Abkhazia of Iskander's youth. Like Bulgakov's satires, however, Iskander's stories also have a more political substrata. Several stories subtly aim their arrows at the Soviet regime. In one story, Forbidden Fruit, a boy who snitches on his sister for eating pork is punished for his actions. In another, One Day in Summer, the story a German tourist tells our narrator about his experiences under the Nazis seems a critique of Soviet responses to Stalin. In still another, Old Crooked Arm, an eccentric outwits both his friends and the Soviet state.

All in all these form an enjoyable collection of stories that build up a nostalgic - though unsentimental – picture of modern Abkhazia, although it is a shame that a more recent literary work dealing with contemporary Abkhazia is not available (at least not in English…).

From here I make my way back to another country racked by border wars in recent years: Armenia (I have already visited neighbouring Azerbaijan and the disputed area the two countries have warred over, Nagorno-Karabakh).

As an EU citizen I need to buy a visa first. You can buy a visa when you arrive at any entry point to Armenia. A 21-day visa costs 3,000 dram (about $8/EUR6). However, border guards do accept other currencies but they will not give you a good exchange rate and often won’t take high value notes, so I go for the simpler option of ordering the visa online.

There is no direct transport from Abkhazia to Armenia, so I retrace my steps back to Tbilisi in Georgia, via jeeps (a different one for each side of the border) to Zugdidi, then overnight train to Tbilisi.

In Tbilisi I am able to get one of two daily Armavia Airlines flights from Tbilisi airport to Armenia’s capital, Yerevan, leaving at 19.15 and arriving a mere 45 minutes later, for $72 (economy). "Zvartnots " International airport is 10km north of Yerevan proper, though a taxi takes only 15 minutes at a cost of around $6.

I shall be staying in Armenia courtesy of "Armenia: Portraits of Survival and Hope", an account by Americans Donald E Miller & Lorna Touryan Miller of Armenia’s tribulations through earthquake and war during the 1980s, 1990s and into the 21st century.

South Ossetia: A Chronicle of Contract Murder

2011-10-05T11:35:00.000-07:00

This book “South Ossetia: Chronicle of Contract Murder” is dedicated to the victims of the Georgian invasion of the disputed South Ossetia, during the 2008 South Ossetia War, which lasted from August 7-12. The book contains some striking photographs of the conflict, as well as survivors’ testimonies, and was released by human rights movement, Soprotivleniye (which stands for ‘resistance’ in Russian).

Along with Abkhazia, this is one of two disputed regions within the official borders of Georgia. South Ossetia declared independence from Georgia in 1990, calling itself the "Republic of South Ossetia". The Georgian government responded by abolishing South Ossetia's autonomy and trying to retake the region by force. This led to the 1991–1992 South Ossetia War. Georgian fighting against South Ossetia occurred on two other occasions, in 2004 and 2008. The last conflict led to the 2008 South Ossetia war, during which Ossetian separatists and Russian troops gained full, de-facto, control of the territory of the former South Ossetian Autonomous Oblast.

In the wake of the 2008 South Ossetia War, Russia, Nicaragua, Venezuela, Nauru and Tuvalu recognised South Ossetia as an independent republic. Georgia does not recognise the existence of South Ossetia as a political entity, and considers most of its territory a part of the Shida Kartli region under Georgian sovereignty, occupied by the Russian army.

The 2008 South Ossetia War claimed the lives of hundreds of people. Both law enforcement bodies and non-governmental organisations are now investigating circumstances in which those civilians died. Soprotivleniye was one of the first to take up the job. On August 15 2008 psychologists filed out to Russia’s Rostov region to assist refugees from South Ossetia. At this time a hot line was also launched for the victims of the conflict. Now professionals of the movement are helping to search for people, work out schemes for transfers of humanitarian aid to South Ossetia and assist people to get financial compensation.

“We believe that in the days of the Georgian aggression European media were flooded with deceptive information about what was going on in the conflict zone,” said the head of the Public Committee Olga Kostina. “Now the world community has got access to photo and video and other documents which prove that Georgian soldiers in South Ossetia were actually committing genocide against its people. We hope that our book will help European parliamentarians and ordinary citizens to understand what really happened”.

The publication of the book “South Ossetia: Chronicle of Contract Murder” is another step in the public investigation of crimes in South Ossetia. Dedicated to the victims of Georgia’s aggression, it also marks 60 years since the adoption of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights on December 10, 1948.

The book album contains three chapters: “Crimes”, “Victims”, “Witnesses”. The first chapter briefly presents historical background of Georgia-South Ossetia relations and chronicles events preceding and following August 8. The second chapter features testimonies of people who lived through the horrors of five-day war. The third chapter is dedicated to testimonies of witnesses’– journalists, doctors, clerics. All documents are accompanied by photographs taken during the fighting in Tskhinval and after the repulse of Georgia’s attack, when first aid was delivered to South Ossetia.

Whilst there are, of course, two sides to every story – and this is very much the South Ossetian side – one cannot deny the impact of the photographs and accounts here, which seem more linked to the horrors of the Second World War than a European country in the 21st Century…

From South Ossetia I travel to Abkhazia – the other disputed region within the official borders of Georgia. I take the (relatively) safest option of leaving South Ossetia and take a public marshrutka going back to Georgia, south on the main road from Tskhinvali towards Gori and on to Tbilisi.

However, public transport from Georgia to Abkhazia does not exist. So I take a chance – and a train – from Tbilisi to Zugdidi, close to the Abkhazian border (the train, a night train, costs 18 euro for the 318km one-way trip). In Zugdidi I am able to organise travel to Abkhazia via a local “travel agent.” As cars with Georgian number plates cannot cross into Abkhazia, this transport consists of a jeep to the border, then a change of jeep with different plates and then a 30 minute drive to Sukhumi, the capital of Abkhazia, and a former holiday hot-spot located on the Black Sea.

As with South Ossetia, literature for this barely recognised state is thin on the ground, and so I have chosen a collection of short stories entitled “The Thirteenth Labour of Hercules” by Fazil Iskander – arguably the most famous Abkhaz writer – which are largely childhood recollections of the post-WW2 era, although some are more contemporary.

Guns, Roses and Vodka: Stolen Stories from Georgia

2011-10-04T03:56:00.000-07:00

Ex-Time journalist Wendell Steavenson's record of the ruin of Georgia in the 21st century, “Stories I Stole”, makes for a fascinating account of this benighted country – both heartwarming and heartbreaking in equal measures.

When Wendell Steavenson was living in Georgia, she kept a collector's list of 'LAOs' - large abandoned objects. The Caucasus is littered with them: rusting tank hulls, gutted apartment blocks, the rustbelt of gigantic ruined factories that surrounds most cities. The biggest LAO is the late Soviet Union itself. Nobody wants to re-animate it. But nobody realised what the price of junking it would be.

A few decades ago, Russians assumed that if everything blew to bits, Georgia would still be a happy land. Wonderful fruit and vegetables, oceans of wine and brandy, a beautiful coastline; the Georgians would be even better off than before. Instead of which, the lights went off. There was a crazy civil war, two totally avoidable secession wars, which evicted a quarter of a million destitute refugees, and the economy collapsed.

Eight years after independence, Steavenson spent winter like most Georgians, sleeping in her clothes and reading by candlelight, in a flat where electric light, heating and hot water came on only for a few unpredictable hours of ecstasy each week. Children asked their parents what radiators were for. Adults, surviving on vodka and rotten cigarettes, asked what the Georgian government was for.

In spite of this, foreigners who visit Georgia are still entranced. Hospitality to strangers is a religion. Steavenson's life there began with one of those endless Georgian picnics that start as a lunch and end in the middle of the night, borne along by the endless toasts and speeches commanded by the Tamada (master of ceremonies). 'I was happy; charmed, drunk and beguiled like thousands of guests and invaders before me, in the land of hospitality.' But soon she understood that those who make strangers happy are not always happy themselves. Forcing guests to drink too much can be an act of aggression. What is it like to be a Georgian host?

Steavenson's friends incessantly told her stories about their country, and acted out its complexes in their lives. One shrewdly gave her Lampedusa's “The Leopard” and let her read 'Georgia' for Sicily. 'All Sicilian self-expression, even the most violent, is really wish-fulfilment; our sensuality is a hankering for oblivion, our shooting and knifing a hankering for death... The Sicilians never want to improve for the simple reason that they think themselves perfect; their vanity is stronger than their misery... Having been trampled on by a dozen different peoples, they think they have an imperial past which gives them a right to a grand funeral.'

Two of her acquaintances, Dato and Aleko, were shady young 'biznesmen'. Dato was badly disfigured in a car crash; while he was recovering, Aleko seduced his wife. The two then confronted one another by a lake, accompanied by their friends and umpired by a minor 'godfather'. Aleko knocked Dato down; Dato pulled a gun and shot Aleko in the back, temporarily paralysing him. One of Aleko's seconds then shot Dato in the leg. Nobody won. Both men sank into terminal depression, deepened by heroin and alcohol.

A 'hankering for death'? Steavenson takes this gloomy little vendetta tale and turns it into a haunting, Chekhovian story about pride, futility and self-destruction. Stories I Stole is anything but a travelogue, although she moves through many landscapes and sick cities. It is not a hack's diary, although she is an experienced foreign correspondent and hunted with the little band of 'Caucasus Hands' who risked their necks in Chechnya or Nagorno-Karabakh. And the book isn't one more 'quest for the real me', although one strand in it is her account of an agonising love affair. This is the first published book of a practised and very gifted writer, a young Kapuscinski with a literary future ahead of her.

She made several expeditions to Abkhazia, the tiny country that broke away from Georgia in 1993 and which the world - as a punishment - has dropped into an oubliette: unrecognised, its communications cut off, its ruined towns unrepaired. Few strangers can enter, apart from Russian 'peacekeepers', UN agencies and an international corps of aid workers, from Oxfam to the Halo Trust - the quiet professionals who clear mines all over the Caucasus battlefields. Steavenson, used to Georgian resourcefulness (like the art of running an electricity meter backwards) was depressed by the stagnation of Abkhazia: 'its head was down and its listless subsistence gaze directed at the pavement'.

While she was living in Tbilisi, the second Russian war in Chechnya broke out, driving streams of refugees across the mountains into northern Georgia. Steavenson went into these kidnap territories and lived among the hard-drinking Svans and semi-pagan Khevsurs. She spent days and nights at remote border posts interviewing families escaping the war, and Chechen fighters - survivors from the hellish fighting before Grozny fell - crossing the frontier to rest and re-group.

One of the most intense sections here records a visit to the remote Pankisi valley, where she was protected by her friend the famous Chechen commander Arbi. (That lawless place has just been selected as a target in the 'war against terrorism' by US special forces; their move into Georgia and America's re-training of the Georgian army may well end in renewed war all over the region.)

Her lover, a Magnum photographer, came back to her from the war after nine months of silence and rejection, and proposed to her in a freezing hut in Pankisi. She cried, but found the strength to say no. Then he did a wonderful, Georgian thing (although he was a German): after days and nights scouring the flower-growers of the countryside, he sent her a thousand red roses. It became an instant Tbilisi legend. In that warm-hearted, ramshackle city, Wendell Steavenson will always be the girl who got a thousand roses and still turned the man down. For her readers, though, she will be remembered for this first book by an immensely talented writer.

(review by Neal Ascherson, The Observer, Sunday 14 July 2002)

From Georgia I make my way to yet another disputed territory – South Ossetia. Along with Abkhazia, this is one of two disputed regions within the official borders of Georgia.

South Ossetia declared independence from Georgia in 1990, calling itself the "Republic of South Ossetia". The Georgian government responded by abolishing South Ossetia's autonomy and trying to retake the region by force. This led to the 1991–1992 South Ossetia War. Georgian fighting against South Ossetia occurred on two other occasions, in 2004 and 2008. The last conflict led to the 2008 South Ossetia war, during which Ossetian separatists and Russian troops gained full, de-facto, control of the territory of the former South Ossetian Autonomous Oblast.

In the wake of the 2008 South Ossetia War, Russia, Nicaragua, Venezuela, Nauru and Tuvalu recognised South Ossetia as an independent republic. Georgia does not recognise the existence of South Ossetia as a political entity, and considers most of its territory a part of the Shida Kartli region under Georgian sovereignty, occupied by the Russian army.

It is a graphic account of the 2008 War – in both recollections and photographs - that forms my next journey with the eBook “South Ossetia: Chronicle of Contract Murder”.

As you might imagine, travel to South Ossetia from Georgia is not a straightforward activity:

To get in from Georgia, I hire a car in Tbilisi and drive towards the border until I come upon a Georgian Army checkpoint. The car is thoroughly searched (no doubt due to Georgian plates!), and there follows some questioning about my visit. Fortunately, the soldiers agree to let me through, and I drive another five kilometres until I reach the buffer zone, which is controlled by Russian troops in fortified positions and armoured vehicles. Again, I am stopped, searched, and questioned. Eventually the Russians decide to let me in, and I have to follow a Russian Army staff car, which takes me to the South Ossetian Foreign Ministry in Tskhinvali to register my arrival in this unofficial Republic…

The Black Garden of Nagorno-Karabakh: Armenia and Azerbaijan through Peace and War

2011-09-18T14:45:00.000-07:00

The landlocked mountainous region of Nagorno-Karabakh is the subject of an unresolved dispute between Azerbaijan, in which it lies, and its ethnic Armenian majority, backed by neighbouring Armenia.

In 1988, towards the end of Soviet rule, Azerbaijani troops and Armenian secessionists began a bloody war which left the de facto independent state in the hands of ethnic Armenians when a truce was signed in 1994. Negotiations have so far failed to produce a permanent peace agreement, and the dispute remains one of post-Soviet Europe's "frozen conflicts."

Having just left Azerbaijan, I found “Black Garden” by Thomas de Waal a fascinating account. In this book he chronicles – through research and personal observation - the build-up and the aftermath of the events that led to the Nagorno-Karabakh conflict of the early 1990s and which continue to resonate today. As such this forms a valuable work to update the previous account of Azerbaijan by Goltz, and form a bridge between the Azerbaijan perspective and the Armenian perspective which will follow later.

For a full review of this complex account of the conflict I shall defer to an analysis by Fariz Ismailzade, editor of "Azeri Voice" Online Journal:

Writing about such a complicated conflict as Nagorno-Karabakh is always hard. The history of the conflict and the attachment to the land by both Armenians and Azeris are so intertwined that it makes the identification and revelation of the truth nearly impossible. Thomas de Waal came the closest to this mission.

His "Black Garden" does an excellent job describing the sorrow and tragedy of both nations and keeping the neutral perspective to the roots, development and current status of one of the bloodiest conflicts in the post-Soviet space.

In an easy-to-read fashion, de Waal travels through the history of the region, revealing past atrocities and the times of happiness and friendship between the two nations. He does so in such a manner, that constantly keeps the reader motivated to move to the next chapter. De Waal smoothly switches back and forth between history and present, personal lives and national politics, human tragedy and political achievements and all of these make the reading absolutely fascinating.

De Waal also reveals one of the most important features of the Karabakh conflict and that is the spiral model of the conflict. He manages to show to the reader how the conflict, which could have been easily prevented, started at low levels and quickly transformed into one of the hotspots in the world. De Waal also manages to describe the inability of the Soviet regime and its leader Mikhail Gorbachev to cope with the growing instability in the region and to prevent bloodshed.

The book also refutes all rumours and assumptions that the roots of the conflict go back to ancient times. De Waal excellently shows that the hatred between the Azeris and Armenians really started in the 19th century.

De Waal tries to show both perspectives to the conflict: the attachment to the land by both warring nations, the importance of cultural centers, such as Shusha, Armenian tragedies in Sumgait and massacres of Azeris in Khojali, the suffering of refugees in Azerbaijan and Armenia, Armenian and Turkish visions of the so called "Genocide of 1915". This all deserves him much credit.

Even describing such a sensitive event as Sumgait pogroms of Armenians, de Waal does not forget to mention how ordinary Azeris were helping to save Armenian lives: "...'We lived in a fourteen-story building with lots of Armenians in it. There were Armenians on the fourteenth floor and we hid them, none of them spent the night at home. In the hospital, people formed vigilance groups, every patient was guarded', says Natevan Tagiyeva [the Azeri citizen of Sumgait]."

The book does, however, open eyes on some of the interesting moments, still unknown or unacceptable for the majority of Armenians and Azeris. The author writes:

"...Uliev [Azeri from Agdam] was the first victim of intercommunal violence in the Armenian-Azerbaijani conflict.." (p.15).

"...Yerevan, the capital of a khanate, was basically a Muslim city that contained no large churches but had six mosques." (pp.74-75)

"..Yet by the 20th century the Azerbaijani people, who had lived in eastern Armenia for centuries, had become its silent guests, marginalized and discriminated against. The Armenians asserted their rights to their homeland at the expense of these people. In 1918-1920, tens of thousands of Azerbaijanis were expelled from Zangezur. In the 1940s, tens of thousands more were deported to Azerbaijan to make way for incoming Armenian immigrants from Diaspora. The last cleansing in 1988-1989, got rid of the rest..." (p.80)

Most of the Armenians will probably disagree with the above mentioned statements. Similarly, the Azeris will argue with the following:

"Most of the attackers [in Sumgait] were not well armed but relied on sheer force of numbers... Many of the rioters, however, were carrying improvised weapons-sharpened pieces of metal casing and pipes from the factories-which would have taken time to prepare. This is one of many details that suggest that the violence was planned in at least a rudimentary fashion..."

Karabakh conflict is truly a sorrow and sadness of the Caucasus, but more so, it is a tragedy of two nations, who have been friends for the most of the time. De Waal passes the words of Azeri guy Zaur, who says: "During the war I was always afraid that I would suddenly see Vazgen or Sunik [his Armenian friends in Shusha] through the sights of my gun... I had nightmares about that..."

De Waal concludes with a phrase that must be the guiding principle for the solution of the conflict, which is often ignored by the warring sides: "Any just solution to the Nagorno-Karabakh dispute will entail painful compromises on both sides, and it will have to balance radically opposing principles..."

I shall visit the other protagonist in this complex dispute, Armenia, soon. In the meantime I travel next to Georgia – another former Soviet state with its own complex disputes…

In doing so I effectively retrace the steps taken in my convoluted journey from Azerbaijan to Nagorno-Karabakh. I take a ‘marshrutka’ taxi from Stepanakert back to Yerevan in Armenia, via the ‘Lachin corridor’ that connects Nagorno-Karabakh to Armenia.

Still retracing my steps, I take a flight from Yerevan to Tbilisi, Georgia’s capital. Again, I fly with Armavia Airlines for the 45-minute flight that leaves Yerevan Zvartnots airport at 17.35 and touches down (allowing for the time difference) at Tbilisi Novo Alexeyevka airport at 17.20: for £76.30 one-way.

Tbilisi, courtesy of “Stories I Stole” - an account by former Time journalist Wendell Steavenson of her stay there at the end of the twentieth century - will be my home during my stopover in Georgia…

Azerbaijan Diary: A Rogue Reporter's Adventures in an Oil-Rich, War-Torn, Post-Soviet Republic

2011-09-06T05:09:00.000-07:00

Since the last years of the Soviet Union, the region around the Caucasus mountains has become an area of violent ethnic conflicts. The Armenian-Azerbaijan War for Nagorno-Karabakh, the hostilities in Georgia (South-Ossetia, Abkhazia), the clashes between Ossetians and Ingush within the Russian Federation, and last but not least the two large-scale Russian-Chechen Wars have drawn the attention of the international public to this up to then unknown region at the edge of Europe. But it was precisely this dangerous atmosphere that attracted journalists from all over the world to report directly from this new hot spot.

Thomas Goltz, an American journalist who worked in Turkey during the 1980s, was one of these journalists. In 1991, he was actually on his way to Tashkent, Soviet Uzbekistan, where he was to take up a position as an adjunct professor of history for the next two years, when he made a detour and landed in Baku, capital of the Soviet Socialist Republic of Azerbaijan. Personal contacts gave Goltz a unique inside view into Azerbaijani society in the last months of Soviet rule. He was so fascinated by the atmosphere that he decided to stay for sometime before leaving for Tashkent. After the failed coup in Moscow in August 1991 he returned from a sleepy Tashkent to a boiling Baku to cover the developments in the Caucasus for the next two and a half years.

Based on his experience, Goltz wrote a draft manuscript that was published in Istanbul in 1994 with the title “Requiem for a Would-be Republic” and covers the period from the Azerbaijani declaration of independence in 1991 to the Azerbaijani decision to join the Commonwealth of Independent States in 1993. In addition to the slightly revised text of Requiem, the present book, “Azerbaijan Diary”, includes an epilogue about the time from 1994 to November 1997, which he wrote after a short visit to Baku in the autumn of 1997.

Reading the book it becomes obvious that Goltz saw and experienced quite a lot during his stay in the Caucasus. The reader is overwhelmed by "new facts", unique first-hand observations, portraits of individuals from all spheres of Azerbaijani society, travel accounts, reports from the battlefront in Nagorno-Karabakh (e.g. the Xodjali catastrophe of February 26-27, 1992) and the negotiating table. Goltz also reproduces several interviews, for example with Abulfez Elchibey, the first democratically elected president of Azerbaijan, and Heydar Aliyev, the "Grand Old Man" of Azerbaijani politics, who returned to power in Baku in 1992-93 and rules as Azerbaijani president since that time.

The density and richness of his impressions are both an advantage and disadvantage for the book; sometimes the gripping story outweighs analytical clarity and structure. Goltz's aim is not to prove a thesis or a certain argument, but to disseminate as much information as possible about Azerbaijan and thereby to correct misperceptions and misinformation in the Western press. He states: "I have the arrogance to suggest to the reporters, editorial writers, and, ultimately, scholars of the period and place that they take the time to wade through this opus before furthering the promotion of "facts' based on repetitive errors". Thus, the book with its twenty-five chapters, a prologue and an epilogue is a "quarry" for all who are interested in the recent history of Azerbaijan.

Three maps of the Caucasus and the Azerbaijan Republic and several photographs help the reader to keep track with the fast-paced account and its changing personal and locations. Some (scholarly) readers will not like the first-person style of writing which reminds us of the annotated diary that was the source for the book, but other readers will enjoy "accompanying" Goltz through his fictitious-like "adventures in an oil-rich, war-torn, post-Soviet republic". Personally, I found this account insightful, fascinating and heart-breaking in equal measures.

After a lengthy stay courtesy of a lengthy book, it is time to take my leave of Azerbaijan. Well, sort of. Actually my next destination, Nagorno-Karabakh is a de facto independent but unrecognised state populated mainly by ethnic Armenians. However, the region’s international status remains so far unsettled, although many international organisations, governments and NGOs tend to recognise it as officially part of Azerbaijan, which has had no actual control over the region since 1991.

The next book “Black Garden” by Thomas de Waal, chronicles – through research and personal observation - the build-up and the aftermath of the events that led to the Nagorno-Karabakh conflict of the early 1990s and which continue to resonate today. As such this forms a valuable work to update the previous account by Goltz, and form a bridge between the Azerbaijan perspective and the Armenian perspective which will follow later.

In plotting out my round the world trip I probably made life difficult for myself here in terms of travel. Despite being ‘officially’ part of Azerbaijan, Nagorno-Karabakh is only officially reached via Armenia – which comes later in my travels. Current US government advice states:

It is not possible to enter the self-proclaimed “Republic of Nagorno-Karabakh,” which is not recognized by the United States, from Azerbaijan. Travelers are cautioned to avoid travel to Nagorno-Karabakh and the surrounding occupied areas.

Therefore I travel to Armenia via Georgia in order to arrange a visa for Nagorno-Karabakh at their embassy in Armenia’s capital city of Yerevan – the only place one can obtain a visa for this area.

Throwing caution to the wind (and with one eye on my bank balance) I take a cheaper Azerbaijan Airlines flight from Baku to Tbilisi Airport in Georgia. This leaves at 23.30 and arrives at 23.50 for £129 (the flight is actually 1 hour 20 min – the hour is gained by time difference). I then lose my gained hour on a flight from Tbilisi to Yerevan in Armenia via Armavia Airlines. This leaves Tbilisi at 7.00 and arrives at 8.45 after a 45 minute flight for £66.

Upon arriving at the Nagorno Karabagh embassy in Yerevan, the visa procedures are pretty smooth: fill in the application form, bring a couple of pictures, pay the corresponding fee, and you can get the visa stamped on your passport the very same day. Everything’s perfectly normal, except for one thing: once stamped on your passport, Azerbaijan becomes forever off-limits (it is possible to get the visa put on a separate piece of paper if you ask)!!

Public taxis (‘marshrutka’) bound for Stepanakert, NK´s capital city, run daily from Yerevan´s Kilikia Central Bus Station. Once the Yerevan´s tufa-pink outskirts have faded out, the highway then runs southeast parallel to the Arax river towards semi-arid central Armenia. Across the other side of the Arax valley, Turkish territory, the twin peaks of a snowy Mount Ararat reach for the sky. The view of Ararat dissapears once the road reaches the Zangezur region, a longish corridor flanked on both sides by Azeri territory; the Nakhichevan exclave to our right and Azeri mainland on our left side. Iranian petrol tankers aplenty cross this road southwards on their way home. Their moustached drivers sound the horns of their rusty trucks, at the request of the kids who gather alongside the road without much else to do.

The marshrutka makes a necessary logistic stop atop the southern village of Goris before heading for the Lachin corridor. This “umbilical cord” connects Armenia´s mainland with the enclave proper and is, by far, the best road in the whole Caucasus. Unsurprisingly, it has been funded by the Hayastan Fund, the Armenia Diaspora spread all over the world.

A billboard welcomes us to “Free Artsakh”, which is the name Armenians give the enclave. A little further, an immigration officer makes sure documents and passports are in order at the Berdzor checkpoint.

The descent into Stepanakert is an easy run down through stunning scenery. The marshrutka lurches into the bus station where a handful of taxi drivers look in anticipation at the new arrivals. But the Karabakh capital is a small city, a place for walking, so there´s no need to pay any overpriced ride in a Lada.

Non-Armenians are required to register upon arrival at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, where they are warned against visiting villages in the front line such as Aghdam. Thus I finally find myself in the Nagorno-Karabakh Republic – a place which does not officially exist…

Unknown Sands in an Unknown Land: Journeys Around the World’s Most Isolated Country

2011-09-06T03:43:00.000-07:00

Turkmenistan was once the world's most feared territory. Since the time of the Mongols, the nomadic tribes of its vast desert wastes were deemed ungovernable. Russians and Persians were captured as slaves and carried off by the fierce Turkmen.

Even now, as an independent country located between the hot spots of Afghanistan and Iran, with one of the planet's largest natural gas reserves, Turkmenistan remains virtually unknown to the outside world. The memoir "Unknown Sands" penetrates this remote and harsh land. This is a personal story that blends two years of adventure with Turkmenistan’s tumultuous history to present an intriguing profile of the country and its people. This former Soviet territory offers a target-rich environment for the unusual including a surreal cult of Presidential personality, ancient ruins of the Silk Road, and a unique, mystical brand of Islam.

Firmly entrenched in the Washington bureaucracy, lawyer Kropf had probably lifted a glass to a few foreign dignitaries in his lifetime, but he'd never pictured himself in the middle of Turkmenistan drinking a vodka toast to Benazir Bhutto out of a large platinum bowl at a family dinner. When Kropf's wife accepted a post as political and economic officer for the American Embassy in Turkmenistan, his Bhutto-toasting fate was sealed.

A lawyer with the U.S. State Department, Kropf, his wife and their two-year-old daughter headed to the black hole of Central Asia (featuring the kind of terrain "medieval Europeans had in mind when they filled in the unknown areas of their maps with dragons"), which borders Afghanistan and Iran and has a long history of being a forbidden land of warriors, conquerors, spies and secrets. Kropf travels to the far corners of a country dismissed as uninhabitable by explorers and still governed by an oppressive regime, revealing through his efficient prose intriguing residents still reeling from Soviet occupation and tip-toeing into the 21st century.

Kropf stays in Turkmenistan after his wife and daughter return to the states in the wake of 9/11, serving humanitarian missions while neighbouring Afghanistan is gripped by chaos. Between the drama are tales of visiting the bazaar, Kropf's comical attempts at haggling (for carpets and traditional Turkmen headwear, among other items) and his discovery of the most delicious melon in the world.

"An unprejudiced look at central Asian culture through the eyes of a curious traveler," is probably the best way in which to describe “Unknown Sands”.

This book provides the only real view of a world that even in the 21st century hides behind an iron curtain. John brings to life real and tangible descriptions of a world really only known to most Westerners through hearsay and as a side note to the War on Terror.

John takes you with him on his journeys by foot, bus, airplane, and, usually, four-wheel vehicle throughout the country. The full colour panoply of sights, sounds, and, unhappily for John, smells translate literally to the reader enveloping you into the world surround him at the time, from the woman jabbing his ankles with a luggage cart in the Frankfurt airport on his trip out to the pride of his driver in learning to pronounce the name of their American vehicle.

The country John transports you to has the intensity of its underlying cultures that have existed from well before the time of Ghengis Khan with a strong overtone of Soviet political power, which has influenced the last 70 some years. Soviet era cement block apartment buildings share the same atmosphere as centuries old mosques that themselves share the place with new monuments to the country's leader with this last to an almost comical degree.

Also, although John's mission while in Turkmenistan was to supervise USAID programs, his journeys cannot be said to be mere reports. You get the picture that much of what Westerners must do is not only provide the money and the know-how, but reawaken the prior pride in the country's history through a respectful curiosity. We should not treat any country's past as something quaint from a history book, but rather a vibrant component to understand who these people truly are.

In this respect John opens our eyes to a strange, but admirable country that lies on the edge of our imagination. (Thanks to K. Mortensen)

Again, mindful of warning about local airlines I opt to leave Turkmenistan via an expensive German Lufthansa flight to neighbouring Azerbaijan (my next destination) – vowing to take a cheaper bus or train on the next leg to save money!!

The flight itself is pleasant enough and much quicker than the 19+ hours quoted to travel by bus. I leave Ashgabat at the ungodly hour of 2.15 in the morning and am touching down at Heydar Aliyev International in Azerbaijan’s capital, Baku, by 3.50. The only downside is the cost - £515 for a 1 hour 35 minute flight…

Still, I arrive in one piece (if a little groggy) to Azerbaijan – an oil-rich land which gained independence from the Soviet Union in 1991 amid political turmoil and internal strife (as well as a war with neighbouring Armenia fought in the disputed province of Nagorno-Karabakh).

My stay here is courtesy of “Azerbaijan Diary” by Western correspondent Thomas Goltz of which more soon.

Wars of Terror: Afghanistan Across the Decades with ‘A Thousand Splendid Suns”

2011-09-05T14:38:00.000-07:00

My next destination is, inevitably, much better known than Tajikistan - I am travelling to Afghanistan, courtesy of the novel “A Thousand Splendid Suns” by Khalad Hosseini.

Anyone whose heart strings were pulled by Khaled Hosseini's first, hugely successful novel, “The Kite Runner”, should be more than satisfied with this follow-up. Hosseini is skilled at telling a certain kind of story, in which events that may seem unbearable - violence, misery and abuse - are made readable. He doesn't gloss over the horrors his characters live through, but something about his direct, explanatory style and the sense that you are moving towards a redemptive ending makes the whole narrative, for all its tragedies, slip down rather easily.

“The Kite Runner” was the tale of two Afghan boys struggling to live decent lives amid the warfare and ethnic rivalries of contemporary Afghanistan, and this is the female counterpart. It is both the tale of two women, and a tale of two cities - Herat and Kabul. At the beginning, we are dropped into the world of Mariam, a young girl living alone with her unmarried mother on the outskirts of Herat. And what a sad world it is. Poor Mariam is bullied by her epileptic mother, and she lives for her weekly visits from her insincere, charming father who runs Herat's cinema, and whose real family she longs to join.

We don't stagnate with Mariam in Herat, however - Hosseini likes to move his narratives along - and before many pages have been turned Mariam's mother has died, and her unfeeling father has married her off to an acquaintance from Kabul. Despite the trauma of going to live with a complete stranger who insists that she must wear the burka and hide upstairs when visitors arrive, a tentative hopefulness begins to grow in Mariam that she may be able to win some affection from her husband, especially when she becomes pregnant.

But Hosseini vividly brings home what life is like for women in a society in which they are valued only for reproduction. Once she has suffered a series of miscarriages, Mariam's marriage becomes a prison: "Mariam was afraid. She lived in fear of his shifting moods, his insistence on steering even mundane exchanges down a confrontational path that, on occasion, he would resolve with punches, slaps, kicks, and sometimes try to make amends for with polluted apologies and sometimes not."

Just as the impatient reader might start to wonder what Hosseini is going to do next with his narrative energy, we switch from Mariam's life to that of a neighbour, the young Laila, who is growing up in a liberal family with a father who believes in her education. This means that we suddenly see Mariam from the outside: Laila never speaks to her, but one day she "passed Rasheed, the shoemaker, with his burka-clad wife, Mariam, in tow". In a flash we see, as Hosseini clearly intends us to, how behind every silent burka in Afghanistan is an individual with a hidden history.

As well as an education, ambitions and opinions, Laila even has a respectful and intelligent boyfriend, who goes with her to the cinema and on a trip to see the Buddhas of Bamiyan. By putting Mariam and Laila in contrast like this, Hosseini is, you feel, not just trying to burrow into individual lives, but also trying to explain the complexities of Afghan society to the reader.

That sense that you are listening to a history lesson as much as experiencing a fiction becomes stronger as the narrative moves on. Hosseini is almost too careful to describe for ignorant westerners the political background to these women's lives, from the Soviet occupation that ruled Laila's childhood to the growing strength of the mujahideen that her brothers join, amid "rising rumours that, after eight years of fighting, the Soviets were losing this war". Once the Soviets are ousted, he takes an even more didactic turn, spelling out how the mujahideen turned from idealised freedom fighters to oppressors. "It was dizzying how quickly everything unravelled. The leadership council was formed prematurely. It elected Rabbani president. The other factions cried nepotism ... Hekmatyar, who had been excluded, was incensed ... The Mujahideen, armed to the teeth but lacking a common enemy, had found the enemy in each other."

But Hosseini doesn't get bogged down in the ins and outs of Afghan politics. His energetic narrative speeds on through the political and domestic worlds, as we move through the tragedies that fall on Laila's family. Eventually we see her, orphaned and alone, allowing herself to become Rasheed's second wife. You might think this novel is becoming too melodramatic, as one horror succeeds another, with rockets blowing families apart and attempted escapes and even murder, alongside the beatings and whippings and threats that make up the women's daily experiences. But when I started to think this I remembered women I met in Kabul, and how many of them had stories to tell almost as melodramatic as this.

Where Hosseini's novel begins to sing is in depicting the slowly growing friendship of the two wives in the face of the horrific abuse from their shared husband. Laila looks at Mariam, and "For the first time, it was not an adversary's face Laila saw but a face of grievances unspoken, burdens gone unprotested, a destiny submitted to and endured. If she stayed, would this be her own face, Laila wondered?" The women's only hope of affection or solidarity is with one another, and they survive not just physically but also emotionally by putting their faith in each other and in their love for Laila's children.

Hosseini does not challenge the usual western view of Afghanistan, but he does enrich it - he adds greater knowledge and understanding to it, and makes the Afghans come alive as loving, feeling individuals. There is something marvellously hopeful in this process, and if there is a problem with the novel, it is not with the plot or the intentions behind it, but with the neatness of its narrative style. Hosseini's prose is stolidly direct, and he tends to explain away not only the political but also the personal, presenting each experience in a wrapper on which the emotion is carefully labelled. Whether it is love - "She had fallen for Tariq. Hopelessly and desperately" - or hate - "What harmful thing had she wilfully done to this man to warrant his malice?" - each distinct emotion is spelled out a touch too clearly.

His desire to believe in the eventual redemption of Afghanistan means that the ending verges on the schmaltzy. Undoubtedly the removal of the Taliban was positive for Afghan women, and we shouldn't be surprised if his characters draw strength from it. But in the last chapter, as the rains return, the cinemas open, the children play and the orphanages are rebuilt, the reader cannot help but feel that Hosseini's understandable longing for a beautiful return to life for the oppressed people of Afghanistan has made for an ending that is just a little flimsy.

(Review in italics by Natasha Walter. The Guardian, Saturday 19 May 2007)

For me, this novel was a little too pat, i.e. sympathetic characters overcome terrible adversity and finally triumph to reach a happy ending. As Natasha states above, Hosseini’s “desire to believe in the eventual redemption of Afghanistan means that the ending verges on the schmaltzy.”

I can’t blame him for that on a personal level, but I can’t help feeling that this adds a gloss that isn’t there, to the current straits of many Afghans in the country today. That said, there can be no disputing that Hosseini, with his two novels, has brought a sense of the lives of ordinary Afghans to a vast Western readership which might otherwise have been indifferent or downright hostile to their fate.

I now move on to Afghanistan’s rather less well-known neighbour, Turkmenistan. Turkmenistan was once the world's most feared territory. Since the time of the Mongols, the nomadic tribes of its vast desert wastes were deemed ungovernable. Russians and Persians were captured as slaves and carried off by the fierce Turkmen. Even now, as an independent country located between the hot spots of Afghanistan and Iran, with one of the planet's largest natural gas reserves, Turkmenistan remains virtually unknown to the outside world.

Therefore it is with some trepidation that I set out from Kabul to Ashgabat, the capital of Turkmenistan. There are no direct flights from Kabul to Ashgabat, and in selecting flights you should be careful on two counts – safety and price!

The British FCO warns against the use of a number of Afghan airlines due to safety concerns so it is worth paying a bit extra, even it if means an inconvenient connection. There is a difference between adventurous and reckless! That said, you should beware of ridiculously inflated air prices. Having been quoted over £3000 to fly via Delhi (with Air India) to Ashgabat; I find a more direct and less pricey flight with Turkish Airlines that leaves Kabul at midday and arrives in Istanbul at 16.15. After a rather lengthy wait I then leave on a connecting flight for Ashgabat at 23.35, arriving 05.10 the next day – for a less pricey £653 one-way!

My trip in Turkmenistan is courtesy of “Unknown Sands” by John W. Kropf. A lawyer with the U.S. State Department, Kropf, his wife and their two-year-old daughter travelled to the far corners of a country still reeling from Soviet occupation and, later, the impact of the 9/11 attacks (which occurred whilst he was there).

Hurramabad – a Russian Perspective on a Tajik Tragedy

2011-09-05T11:39:00.000-07:00

"Hurramabad" is a collection of short stories on the theme of ethnic Russians in Tajikistan. The Russians of Tajikistan, who arrived as Soviet administrators and skilled workers, emigrated en masse in the late 1980s and early 1990s, especially in the lead-up to the civil war.

The English translation of "Hurramabad" includes seven short stories, only one of which does not have ethnic Russians as the protagonist(s). Russians (and other ethnicities) had many reasons for leaving Tajikistan. Fleeing a country at war is obvious enough, but there were many other factors, including rising nationalism and economic problems. I don’t suggest here that Russians were the primary victims of the war, as it was Tajiks, Uzbeks and Pamiris who made up the overwhelming majority of casualty figures. But many Russians were victims in the broad sense. Volos should know, as his family was forced to leave this country where he had been born and raised.

Volos’ book falls into the category of historical fiction, as real people, places and events form the backdrop for the fictional protagonists. But the fiction is barely fiction. “Hurramabad” is obviously Dushanbe, and the events in the book all match up nicely with what actually happened. That may lead some readers into not seeing as large a picture as those who know the history of Tajikistan. For example, in one passage men have a cantankerous debate about which public square to go protests at, an anecdote that lets the informed reader know that the date is April-May 1992. In another instance two Russian women discuss riots that occurred in February, an obvious reference to the February 1990 riots and demonstrations in Dushanbe. And “that snake Yusupov” is clearly Shodmon Yusuf, the then leader of the Democratic Party of Tajikistan, who scared the hell out of ethnic Russians when he got on the radio and strongly hinted that bad things may happen to non-Tajiks (although in the novel the event is out of its proper place in time).

In the first short story an elderly Russian lady is being walked up a hill to a graveyard by her grandson. On the way to the grave of her husband she recounts – for the hundredth time – how she arrived in Tajikistan, or rather the Tajik Soviet Socialist Republic, in 1930. Her account of a boat ride up the Amu Darya and the Panj river is one of trepidation, as anti-Soviet Basmachis rebels still make incursions across the river from Afghanistan. She has no idea if her husband, sent as a Soviet administrator, is still alive. As she struggles up the hill towards the graveyard you are left with the image of a dying old woman who, despite not being a Tajik or other local nationality, knows nothing but Tajikistan, and who will never leave.

The second, and my favorite, is the story of a Russian man who never lived in Tajikistan, but who became enchanted with the country and desperately wanted to “go native” and stay in the country. Abandoning his wife and children in Russian he takes a low-paying job in a bazaar and marries a Tajik. He becomes fluent in Tajik, much to the confusion of locals who mistake him for Tatar, as almost no Russians ever bothered to learn the language, even if born and raised in Tajikistan. Desperate to be accepted, but considered an outsider by locals, the man suffers through his daily existence as the country falls apart on the streets of Hurramabad (Dushanbe). And then finally, there is a chance to be accepted as a local… and it’s not what he wanted.

In the next story, an old Russian lady welcomes what she thinks is a harmless grass snake into her home while expressing her desire to remain in Tajikistan, whatever the terrible consequences may be. Nothing is what it seems, especially the snake. I guess this is where the English and Literature students take over and pull out the symbolism, metaphor, whatever… I get it, but I didn’t dwell to much as I was eager to move on to the next story.

In ‘A Decent Stone for a Father’s Grave’ you already know what the story is about. Searching out a decent gravestone the Russian protagonist encounters locals trying to buy his possessions at a price suitable to be asked by a man desperate to leave the country and who can’t bring all his possessions with him. The greed and opportunism of a local prospective buyer of the Russian man’s car is then put into perspective when the Russian finds out that the Tajik man who could build the gravestone to his specific needs was executed on the street recently.

The other stories include the kidnapping of foreign journalists by a local warlord, the trading of a kidnapped Tajik girl for a weapon, the theft of a Russian man’s dream house by armed commanders of the winning side, and the account of a man waiting to leave to Russia.

And the writing style? It’s quite clearly realism. The descriptions of activities on the streets and in the bazaars is nothing grand, but it’s gives you a clear image in your head. And the stories are mostly of very small events punctuated by the crisis droning on in the back ground. Things seem normal, and then you are given passages like this:

“The crucified city was howling in fear and pain; the air itself seemed full of violence, rape, and robbery. It would have been better if the telephones had not been functioning at all, because rumours of what was going on in the outskirts of Hurramabad were enough to drive you mad.”

But at times the characters’ – and indeed the author’s – love for the land is clear:

“ ‘I’m a foreigner here now,’ Dubrovin forced himself to say, shrugging his shoulders. He frowned as he repeated the word to himself. A foreigner, a foreigner! He found it to be a meaningless aggregate of sounds, because everything around him gave it the lie: this hilly, jagged land lit by a reddish moon in which two generations of his ancestors had been laid to rest; the hot violet sky in which the pure stars twinkled moistly; the smell of sunbaked dust and camel thorn; the chirring of the crickets; the outbursts of barking dogs in the kishlak”.

Volos is not often this florid in his writing style, and he wisely saves it for the right moment. Overall, you are given a vivid image of the place and time. You may not get all the references, and having been in the country may help you to imagine things more “accurately.” But you should get the same satisfaction even if you don’t understand the war, the country, or even the sprinkling of Tajiki. And despite the cruelty on the part of some of the locals, the book does show affection for the people and the country – so many of which were victims of the civil war.

(Christian Bleuer, Registan.net)

My next destination is, inevitably, much better known than Tajikistan – and similarly the author is likely to be more familiar to many than Volos. I am travelling to Afghanistan, courtesy of the novel “A Thousand Splendid Suns” by Khalad Hosseini (also known for his debut novel “The Kite-Runner”).

And so I brave the charms of Dushanbe airport once again, catching a Kam Air flight at 5.30 in the morning and arriving in Kabul, Afghanistan an hour later (for the eye-watering amount of $230 economy). I spend a few hours in the new International section of the airport before heading to the slightly dowdier domestic terminal to catch another Kam Air flight to my destination, Heart (another hour-long flight leaving at midday for a slightly less eye-watering $122.)

Herat Airport also known as Herat Airfield, was established in the 1950s with American aid Herat Airport was initially used for military purposes. Later it was opened for civil use, although it has had to be extensively repaired following Allied forces bombing in 2001. It is now opened up to international air flights and is known as Herat International Airport – although it retains its militaristic feel, a reminder of the country’s recent and ongoing conflict…

Revolution Baby: Motherhood and Anarchy in Kyrgyzstan

2011-09-05T10:59:00.000-07:00

From one Central Asian country that is still reeling from the after-effects of independence from the USSR, I travel to a neighbouring country undergoing similar growing pains: Kyrgyzstan. For this leg of my journey I am reading “Revolution Baby: Motherhood and Anarchy in Kyrgyzstan”, an account by British writer Saffia Farr of her time spent there as the ex-pat wife of a water-engineer husband working on an aid project to bring safe drinking water to the countries outlying regions. As with the previous book, this is a uniquely personal account by a non-native: yet one which is both insightful and engaging, and which explores the process of a Western outsider coming to terms with what is initially an alien environment.

Where this book differs from its predecessor is in its narrator; Saffia Farr, an Englishwoman from Bristol who travelled with her water-engineer husband to Kyrgyzstan just before the country’s revolution. Complicating matters further was the fact that she was expecting her first baby as she arrived in this remote, largely unknown country. Indeed, the Revolution of the title is as much a reference to the personal revolution precipitated by her pregnancy as the wider political revolution going on in the country.

Giving away the ending of a book is not a good idea in a review; but knowing the end of this book will not spoil the experience of reading it.

“Revolution Baby” is not a novel, although to many readers some of it may seem stranger than fiction' - this is an account of Saffia Farr's experiences living in Bishkek, the capital of Kyrgyzstan.

The revolution of the (brilliant) title comes very near the end of the tale - in 2005, Kyrgyz people overthrew Akayev, the country's corrupt president who "only built the Switzerland of Central Asia for his family". Saffia Farr credits an opposition politician with this last quote but it demonstrates her own lightness of touch and humour evident throughout the book.

It is really interesting to learn about the politics and history of this country, part of the former USSR (so remote Rough Guide hasn't found it yet'); but the abiding sense I've taken from Revolution Baby is of the writer herself.

Now living in Tockington, close to where she was brought up, Saffia Farr engages us with accounts of how vulnerable she felt expecting her first baby in a grey, grimly poor country.

We share her very real concerns (like worrying about being infected with AIDS from a less than hygienic blood test) but admire her ability to just get on with living.

And soon, the vertical concrete shoeboxes, inside one of which is her home apartment, become fascinating and even attractive - "I started to appreciate that tenements had different architectural styles; curves and crosses of concrete repeated over facades to create striking geometric patterns." Saffia's photographs deserve more exposure than the reproductions in the centre of this book.

The supporting cast in Revolution Baby is the Bishkek International Women's Club, a bizarre but comfortingly constant collection of ex-pats'. Playgroup' is the backdrop to Saffia's maternal pre-occupations ranging from holding out against having a nanny to Baby Tom's delayed' walking ability.

No review of the book would be complete without mention of the Kyrgyz food and drink that sounds so unappetising to western' ears - koumys (fermented mare's milk), parts of sheep's heads and plaited horse intestine sausages for instance. "The meat hall at Ortosai bazaar is not somewhere to visit if you are verging on vegetarianism."

And the pervading presence of vodka is intriguing - Soviet influence untouched by Islamic sensibilities in this region buffeted by so many greater powers.

In the book's Forward', Brigid Keenan recommends Revolution Baby to anyone who has ever had to travel abroad with a spouse. (Saffia is in Kyrgyzstan with her water-engineer husband Matthew.) I think the book has a much wider impact than this - I look forward to reading more of Saffia Farr's writing.

(Review in italics by Emily Thwaite, for which grateful acknowledgement is given.)

Flying regionally in Central Asia is probably not the safest thing in the world. That being said, fellow travellers have described it as being rather exciting and so with a degree of trepidation I take a plane from Bishtek to Dushanbe, in neighbouring Tajikistan.

The planes that fly between Bishkek and Dushanbe are all local (Tajik Airlines) and are quite small, seating fewer than 50 people, goats, etc.. The flight itself is quite dramatic, as the planes fly at a low altitude over the very dramatic Fergana Valley and Ayni Pass. A one way ticket cost $150, although cheaper options are probably avaialble if you know where to look…

The flight arrives into the international airport in Dushanbe. This is a not the most welcoming experience! The arrival gate, in the Customs Area, is a free for all, with fellow passengers pushing to get ahead in line. Customs and border enforcement can be seen blatantly receiving bribes and the arrival area is without electricity when I arrive...although fortunately it is daytime.

Thus I arrive in Tajikistan ready for the next leg of my journey, “Hurramabad” by native author Andrei Volos. This book is actually a series of novellas that describe various perspectives on the 1992 civil war that followed independence – largely from the viewpoint of the Russian community who suffered some of the worst violence and many of whom fled the country as a result. The Hurramabad of the title is a city, which is a very thinly disguised depiction of the capital Dushanbe.

Taxi to Tashkent: Two Years with the Peace Corps in Uzbekistan

2011-06-21T13:47:00.000-07:00

Before I commence my review of “Taxi To Tashkent”, an account of two years’ spent in Uzbekistan’s Fergana Valley by American Peace Corps volunteer Tom Fleming, I’d like to pause and reflect on my recent travels.

It occurs to me that it has been 13 books and nearly 6 months since the last book authored by a writer native to the country in question (“The Oath”, by Chechnyan Khassan Baiev – who himself wrote the book in exile in the US). This is not through want of trying, on my part, to find a native authored book for each subsequent leg of my journey – they are simply not out there. Of course, this is no doubt partly down to the lack of English translations (a necessity due to my shameful monolinguistic status) but I feel there is something more. In each post-Soviet state I have encountered there is a sense of a nation re-merging from the cultural repression imposed upon it by the former USSR. Under Soviet rule individual national identity - be it religion, arts, literature or even language - were subjugated under the Russian autocracy: even states within Russia itself, which previously had their own cultural identity.

And it is the issue of language which is most pertinent here, and which perhaps explains the lack of native-authored literature for these places. Not only were the inhabitants of these countries stripped of their native languages in favour of the dominant Russian, but in the process they were stripped of their literary heritage – as only those works deemed in keeping with the Communist ethos were ever translated into Russian. The rest of many nation’s literature disappeared along with the native tongues… one can only hope that – along with these newly independent states’ religious and cultural freedoms of expression – a new indigenous literary culture will emerge for these areas.

In the meantime, I have been reliant upon largely Western perspectives for the huge Russian and former Soviet area (with the exception of Victor Pelevin’s brilliant “Sacred Book of the Werewolf” in Moscow back in November 2010). Of course, these perspectives should not be dismissed simply because they are written by ‘foreigners’, but inevitably such accounts will have they own limited focus – be it one of scientific research, travelogue, personal adventure or aid worker…

Which brings me neatly on to the next book on my journey: “Taxi to Tashkent” by 40-year-old American Peace Corps volunteer Tom Fleming. This is a diary format account of two years which he spent in Uzbekistan, teaching AIDS prevention and sex education in the conservative Fergana Valley region. One can hardly imagine a more illustrative example of East – West culture clashes than this, and this interesting book certainly bears this out.

I must admit it took me some time to warm to Fleming as a narrator here… from the outset he comes across as a brash – almost stereotypical – American. The fact that the first chapter is called “Shock and Awe” (referring to his initial disorientation in his new surroundings, but, rather oddly, using a term more commonly associated with overwhelming military force used by US campaigns in the Middle East), seemed to bear this out. Similarly, his early reaction to the unfamiliar locale and people of Uzbekistan appears to be bordering on paranoia:

“ “GOO MORNING!” Uzbek schoolboys shouted, staring with the intensity of vultures as we walked past them.”

To an outsider this seems a slightly churlish description of native children trying out a welcome phrase on a new intake of foreigners…

However, Fleming quickly establishes himself to be a perceptive and eloquent narrator – leading myself as a reader to question whether some of my initial reaction was in itself a stereotypical assumption of the US Peace Corps on my part.

Indeed, Fleming himself is no fan of the Peace Corps’ overly bureaucratic set-up, quickly identifying that administrative processes and internal politics seem to take precedence over actually making a difference to the people the organisation purports to be helping.

Initially, Fleming’s reaction is one of frustration, then rebellion (he and two other friends rent an apartment in Tashkent against Peace Corps rules – and under threat of expulsion – rather than stay in their billeted accommodation), and ultimately anger at the impotence of the mission to make an effective difference. Eventually Fleming strikes out on his own, making rogue presentations on AIDS awareness to communities where discussions of sexual relationships are largely taboo, although frustrations at the long-term effects of his – and his fellow volunteers’ – assignments remain throughout the book.

Indeed, one gets a sense that the real achievements made in Fleming’s assignment are painted in much smaller – though no less impactful – brush strokes. The real story here is not one of US volunteers making a difference on a developing Central Asian nation – rather it is the difference that Uzbekistan and its inhabitants made upon this particular American volunteer. From his initial feeling of paranoia Fleming appears to make some genuine friends during his time in the country. Murat is one individual who springs to mind – a gold-toothed individual who delights in lewd comments (mainly involving his ‘big whale’ and local waitresses), except when piously observing Ramadam; also Timur the Pink Floyd loving barber; and Gulnora - a young student whom Fleming initially takes under his wing to teach English, but whom ultimately he engages in a non-sexual (yet still taboo-breaking, in Uzbek culture) relationship and who dreams of breaking beyond the traditional confines of subservient matrimony. I must admit that this latter relationship left me feeling slightly uncomfortable – there is never a chance of Fleming and Gulnora forming a full relationship in this context, and Fleming’s leaving of Uzbekistan – counterpointed by a tearful phone conversation from Gulnora – seems almost callous and rather egocentric:

“I must go now, Gulnora. Please remember that you helped me out so much.. Promise me that you’ll always remember that.”

Her voice was empty. “I promise, Tom.”

I hung up the phone... a thought came to me that if I were writing a book about all this, my character would say, It was then that I realised that I was ready to leave this country. And that’s exactly how I felt.”

So much for Gulnora. One is tempted to read some sort of colonialist subtext into this exchange but perhaps we are back to my own stereotypes here.

It occurs to me that I have overlooked some of the key descriptions of Uzbekistan in this book, which Fleming provides, and as I say, he is an eloquent and engaging narrator. Certain scenes that linger are his description of his initial billet, which he quickly escapes:

“Across the courtyard the mother picked pebbles from the rice she had spread across a tabletop. She watched nonchalantly as the boy yanked down his shorts and squatted, dropping a little brown turd onto the concrete porch. The boy looked at me with a proud smile…I sat on the sagging bed staring at four dingy walls, my baggage resting by the door. This was my new home in the city of Quva. I would be living here for two years.”

This is a description that makes one wince, and many of the other descriptions in this book make one wince also – generally because of the painful culture clash between well-meaning West and uncomprehending East (most notably the ill-fated staging by one of Fleming’s feminist compatriots of “The Vagina Monologues” in an ultra-conservative district) – but also in recognition of the awful legacy left upon this, and neighbouring nations, by the former Soviet state.

There is a particularly poignant description by Fleming of a trip to the Uzbek coast of the Aral Sea. This is the Sea that Christopher Robins describes in the previous book on Kazakhstan as being decimated by a disastrous Soviet-imposed cotton-growing scheme which involved diverting the Aral’s two main tributaries. As a result, from 1960 to 1998, the sea's surface area shrank by approximately 60%, and its volume by 80%. The region's once prosperous fishing industry has been essentially destroyed, bringing unemployment and economic hardship. The Aral Sea region is also heavily polluted. Whilst there is now an ongoing effort in Kazakhstan to save and replenish the North Aral Sea, Fleming’s description of the ongoing cotton production in the southern Uzbek region – further adding to this ecological disaster zone - is heartbreaking…

To summarise then, this is a book that is largely about Tom Fleming’s personal development through the 2 years he spent in Uzbekistan, yet thanks to Fleming’s engaging writing style, we are able to gain insights into the wider nation and also into the realities and – in many instances – disappointments of Western intervention, no matter how well-meaning, in developing countries. Indeed, a month after Fleming left Uzbekistan, the Peace Corps withdrew from the entire country.

From one Central Asian country that is still reeling from the after-effects of independence from the USSR, I travel to a neighbouring country undergoing similar growing pains: Kyrgyzstan. For this leg of my journey I am reading “Revolution Baby: Motherhood and Anarchy in Kyrgyzstan”, an account by British writer Saffia Farr of her time spent there as the ex-pat wife of a water-engineer husband working on an aid project to bring safe drinking water to the countries outlying regions. As with the previous book, this is a uniquely personal account by a non-native: yet one which is both insightful and engaging, and which explores the process of a Western outsider coming to terms with what is initially an alien environment.

I decide to take the quick and reasonably priced option (€145 one-way) of flying to my next destination, and so I make a trip to Tashkent International Airport, seven miles from the city centre, on Friday. I arrive by midday as I am told passengers need to arrive 3 hours before departure (the flight leaves at 16:35). The airport has all the amenities one would hope for in any airport, and the modestly sized AR8 airplane takes off - and lands – on time. So I arrive after a journey time of 1 hour 20 minutes – in Kyrgyzstan’s decidedly Soviet-looking Manas International Airport at 18:55 (allowing for the hour’s time difference) just north of the capital city of Bishkek, which will be my home for this leg of my trip.

In Search of Kazakhstan: The Land That Disappeared

2011-06-08T15:16:00.000-07:00

I've heard it said that since the release of the British satirical film 'Borat', tourism to Kazakhstan has rocketed. Having neither seen the film, nor being remotely inclined to, I cannot pass any comment on how likely that is. But having read Chris Robbins' book about the country - "Searching for Kazakhstan", I can say I hope it's true. Kazakhs deserve the economic input of tourism, and the country is certainly one that should be explored.

Sadly most travellers will not get the access that Robbins (journalist and award-winning non-fiction author, who speaks Russian and has all the right connections) was lucky enough to obtain... but even so... it's a place to add to the wish-list.

Chris Robbins is tempted to visit Kazakhstan by a chance encounter on a plane. On a flight to Moscow a fellow-passenger from Little Rock tells him that he is en route to Kazakhstan to meet his future wife... he also tells him that Apples are from Kazakhstan ~ which would have been a much better title for the book.

Although in traditional travelogue style Robbins tells us about his wanderings in this unknown country squeezed south of Russia between China and the Caspian Sea, a country as big as Western Europe but virtually unheard of until that movie, what he is really setting out to do is explain Kazakhstan. As he tells one of his friends on a subsequent visit... he wants to put across "a sense of Kazakh courage and heart... Unless people understand where Kazakhstan has come from, they won't be able to appreciate what it has become."

He certainly manages to get that sense of the Kazakhs across and to convey just how far the country has come, how quickly, how unfairly it has sometimes been misrepresented in the West and how the people and their president know they still have a ways to go.

He does this by clearly having done his research before he went. This isn't a wanderer's tale by any means. This is a project. Robbins has clear ideas of the places he wants to see, and probably (in general terms) the stories he wants to tell, before he arrives in the country. After all, he freely admits before he starts that he "has a publisher" - so the story is already sold... he just needs to fill in the details. That shouldn't detract, however, because the details he finds to fill in are serendipitous.

Getting locked in a subterranean disco where even the bouncers can't let you out, probably wasn't part of the plan.

Finding your friend has connections to the president might make you hopeful of gaining an interview... but presumably doesn't lead you to anticipate an invitation for a three day presidential tour, access to some remote and forbidden places, further meetings stretching over a two-year period, including late-night conversations about what it was like to grow up on a collective and then "betray" your family by joining the communist party and rising through the ranks, unashamedly doing the things that were done in that rise (albeit in the name of getting what your state needed from the system).

Conversations with President Nazarbayev provide an "official insider's" view of the country and its relations with its neighbours. A view that is balanced by other journeys with more ordinary people... journeys to visit the berkutchy (the eagle ruler) who hunts with a golden eagle as casually as a falconer would fly a Merlin... or to find a jewellery maker whose wares fund his labour of love restoring the grave goods from ancient Kazakh noblemen - goods which suggest links with the fables of our country the Knights of the Round Table, the Holy Grail ... or to find an old man who treasures the political disagreements at his kitchen table for the very fact that they can happen, a man who survived the Gulag.

With witty asides and the usual run of travellers' tale anecdotes, the real stories are told in straightforward journalistic style. There are few passages that I found moving (the Gulag survivor aside), but much that is shocking in terms of the horrors inflicted in past times, which always become more real when individualised.

The real gift of the book, though, is in the simple telling of things that we already know and things that we don't... things linked only by the fact that they are all part of Kazakhstan's hard-won heritage. The nuclear tests and the precise moment when Sakharov finally understood the reality of his work. The destruction of the Aral Sea... and the endeavours to bring it back from the brink. Covert operations with the USA to deal with nuclear material that the Russians couldn't take back because they'd (a) forgotten about it, (b) wouldn't be able to account for it since it was 'missing' from the original records and (c) couldn't afford to deal with it if it was returned. We travel with early English explorers and learn of the pre-flight rituals of the cosmonauts. Spend time in the Gulag Archipelago with its author, and discover how he is viewed in the country today... share similar reflections on Trotsky and Dostoevsky who have their own strong connections to the area.

It is still a country of contradictions. One coveted on all sides (by China, by Russia, by Turkey) but which chose to be nuclear free. A country which, when the higher echelons were accused of political assassination, invited the FBI to investigate - but is gradually turning its economic interests towards China. A country ruled by a firm presidential power, but determined to become democratic enough to win the approval of the US & the UK. A country sophisticated enough to introduce a new currency virtually overnight, but one where barter was commonplace right at the end of the 20th century. A place with a wealth of minerals that is only just beginning to reap their rewards. Where nomads might still hunt with eagles, but Sir Norman Foster is the architect of choice for civic structures. A country with some of the most beautiful, unspoilt places on earth and without a doubt some of the most devastated wasteland ever created by man.

It is a place that is not easy to visit - not because you won't be welcome, the Kazakh hospitality is legendary (though vegetarians might struggle a little) - but because of sheer scale of the emptiness. 15 million people spread over 1 million square miles. (Compare with Britain's 59 million crammed into 93,000 square miles). The steppe is bleak and more vast that we can imagine. The summer heat and the winter cold are extremes beyond the experience of Western Europeans. Infrastructure is still in its infancy, and transport vehicles often struggling on well into their old age. But it is a place that Robbins will tempt you to... to see the original wild apple orchards, to smell the crushed wormwood, to the beautiful mountains, and even the much reduced Aral Sea is still an inland wonder of a kind. There are city parks, and superb new architecture. The soviet era remnants are slowly being swept away... but it is still a place steeped in the momentous history of the 20th century - its politics, its literature, its science, all have roots or have left traces here.

Stylistically simple, ill-served by the choice of cover design and illustrated throughout with Bob Gale's ink-sketches, it has the feel of somewhat naïve book that doesn't do justice to the wealth of information it contains.

Not a book that makes you immediately want to go back and start the journey over again... but one that you will find yourself dipping back into for half-remembered facts and amusement... and one that might just make you want to go see for yourself.
(Thanks to Lesley Mason)

And so, without further ado, I continue my global trek to Uzbekistan. Having spent nearly two days on a train in my last transfer – as well as various modes of travel during my stay in Kazakhstan, including some hair-raising helicopter trips! – I opt to fly from Almaty to Tashkent (the Uzbek capital) on an Uzbekistan Airways 764 flight. For £90 I get a 1 hour, 50 minute non-stop journey, and find myself in another former Soviet Republic struggling to cope in a post-independence era. On this occasion my stopover is courtesy of American Peace Corps volunteer Tom Fleming, with his account of a two-year posting in the country entitled “Taxi to Tashkent”.

The Road to Miran: Travels in the Forbidden Zone of Xinjiang

2011-06-08T14:56:00.000-07:00

I now visit another 'Autonomous Region' of China - Xinjiang - courtesy of "The Road to Miran" by German author and traveller Christa Paula.

Christa Paula, an intrepid young student of Asian art and archaeology, set off in 1989 to explore an area closed to Westerners as well as to most Chinese, and one which is firmly under military rule. Tall and blonde, she travelled for the most part incognito, disguised in a Pathan cap, old grey jacket and big padded trousers. Her goal was Miran, the ancient Buddhist site of second-century wall paintings. In the company of Chang, a maverick taxi driver, Christa Paula travelled through an area dotted with nuclear testing sites, forced labour camps and mines in which prisoners dig and process asbestos without protective clothing. She discovered that villages which exist on maps are now radiation-contaminated ghost towns, and she witnessed everywhere the seeds of discontent and political unrest.

This book is a truly engaging and insightful account of this remote and politically isolated region. A full review which does this book justice will follow soon - however, time constraints mean that I cannot complete this just now. As soon as I have finished an appropriate account of this fascinating trip – which it truly deserves - I will update this entry.

In the meantime, I take my leave (for now, there will be several more trips in the future journey) of the massive landmass that is China, and make my way to the former Soviet Republic of Kazakhstan, courtesy of Christopher Robbins’ “In Search of Kazakhstan.”

I decide to take the twice-weekly train (N895) that links China with Kazakhstan, starting in Ürümqi and running to Almaty. The train is called the 'Zhibek Zholy' and it has modern air-conditioned soft class (4-berth sleeper compartments) and hard class (open-plan bunks). A Chinese restaurant car runs from Ürümqi to Druzhba and a Kazak restaurant car runs from the Chinese frontier at Druzhba to Almaty.

The ticket is very reasonably priced at 834 yuan - £78 - and is sorted out by a local (Ürümqi) travel agent with minimal fuss. He charges 100 yuan commission for each ticket which is fine given the smooth transaction. His name is Steven Zhang (zyztouratyahoo.cn.com) and he speaks excellent English.

What makes the price even more of a bargain is the fact that I get the tickets in advance at my hotel and I am the only person in a four bed cabin on this journey – an unexpected luxury! And such a luxury should not be underestimated on a trip of this nature: despite travelling to a neighbouring country, this is no short-hop trip: the train leaves Ürümqi at 23:58 on Monday, arriving at the Kazakh border at 09.20 on Tuesday, before finally pitching up in Almaty station at 06:40 on Wednesday…

It takes a long time to cross the border, about three hours wait on each side but I have to say it wasn't a bad place to wait, looking out at the empty steppe and the mountains. I would recommend getting this train, it's quite an experience and a very comfortable way to travel from China to Kazakhstan.

Bones of the Master: A Journey to a Secret Mongolia

2011-05-29T03:26:00.000-07:00

In 1959 a young monk named Tsung Tsai escapes the Red Army troops that destroy his monastery, and flees alone three thousand miles across a China swept by chaos and famine. Knowing his fellow monks are dead, himself starving and hunted, he is sustained by his mission: to carry on the teachings of his Buddhist meditation master, who was too old to leave with his disciple.

Nearly forty years later Tsung Tsai — now an old master himself — persuades his American neighbour, maverick poet George Crane, to travel with him back to his birthplace in the at the edge of the Gobi Desert - now in the Autonomous Region of Inner Mongolia in China.

They are unlikely companions. Crane seeks freedom, adventure, sensation. Tsung Tsai is determined to find his master's grave and plant the seeds of a spiritual renewal in China. As their search culminates in a torturous climb to a remote mountain cave, it becomes clear that this seemingly quixotic quest may cost both men's lives.

The review below is by Joan Halifax Roshi, for which grateful acknowedgement is given.

"This is one very extraordinary book! First, I must say I do admire its writer, poet George Crane. He draws us into the world of the Buddhist monk Tsung Tsai with consummate skill. In the first page of this dramatic true story, the reader feels the rhythm, flesh, and tones of Tsung Tsai's remote monastery of the 1950's as if we and the author Crane were actually there. And we never lose this feeling of immediacy as the tale unfolds, and the poet-author Crane takes us from Woodstock to Mongolia, from Hong Kong to New York City.

"Who is this monk Tsung Tsai living in Woodstock, New York? His name means Ancestor Wisdom, and we find as this tale unfolds that he is true to his name. We learn that when he was a young monk, Tsung Tsai makes a hair-raising 2000 mile escape out of China from the Red Army that was flooding and destroying China in 1959. This is a China that is swept by famine and chaos. His monastery is destroyed, its monks are killed, China is flattened, and he is a hunted man. He also has been forced to leave his beloved hermit teacher Shiuh Deng in a cave in the far reaches of the mountains.

"Pursued and starved, Tsung Tsai slips through the eye of a small painful needle to freedom. Forty years later, he with Crane return to this remote region on the edge of the Gobi to find the bones of his beloved master and to renew the spirit of Buddhism in China. They return to a still unfriendly China, and a China whose peoples are living with very little. And we cannot but feel the utter desolation of this minimalist world.

"The encounter with Crane in Woodstock, New York, has many poignant and comic aspects. Crane is definitely not a believer. Yet the old monk quietly takes him into this world with his strange and penetrating humor and big mind wisdom. Tsung Tsai,
though, is not just an ordinary monk. He is a shaman and trickster as well. I am sure that some readers will compare the relationship between the monk and Crane to Castenada's relationship to Don Juan. However, this "Don Juan", our new friend Tsung Tsai, happens to be the monk down the street. We meet him through George Crane's heart and mind, and we like him. We also know that we can find him in Woodstock, New York. He is humble, really smart, funny, wise, spare, and old. He is also a shaman, scholar, and poet. In his Woodstock hut, he sleeps on a pile of cardboard boxes and keeps the scene around him to the very basics. And whenever he opens his mouth, we and Mr. Crane are all ears.

"Their friendship unfolds through the translation of poetry. Then one day, Tsung Tsai has the chance to return to China. We know little of this journey except that when he returns to the States, he seems to be deeply disturbed by what he encountered in China. True to our hero Tsung Tsai, he has a completely unlikely vision that brings him and Crane back to China to find the bones of his teacher in order to give them a proper burial. How will they manage this, you ask? They are both dirt poor. This is a highly unpublished poet and an unknown monk. Don't worry; our monk has this all worked out. Go to New York City, auction off the book of the story of their mission, get the advance, go to China, do the deed, then write the book about what happens. And so it goes, and are we fortunate! The adventure proceeds from there.

"I do not want to spoil the tale for you. Just to say, this is one trip I would probably not want to do in the flesh. Crane amazes me in how he hung in there. He now is my hero too. I have been in some pretty remote and rough places in the world, and I could taste the cold, smoke and hunger that Crane and Tsung Tsai bring
to us. The scalding , blowing sand of the Gobi Desert scours us out. The dank rooms they stay in oppress us. The insane walk up the mountain to find Tsung Tsai's Master's bones takes our breath away. We do not know if our heroes will survive. And their relationship takes on a whole new dimension, moving from curiosity to love as this tale culminates.

"George Crane was a foreign correspondent and authored four books of poems in addition to the translations he has done with his monk friend. Tsung Tsai is a meditation teacher, doctor of classical Chinese medicine, martial arts adept, poet, and calligrapher. We hope that he has a long life ahead of him. In the end, I can say that this is a beautifully written book and an extraordinary story that inspires and teaches. I bow in gratitude to these two men whose connection has already benefited many."

So, with thanks to both George Crane - and also Joan Halifax Roshi for the review - I leave Inner Mongolia for another 'Autonomous Region' of China - Xinjiang - courtesy of "The Road to Miran" by German author and traveller Christa Paula.

Christa Paula, an intrepid young student of Asian art and archaeology, set off in 1989 to explore an area closed to Westerners as well as to most Chinese, and one which is firmly under military rule. Tall and blonde, she travelled for the most part incognito, disguised in a Pathan cap, old grey jacket and big padded trousers. Her goal was Miran, the ancient Buddhist site of second-century wall paintings. In the company of Chang, a maverick taxi driver, Christa Paula travelled through an area dotted with nuclear testing sites, forced labour camps and mines in which prisoners dig and process asbestos without protective clothing. She discovered that villages which exist on maps are now radiation-contaminated ghost towns, and she witnessed everywhere the seeds of discontent and political unrest.

So from Xinjiang I opt to fly rather than endure another lengthy train journey. I leave from Hohhot Baita International Airport (the largest airport in Inner Mongolia) taking the 'China Southern Airlines' direct flight CZ6928, leaving at 21.05 and arriving just 3 hours 20 minutes later at 00.25. The flight is a bargain at £219 on eBookers - over £100 cheaper than any other quoted flight (although a train would have been about £34 - but taking over 29 hours!). I arrive on time at Ürümqi Diwopu International Airport - a vast, modern and very busy airport 10 miles northwest of downtown Ürümqi - in the capital of the "Forbidden Zone" of Xinjiang.

Walking the Gobi: 1,600 Mile-trek Across a Desert of Hope and Despair

2011-05-28T15:01:00.000-07:00

As mentioned in the previous review of “Dateline Mongolia”, although I learned much about modern urban living in Mongolia I was also fascinated to visit the ‘other’ Mongolia – the unknown wilderness of the Gobi Desert and its native nomadic culture. For this leg of my journey, I chose the book “Walking the Gobi: 1,600 Mile-trek Across a Desert of Hope and Despair” by Helen Thayer. The Gobi Desert is a barren stretch of Mongolia that runs north of China, south of Russia and far from everything; not an ideal place to visit, except by book! Fortunately, the daring Thayer, age 63, fights nature and common sense for us, a fascinating account of her 1,600 mile journey with her husband, Bill, 74.

As I am already in Mongolia, my journey to this next leg is minimal – and involves a flight from Ulaanbataar in a cramped single engine plane belonging to Chuluu, a Mongolian pilot who dropped off and ferried supplies to the Thayers on their epic trip..

In Thayer’s words: “The crumbling concrete buildings, potholed streets, and crowded markets of Ulaan Baatar dropped away behind us as Chuluu set a southwestern course, which would take us to the far western edge of the desert on the Chinese border” and into "a parched rocky land that showed not a glimmer of welcome”. And so, in this forbidding, yet exciting scenario, I set out in the company of two adventurous pensioners to traverse the Mongolian Gobi – all 1600 miles of it!

The following review is by Bonnie Gayle Hood from the website www.goodreads.com, for which grateful acknowledgement is given.

“This was an amazing book, and contained everything I long for in a non-fiction book: daring-do adventure, a plot so amazing that it would work in a fiction book, and a place I have never been before.

“At times you have to remind yourself that this really happened, as I found it d difficult to believe. The book tells the story of Helen Thayer and her husband, in their 60's and 70's respectively, who, not long after a horrible rear-end collision with a truck, on a bridge in Seattle, that hurt her, from her spine all the way down to her feet, walked 1,600 miles across the Gobi desert in 81 days, in Mongolia, in the blistering, lip-cracking, 120+ degree summer heat.

"They did it with only 2 camels, which they named Tom and Jerry, who carried their supplies. They weren't allowed radios, as they were too close to the Chinese border.

“Their walk was fraught with danger: they nearly died of dehydration, they were almost thrown into a Chinese prision, they came across smugglers, they were bit by scorpions, and she had to consume mass quantities of pain pills to make it with her injuries.

“They also encountered great kindness, and at times almost smothering hospitality, from each and every Mongolian they encountered, in addition to coming to love the land around them, and making friends with Tom and Jerry.

“I adored how their focus was on honoring the people, customs, animals, and land of Mongolia. The reader can't help but come away with, not only a better understanding, but also a greater appreciation for the people who make the Gobi desert their home. She is a descriptive writer, and at times, all they see for days on end is flat nothingness, but it never gets boring or monotonous. She has a way of zeroing in on the interesting moments.

“I also really enjoyed the book's interesting factoids about the Gobi desert. I found myself raising my eyebrows in wonder at least every other page, especially toward the beginning of the book. For example, did you know that only 3% of the Gobi is covered with sand? Or that, during the winter, the Gobi is covered with snow, and averages -40 degrees?

“The only 2 things I wished for were captions about the black and white photographs at the beginning of each chapter, so that the reader would know what they were looking at, and in fact, it would have been nice to have a section of color photos in the center of the book. I also wished for an inventory list of what they took on their journey.

“For those who have a hike across a desert on their life's to-do list, and for those who are arm chair adventurers (I'm in the 2nd category) this book is a riveting non-fiction read.”

And so, with thanks to Bonnie Gayle Hood for the review, I reluctantly leave this country - which lived up to all of my expectations – and make the first of several journeys to Mongolia’s massive neighbour China. As with the six other largest countries in the world (Russia, India, Australia, Brazil, the United States and Canada) I am splitting this territory up into constituent parts to get a full feel of the place. In this case I am visiting each of China’s “Autonomous Regions” as well as the central region (including Beijing) and certain contentious states such as Hong Kong and Shanghai.

My first foray into China is – appropriately enough given that I have just left Mongolia – the Autonomous Region of Inner Mongolia. This journey is courtesy of “Bones of the Master: A Journey to Secret Mongolia“ by US author George Crane. This tells the story of a Buddhist monk, Tsung Tsai, who in 1959 fled from the Red Army who had destroyed his monastery and walked 3000 miles across China, determined to carry on the teachings of his master. Forty years later, Tsung Tsai travels back to his birthplace with the author, to find his master's grave in the remote Crow Pull Mountain area in Inner Mongolia and to build a shrine.

Having returned from the Gobi wasteland to Ulaanbaatar, I make my way to Ulaanbaatar’s rather Georgian-looking train station and catch the 4604 train from Ulaanbaatar to Hohhot, the capital of inner Mongolia. One of the most popular Trans-Siberian / Trans-Mongolian trains for both Russians and foreigners, the train is operated by Russian and Chinese staff. When the train passes from Mongolia into China, the wheels of the train are changed to a smaller gauge, which takes a few hours, and I am glad I paid the extra $40 ($215 in total) for first class with a shower facility. It also has a nice car-restaurant.

Thus I leave from Ulaanbaatar at 10.00pm on Monday and arrive at Hohhot on Tuesday at 10.05am feeling surprisingly refreshed...

Dateline Mongolia: Urban Travels in Nomad’s Land

2011-05-19T13:54:00.000-07:00

As mentioned in my last entry, the next leg of my journey is Mongolia (also commonly referred to as Outer Mongolia; Inner Mongolia now being a province within China). This is one country that I have always been fascinated with from afar, and I was really looking forward to my trip there. One aspect of this country which has always intrigued me is its conflicting reputation as both an unknown wilderness (typified in its vast expanse of Gobi Desert and native nomadic culture) and a former stronghold of the Soviet Union, as seen in the concrete edifices of its capital city, Ulaanbataar. As such, and because of my fascination with this country, I allocated two books to Mongolia which hopefully capture, between them, these dual aspects. The first of these "Dateline Mongolia" is located mainly in the capital of Ulaanbaatar (with frequent excursions much further afield in the country), and details three years spent in the country by American immigrant Michael Kohn during his stint as editor of the state newspaper, the Mongol Messenger.

Mongolia was obviously one of Kohn’s favourite stops — as Lonely Planet travel guides’ Mongolia man, he speaks the language and has hung out all over that semi-autonomous Northeast Asian region, from the Gobi desert and the Altai mountains to the capital, Ulaanbaatar. He was also the main author for guides to Tibet and Colombia, and helped out compiling info for three more volumes. But his main job for three years was editor of The Mongol Messenger, Mongolia’s state-owned newspaper. So when he claims, for instance, that the government’s new tax on mining companies is making foreign investors in that country nervous, you’d best believe it.

Kohn’s book details what he saw when he arrived in the late ’90s: a country in transition from the traditional, isolated Mongolia of rugged people living in gers (aka yurts) in a wild and beautiful landscape to a place eager to join the world marketplace, where SUVs and the Internet are more important than yaks and camels. In other words, a place like any other — except that it’s situated in one of the most distinctive regions on the planet, the steppes that bred Genghis Khan.

The book highlights Mongolia's transition from the early days of Genghis Khan, to the later days of Communism, and to the current days of the emergence into the Western Culture. It tells of the author's journeys through the country and its cultural milieu, from child jockeys, to falcon poaching to exiled Buddhist leaders and to wars between lamas and shamans.

This is a vivid, informative, and irresistible journey through one of the world's most isolated and mysterious countries. It is a nation where falcon poachers, cattle rustlers, exiled Buddhist monks, death-defying child jockeys, and political assassins can be found in virtually every town. "Dateline Mongolia" is written with a fast-paced, journalistic style offering a unique perspective on a little-known society - from the politicians and businessmen trying to deal with the challenges being thrown up since the country was released from the clutches of Communism in 1990 to the spiritual turf war being waged between lamas, shamans, Mormon elders, and Christian Missionaries. This is a compelling read and more than satisfied my curiosity about the urban aspects of this mysterious land.

As mentioned above, I was also fascinated to visit the ‘other’ Mongolia – the unknown wilderness of the Gobi Desert and its native nomadic culture. For this leg of my journey, I chose the book “Walking the Gobi: 1,600 Mile-trek Across a Desert of Hope and Despair” by Helen Thayer. The Gobi Desert is a barren stretch of Mongolia that runs north of China, south of Russia and far from everything; not an ideal place to visit, except by book! Fortunately, the daring Thayer, age 63, fights nature and common sense for us, a fascinating account of her 1,600 mile journey with her husband, Bill, 74.

As I am already in Mongolia, my journey to this next leg is minimal – and involves a flight from Ulaanbataar in a cramped single engine plane belonging to Chuluu, a Mongolian pilot who dropped off and ferried supplies to the Thayers on their epic trip..

In Thayer’s words: “The crumbling concrete buildings, potholed streets, and crowded markets of Ulaan Baatar dropped away behind us as Chuluu set a southwestern course, which would take us to the far western edge of the desert on the Chinese border” and into "a parched rocky land that showed not a glimmer of welcome”. And so, in this forbidding, yet exciting scenario, I set out in the company of two adventurous pensioners to traverse the Mongolian Gobi – all 1600 miles of it!

The Museum at the End of the World: Encounters in the Russian Far East

2011-04-20T13:38:00.000-07:00

"The Museum at the End of the World: Encounters in the Russian Far East" is a difficult book to categorise. It is not ethnography, yet the authors are self-identified ethnographers and the descriptions and prose are clearly in an ethnographic style. It is not a history of museums and museum expeditions in far-eastern Russia, but it includes some wonderful historical anecdotes on the American Museum of Natural History’s (AMNH) Jesup Expedition, conducted at the turn of the twentieth century. It is not a survey of museums in the Russian Far East, but it does provide valuable descriptions of regional museums located in Providenia, Anadyr, Magadan, Khabarovsk, Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky, Esso, and Palana. It is an academic anthropological travel book, and this contradiction between the scholarly and popular genres produces both the strengths and weaknesses of the work.

Alexia Bloch was a junior anthropologist, having then just finished her dissertation based on extensive fieldwork in central Siberia. She was working at the AMNH as a postdoctoral fellow when the trip was made in 1998. Laurel Kendall is a senior anthropologist, curator of the Asian section in the AMNH anthropology department, with decades of experience in Korea and some work in China and Vietnam, as well. The "Museum at the End of the World" is titled ironically, and the authors do a good job at highlighting the cosmopolitan histories and present realities of even the small towns in the Russian Far East—nearly every town they visit has a foreign anthropologist in residence, and there are burgeoning relationships with Alaska and other parts of the US, Canada, China, Japan, and Korea, especially in trade. On the other hand, the authors’ own troubles securing air tickets and making flights highlight the drastic contraction in post-Soviet transport infrastructure and the lessened mobility of local Siberians with the reduction of subsidies from the centre. Bloch and Kendall visit regional museums (roughly in the order listed above), bringing CD-ROMs of the Siberian Jesup collection and copies of a recent catalogue of the Drawing Shadows to Stone photographic exhibit of Jesup photographs (from both sides of the Pacific but emphasising the Siberian collections) for museums and libraries. The book is an account of their journey, punctuated with excerpts from letters or early articles describing the travels and adventures undergone by Vladimir Bogoras, Vladimir Jochelson, and Berthold Laufer as they investigated Chukotka, northern Kamchatka, and the Amur River area, respectively, in 1900-1902. Reading about Laufer’s visa problems due to his being a German Jew and the Tsar’s secret instructions to local authorities to thwart and monitor Jochelson at every step, due to his history as a revolutionary exile, puts Bloch’s and Kendall’s visa worries and air ticket snafus in perspective. While it may not seem so to contemporary travellers in the Russian Far East, political and infrastructural conditions for travel and research have vastly improved over the course of the twentieth century.

Regional museums in the Soviet Union were often a “grass-roots” affair, especially in the smaller towns, and they reflect the idiosyncratic curiosities, as well as the particular intellectual and material resources of the communities that they represent. The authors were treated to thorough (if sometimes tedious) tours of all the exhibits in each museum, and I enjoyed the descriptions, although I would have liked a few more pictures of the displays. One of the main goals of Bloch and Kendall’s trip was to build relationships between the AMNH and local museums, and just as importantly, to connect with local indigenous communities to provide them with information about the AMNH collections and lay the groundwork for possible future projects connecting New York better with the Russian Far East. As they recount, these two objectives cannot always be pursued simultaneously. Many of the museums, especially the larger ones in cities like Magadan, Khabarovsk, and Petropavlovsk are managed by non-native “newcomers” and their priorities do not always put indigenous people and their interests first. However, we also learn that the category “newcomer” does not always reflect an individual’s social ties or political heart. For example, the director of the museum in Palana was a Koryak man, but he was so indifferent to Bloch and Kendall’s visit that he went on vacation the month they were supposed to arrive and left it to his deputy, the “newcomer” Tatiana Volkova, to receive the Americans.

In writing this book, the authors have produced clear, accessible prose without the jargon and few of the preoccupations that define anthropology. It is, however, a scholarly work published by a university press, so all sources are properly referenced and the bibliography covers all the important sources on the history of the Jesup expedition and the anthropology of the region. Peculiar Russian/Soviet habits and institutions are explained, and the authors are acutely aware of the social and political ramifications of their presence in, and representations of, the Russian Far East. It is a solid work and the authors are to be commended for that. The authors are especially to be commended for the fact that - what could have been a dry and overly anthropological work - is actually a highly engaging account that gives the reader a real sense of the Russian Far East; albeit from the perspective of an interested outsider.

And so, after just over 5 months of literary travel in this massive country; I take my leave of Russia. The next leg of my journey is Mongolia (also commonly referred to as Outer Mongolia; Inner Mongolia now being a province within China). This is one country that I have always been fascinated with from afar, and I am really looking forward to my trip there. One aspect of this country which has always intrigued me is its conflicting reputation as both an unknown wilderness (typified in its vast expanse of Gobi Desert and native nomadic culture) and a former stronghold of the Soviet Union, as seen in the concrete edifices of its capital city, Ulaanbataar. As such, and because of my fascination with this country, I am allocating two books to Mongolia which hopefully capture, between them, these dual aspects. The first of these "Dateline Mongolia" is located mainly in the capital of Ulaanbaatar (with frequent excursions much further afield in the country), and details three years spent in the country by American immigrant Michael Kohn during his stint as editor of the state newspaper, the Mongol Messenger.

Given the randomness of travel in this region of the world, I bite the bullet financially, and decide to go for the relative security of a scheduled flight from Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky airport in the Far Eastern District to Ulaanbataar airport. This is a gruelling 21 hour 50 minute flight with Rossiya Airlines and then Aeroflot (stopping off briefly at Moscow), and costs an even more gruelling £1,518.70 for the one-way flight. However I arrive on time (at 6.10 in the morning) and reasonably refreshed, and ready to explore Mongolia...

Once Upon a Time in Siberia: A Journey Across Russia's Wild East (Russian Siberian Federal District)

2011-04-20T13:07:00.000-07:00

In all his travel writing, Colin Thubron combines acute observation with a deep historical awareness. These characteristics are certainly in evidence for "In Siberia" his account of a trip from the western Urals through to theb Fareast of this massive country. It has to be said, however, that the tone of the book is sombre - hardly surprising in view of the terrible events that took place over many centuries in Siberia. Thubron describes it as Russia's Elsewhere. "Long before Communism located the future in an urban paradise, Siberia was a rural waste into which were cast the bacilli infecting the state body: the criminal, the sectarian, the politically dissident." One is reminded of how the British thought of Australia in the nineteenth century. And yet, paradoxically, Siberia was also seen as a haven of primitive innocence, almost an Arcadia.

Again and again in his journey, Thubron encounters regret at loss of faith. Many of the people he meets (he is evidently fluent in Russian) talk of the failure of Communism almost in religious terms. Some, though not all, have turned back to religion, sometimes in strange forms. Siberia was also the original home of shamanism; shamans were persecuted by the Communists and since its demise there has been an attempt to revive the ancient beliefs and traditions. Thubron attempts to find authentic shamans but there are hardly any left, and even those that still exist appear to have preserved only fragments of what once was.

The search for new forms of faith appears among scientists too, for whom the boundary between science and magic seems to be hazy. (Kirlian photography was a Russian invention.) Near Novosibirsk Thubron visits the grandly named Institute of Clinical and Expermental Medicine. Here he is shown an apparatus for measuring the magnetic signature of patients. This was supposed to treat or at least diagnose epilepsy and cancer. Part of the equipment was not working owing to the failure of the electricity supply but Thubron was persuaded to try a "hypomagnetic chamber" which was functioning and was intended to open up "psycho-physical recesses not normally explored", although there was the usual let-out clause: it all depends on the individual responsiveness. Thubron, it appeared, was not sufficiently sensitive: he felt nothing and failed to detect the dummy machine from the real one.

At the end of his journey, at the Yakutsk Academy of Sciences, Thubron meets Yuri Mochanov, an archaeologist who insists that he has discovered evidence that civilization began in Siberia and is two and a half million years old. Mochanov is puzzled and hurt by the refusal of Western archaeologists to take him seriously. And yet he does seem to have discovered something of interest: evidence of occupation of the Arctic edge at a much more remote period than had been previously known, some 300,000 years ago, but his isolation from mainstream science had fostered unsustainable beliefs in him.

Two of Thubron's Siberian journeys stand out particularly. In one, he takes a steamer north to the Arctic Circle on the River Yenisei, arriving finally at Dudinka, a nightmarish place inhabited by people who have lost all hope and seem to do little but drink and occasionally hunt the remains of the once-plentiful reindeer herds. And yet, when he leaves, they club together to give him a parting gift: a plastic bag full of omul salmon, which he is unable to use.

The final journey takes him to the Pacific, but here too the temperature is glacial. And he goes to visit the remains of the camps where the victims of Stalin's purges were sent. An unimaginable two million people were killed here, in conditions as appalling as those of the Nazi death camps. Thubron spares the reader little in his description of what occurred, though he does not speculate on why this terrible crime should be so comparatively little known in the West. Is it because it was not genocide (Stalin was impartial in his choice of victims), or because Stalin was our ally in the war?

Things are at least better now, Thubron tells his guide as they contemplate the site, though one senses a question in his statement. Yuri does not seem entirely convinced. "Those were religious times, in a way," he says. "People believed things." Again we find this longing for a faith. Thubron leaves us with the hope that such events could never happen again, but it is a hope rather than a certainty.

Few travel books these days lack photographs, but this is an exception. Thubron seems to have travelled pretty rough and it would have been difficult to carry a camera safely, but I suspect that he would not have wanted one in any case. His writing is certainly vivid enough to evoke a sense of place, but what interests him is not the surface of things but what lies underneath and in the past. For this, pictures would be an irrelevance and a distraction. © Anthony Campbell (2004)

From this bleak - yet strangely exotic - wilderness I do not need to travel far, for the next leg of my journey is still within Russia. It is, in fact, my final port of call in Russia: the Far Eastern Federal District. Indeed, such is the amorphous nature of the remote Russian Far East, I am already in this district, as Colin Thurbron's journey across Siberia ended in the port town of Magadan, the administrative center of Magadan Oblast which is located in the Far Eastern District. This is fortunate as - as the following account demonstrates - reliable travel to and from this remote district of Russia is virtually non-existent.

For my final trip within Russia I am travelling to a number of remote locations in the Russian Far East courtesy of the book "The Museum at the End of the World: Encounters in the Russian Far East." A little over a century ago the American Museum of Natural History launched its ambitious Jesup North Pacific Expedition to learn more about the peoples inhabiting the remote easternmost extension of Russia and the northwest coast of North America. In this book anthropologists Alexia Bloch and Laurel Kendall tell the story of their journey through this same part of the world in 1998, retracing the old expedition as they link the expedition legacy of artifacts, photographs, and archival material from the museum in New York to the present-day descendants of its subjects. Thus I set off of this journey from Provideniya, a small settlement situated on Komsomolskaya Bay, in the northeastern part of the Chukotka Autonomous Okrug.

Yekaterinburg: The Thawing of the Cold War Reveals A Deadly Secret. (Russian Urals Federal District)

2011-02-18T12:59:00.000-08:00

In April of 1979 the city of Sverdlovsk (now known by its original name of Yekaterinburg) in Russia's Urals Federal District was struck by a frightening anthrax epidemic. Official Soviet documents reported sixty-four human deaths resulting from the ingestion of tainted meat sold on the black market, but U.S. intelligence sources implied a different story, and the lack of documentation left unresolved questions. In her account of an investigation by a team of US scientists in 1992 - "Anthrax: The Investigation of a Deadly Outbreak" - Jeanne Guillemin addresses the mystery of what really happened during that tragic event in Sverdlovsk.

Anthrax is a virulent and deadly bacteria whose spores can remain in soil for as long as seventy years, killing grazing animals and putting humans in jeopardy of eating infected meat. Contemporary concern is more centred on anthrax as an airborne biological weapon whose inhaled spores can result in ninety percent mortality for those infected.

As part of a team of doctors and researchers, Jeanne Guillemin travelled to Russia in 1992 to determine the cause and extent of the epidemic. Her affecting narrative transforms a case of epidemiological investigation into a politically charged mystery. What helps here – and I must admit that I was worried that this hefty book might prove to be heavy going – is that Guillemin is an anthropologist, rather than a biologist. Her concern in the investigation is to talk to the survivors of the outbreak, to build up a picture of the movements of the victims and also their daily living in order to identify any patterns. Thus, through her interviews with residents of 1990s Yekaterinburg, we gain a fascinating insight into the lives of ordinary people from before and after “Perestroika”.

She also creates a vivid sense of immediacy and drama with her insider's account of the team's investigative work—the analysis of pathology photos and slides, meetings with political and public health officials, the retrieval of essential medical data—and candidly reveals the subjective side of science as she conducts interviews with afflicted families, visits sites, and interacts with those suspected of clouding the truth.

And indeed, there are many of the ‘old guard’ of the Communist era here who toe the official line of tainted meat as the source of the outbreak – rather than the more controversial possibility of an accidental emission from a nearby military compound (Compound 19). This despite, the seeming contradiction of then President Boris Yeltsin - who was party official of Sverdlovsk during the outbreak - awarding pensions to relatives of the victims in the 1990s.

Guillemin however, is even-handed in her accounts of these former Soviet scientists and their motives. As she says of one: “Burgasov is completely of the old Soviet order, an anachronism, an old bear hiding in the woods. Whether or not he really knew what was going on at Compound 19, he did not break rank…. When he... presented the official Soviet explanation of the outbreak, he probably believed everything he said.” Guillemin displays none of the potential arrogance she may have shown as a Western scientist coming to examine a bacterial disaster in a former Cold War enemy. Indeed, she is equally open in acknowledging both the lack on concrete understanding of anthrax in the West, and also the Western nations’ own frequent flagrant disregard of international law regarding biological weaponry research.

It is this scientific impartiality, coupled with her anthropologist’s focus on the human element of this outbreak, that makes this such a fascinating account. Whilst expounding on the necessary scientific detail of the outbreak – crucially the difference in symptoms between gastrointestinal (i.e. through tainted meat) and inhalatory (i.e. through airborne spores) - Guillemin is always concerned about the human and the social context of the outbreak: both in the 1970s and in the 1990s of the investigation. It is here that we get a sense of what life like for ordinary people (many victims were factory workers or small holders) in this major Russian city – both in the Soviet-era 1970s and the early 1990s of “Perestroika”.

Often the tale is of people living simple but harsh lives, and whose emotional pain at the loss of loves is balanced by a sense of impotence in the face of the government machine. Guillemin and her translator are often reduced to tears during these accounts.

Perhaps one of the most poignant elements of this book is a series of photos, taken from the graves of outbreak victims (it is traditional in Russia to add photos to gravestones), The black and white images of these individuals stare out from the page, one by one, frozen in time yet actively reminding us that this is no dry academic investigation. This is an attempt to find out who or what is responsible of over 60 deaths of individuals by a deadly virus, leaving a generation of bereaved relatives without answers. Guillemin proves an excellent narrator to guide us through this process: “I think of the 1979 anthrax outbreak as an obscenity, the deaths themselves brutal and unnecessary, the handling of them a ritual of degradation for the families and friends of these victims”.

Ultimately - as Guillemin herself acknowledges – conclusions are reached, but there is no sense of victory here. From what pathological evidence remains from the KGB purge in the 1970s, and through triangulating the pattern of victims’ whereabouts with wind dispersal during the outbreak period, the evidence that an accidental outbreak of airborne anthrax virus from the military Compound 19 is the cause. Yet it is apparent that there is no official appetite to hold anyone to account for this – and it is notable that the one place that the scientists are unable to gain access to is Compound 19 itself. Even Yeltsin’s offer of pensions to victims’ families remain unpaid at the time of writing.

And so, a pyrrhic victory of sorts – although in publishing her account Guillemin at least gives voice to these victims. For the purposes of my journey, she also casts light on a little known, yet still contentious, part of the former Soviet Union.

Whilst normally I would describe my onward to journey to my next destination at this point, there is no need in this case; for I am already here, in Yekaterinburg. The next step of my trip is actually a journey across the vast expanses of Siberia, which will take me from the Western fringes of the Urals (commencing in Yekaterinburg) through to the Far Eastern outposts of Russia, courtesy of Colin Thubron’s acclaimed travelogue: “In Siberia”...

Transnistria (again): Further Education from the ex-Siberian Community

2011-02-03T11:26:00.000-08:00

I now find myself, for a second time, in the tiny – and contentious – state of Transnistria. So why, amongst the hundreds of other, larger and more established countries, am I gracing this place with a second visit? After all, this is a breakaway territory located mostly on a strip of land between the Dniester River and the eastern Moldovan border to Ukraine. And it is only recognised by two other states (themselves, of limited international recognition – Abkhazia and South Ossetia).

Well, the reason for this is twofold – firstly I was a little unsatisfied with my last visit there. Not that the book I read: "This is Radio PMR" was not enlightening and interesting, but it was primarily a photobook interspersed with individual interviews and as such I felt that I only scratched the surface of this complex - and contentious - nation in my last visit. Also, since my visit, a book has been published which presents a first-hand account of contemporary life there, by a native of Transnistria. This book, “Siberian Education” by Nicolai Lilin recounts his life in the criminal underworld of the city of Bender, and promises to be a very different perspective than my previous trip there.

However, before giving my account of this book I should add a caveat – in fact the caveat is that of the author himself. At the outset of the book he states that: “certain episodes are imaginative recreation, and those episodes are not intended to portray actual events.” This broad statement leaves us, as readers, with the dilemma of not knowing what IS fact or fiction in the following account… I can understand the complaints of certain reviewers that they cannot therefore, treat this book as a serious social commentary, however for the purposes of my trip I am satisfied. After all, most of the books I have chosen for countries are fiction, and even if this IS a wholly fictionalised account – it fits my criteria well in being by a native author and set within my timescale in an actual location in Transnistria (the city of Bender).

As far as the book itself goes, veracity aside, I found this to be an interesting and enjoyable read. Nicolai describes his upbringing in a close knit community of ex-Siberian criminals in the ‘Lower River’ area of the city of Bender; from his pre-teen (but still prolifically criminal) youth until his forced eviction from the city in his early 20s. This eviction is as a conscript in the Russian Army – sent to the frontlines of the Chechnyan conflict (a conflict which only merits a few pages here, but which has already been described – from the Chechnyan perspective – previously on my journey). The book’s cover informs us that Nicolai subsequently lived in Ireland before settling as an Italian citizen – although the circumstances of this are never covered in this book (and have added to the scepticism surrounding the validity of his account of his criminal past…)

Still, I found this to be a gritty and visceral account of criminal life in an enclave of Transnistria (and certainly an interesting counterpoint to the rather clinical accounts given in my previous visit via “This is Radio PMR”).

The timescales of this account run roughly from the 1980s to the late 1990s, and mainly focus on his teenage years as a fledgling ‘criminal’ (a term of honour in his community). Life in this criminal society is a strange mix of ancestral pride, social etiquette (the elderly must be respected, fellow criminals must be greeted in an elaborately formal manner etc) and extreme violence – especially against rival criminal communities, who are often seen as degenerate by the Siberians. Perhaps one depiction that typifies this almost schizophrenic society is Nicolai’s account of how the family weapons are kept within the religious shrines of the household. No irony is acknowledged here.

Similarly, Nicolai’s progression from boy to man is a mix of increased social responsibility (within his community) and increased criminal activity. He is given his first ‘pike’ (knife) by a respected Siberian criminal at the tender age of 12 – and promptly gains an elevated status amongst his peers as a result.

Another element of Nicolai’s rite of passage is his first criminal conviction and incarceration in a juvenile prison. Here, divorced from the ‘Low River’ society, Nicolai has a degree of protection through fellow ‘Siberians’ but is nevertheless constantly in close proximity with other gangs. The atrocities carried out by these other gangs within the confines of the prison (including a particularly disturbing account of a prolonged gang-rape) are both nightmarish and, if one is honest, take one back to the author’s caveat that certain “episodes are not intended to portray actual events”.

Another important element of criminal society that Nicolai encounters whilst in prison is the socially-important culture of tattoos. Apparently tattoos play an important role in the criminal subculture - both in telling the story of a criminal’s life and enhancing his reputation as a result. Given this pivotal importance, skilled tattooists are also highly regarded within the criminal fraternity and enjoy an almost shaman-like status.

Nicolai determines to become a tattooist, and succeeds, and this is largely portrayed as a step on the road, in his life, to his escape from a criminal community that he portrays as both potentially fatal and in terminal decline. Certainly in recent interviews he has stated that the Siberian criminal society that he depicts in this work no longer exists – which seems odd given the tight-knit structure that he portrays as existing only a decade or so ago.

Another event that – more forcibly – extracts him from his criminal surroundings is his conscription (a virtual kidnapping by the authorities) into the Russian army to fight rebels in Chechnya. Most of Nicolai’s graphic account of his time in the army fighting the rebels (or “saboteurs” as he refers to them) comes, a little confusingly, in a chapter at the start of the book, and provides an interesting alternative perspective to that provided by Chechnyan surgeon Khassan Baiev in the earlier Chechnyan book “The Oath”.

Upon his enforced conscription the book abruptly ends, leaving us hanging as to the story of Nicolai’s time in Chechnya and subsequent escape to his current life as an Italian citizen. Perhaps this is intentional and another book is in the offing.

If my account seems a little cynical, I would say that that is inevitable. His opening caveat, along with a lack of explanation of how Nicolai came to be accepted as an Italian citizen despite his long criminal record – as well as his convenient attestation that the Siberian criminal community that he describes no longer exists – all make me question the amount of fact over fiction here. That said, taken at face value, I found the book to be pretty well written and an interesting account of criminal social mores in a post-Soviet Mafia-like community (and certainly, there is no denying that these Mafia-type gangs are thriving in the post-Soviet region, as previous books on my travels have shown).

As I mentioned in my last blog: there are no civilian flights into or out of Transnistria, so I retrace my inward journey from Bender to Chisinau via a Marshrutka. I have my exit papers so no issues at border control.

The next step of my journey returns me to Russia, specifically to Yekaterinburg, a large industrial city in the Urals Federal District, some 900 miles east of Moscow. To get there from Chisinau I take a 4.00pm flight on Siberian airlines from Chisinau’s International Airport. This takes me to Domodedovo airport in Moscow 2 hours later. Fortunately this is one of Moscow’s more salubrious airports: there are a lot of amenities including a clean lobby, secure waiting area, good cafes and restaurants, and a business centre. Author’s note: a few days after writing this description, on 24th January 2011, a suicide bomber detonated a 7kg explosive device at the airport, killing 35 people and injuring 110. Early news reports stated that “Militant groups from the North Caucasus are suspected of planning the attack.” (BBC News). This is a grim reminder that the conflicts and dangers described in some of the books on my journey have a very real impact upon the lives of ordinary people, and demonstrates how, in virtually the whole of this planet, ‘peace’ is an aspiration rather than an actuality…

At 10.00pm I take another flight directly to Yekaterinburg (flight announcements refer to it as Ekaterinburg/Sverdlovsk) which touches down at 02.10am (although this is largely due to time difference – the actual flight is just 2 hours 10 minutes). The price? £242 one-way, including taxes etc. Not bad for such a vast distance…

Thus begins my latest excursion – with “Anthrax: The Investigation of a Deadly Outbreak”, an account by anthropologist Jeanne Guillemin of her visit to Yekaterinburg in 1992 with a team of US scientists to investigate the causes of a deadly outbreak of anthrax there back in 1979; at the height of the Cold War…

War and Peace in Russia: Sailing to Murmansk (Russian Northwestern Federal District)

2011-01-03T14:12:00.000-08:00

As mentioned in my previous blog, I now take an unusual detour – flying from Samara to the seaport of Bergen in Norway, despite my next destination being Murmansk, high up in Russia’s Northwestern district. The reason for this is that I shall be travelling to Murmansk by sea with a book called “Return to Murmansk.” In 1990, Henry Swain sailed the 34-foot yacht Callisto from Norway to Murmansk, Russia. He had been there 45 years earlier, on a Royal Navy warship escorting American merchant vessels charged with supplying vital aid to the Soviets. U-boats prowled the Russian coast and the Luftwaffe nestled menacingly in Norway, while the cruel Arctic winter offered its own deadly hazard – ice.

Swain's return journey, along one thousand miles of rocky coastline and over the Barents Sea, as well as his account of the reception he received in modern-day Murmansk, forms the main narrative of my next destination.

I have only been sailing once myself (a weekend trip from Portsmouth to the Isle of White), but Swain describes the experience of sailing (both the exhilaration and the stress, the excitement and the boredom) to great effect here. Of course, my efforts pale into insignificance compared to this epic journey, but Swain’s engaging prose really brings this journey to life.

As well as the quality of writing, there is an interesting structure to this narrative. Chapters about the 1990 journey made by Swain and his crew are interspersed by a gripping account of his journey to Murmansk nearly half a century earlier, as a seaman on the HMS Lancaster Castle, a Royal Navy ship escorting a supply convoy in U-boat ridden seas during World War 2.

What is striking in both elements of this account is Swain’s openness and honesty. In his account of the 1990 voyage he is open about his self-doubts in terms of his ability, at his age, to make the journey and occasionally accuses himself of cowardice in turning back in the face of inclement weather. He also appears acutely aware of the age difference between himself and the rest of the crew - and this honesty extends to his personal feelings towards some of them. A notable example of this is the attractive Kate: “Everyone was getting on well, Callisto’s crew was a successful team. After a while the thought slowly came into my mind that one other member of the crew was having personal problems. It was me. I was getting jealous about Kate…I felt strangely exiled. Jealously is a vice which unlike anger diminishes you. I hated myself for it.” Such candour has the effect of alienating Swain as a sympathetic character at the same time as endearing him to the reader. He has faults (which of course, are magnified in the pressured situation of a long voyage with strangers) yet he is at least honest and open about these. As it happens, in this instance his jealous feelings are unfounded – and I would have liked to know how things turned out between Katy and Henry after the journey was completed.

Swain is equally candid in depicting the events during his crossing with the HMS Lancaster Castle in 1944. Here the pressure-cooker environment of a cramped crew is magnified a hundredfold, and of course the stresses here are much more than bad weather and the fear of grounding – the threat of torpedoing by U-boat is ever present, and Swain describes in graphic detail how this is the fate of other vessels in this Arctic convoy. Even though his own ship is not hit, his imagination torments him when another ship is sunk: “I felt a sick surprise. My hands shook…Her crew were like us – 200 or so crowded in every compartment of the ship… I had experienced in my imagination what it would be like if we were torpedoed. I knew what was happening on Lapwing. First the mind numbing shock as the warhead of the torpedo exploded tearing everything apart. Steel and men would be shattered in smoke and blood. The ship would sink in minutes…some would die in the cold sea almost immediately…the men below would have no chance at all…they would go down with the ship. The live and the dead would be imprisoned in terminal darkness – light, fire, life and hope quenched forever.”

Given these experiences, both past and present, it is not surprising that Swain has mixed feelings when finally arriving at Murmansk in 1990. The welcome accorded him and his crew upon their arrival is unexpected, touching and overwhelming in equal measure. The crew are warmly welcomed by local people and dignitaries – including a formal reception at the Town Hall by the Chairman of the City Council and a meeting with the War Veterans Committee, as well as a less formal procession of visitors to the yacht by local residents and well-wishers.

Swain is obviously overwhelmed by this - hardly surprising given his recent travails in the Barents Sea and his difficult memories. He is typically self-critical in this, upon leaving the Civic reception – accompanied by local school students - he states: “I walked by myself. There were too many new impressions and half of me was still with Callisto in the empty sea. I had not adjusted to the crowds, the traffic and the heat. I ought to have been chatting to my crew and the students. Instead I lagged behind”. In a touching episode this is noticed by an empathetic student, Natasha Vanyushkina, who looks after him for the rest of the day.

Swain does also manage to rouse himself to take in impressions of modern day Murmansk: “The Lenin Prospect could be the main street of any big town in Europe. It is wide and flanked by six and seven story buildings. They have vaguely classical facades and brightly painted stucco... The streets that intersect Lenin Prospect at right angles end in the green hills in one direction and the blues waters of the harbour on the other. In its brief summer there was a felling of vitality in the air. The streets were thronging with people, many of them carrying flowers, flown in from the south and sold at pavement stalls. Pink and blue flags were flying for the annual Fishermen’s Festival.”

Ultimately this book is as much about the journey as the destination, yet the destination of Murmansk – a remote Russian town visited 45 years earlier by his younger self, scared and fearing for his life yet risking all to help his Russian allies - is obviously a talisman for Henry Swain. In 1990 he evidently felt this was an important trip to make in order to banish the demons that his earlier experiences had created. One gains a sense from this book that the trip did exactly that – and also meant a huge amount to his Russian counterparts in the Veterans Committee in Murmansk who suffered huge tribulations themselves in the war.

Swain’s final chapter account of returning home to an empty suburban house in Nottingham is particularly poignant (his front room is still furnished with photos of his long-dead comrades from the Navy), and truly demonstrates how his wartime memories never left him. One hopes that this trip helped him to enjoy his remaining years (sadly, he died in 2002 aged 77 years.)

The next destination on my journey forms a quite different prospect from this voyage of self-discovery; and in doing so serves to demonstrate just what a diverse world we live in…

The past few weeks have seen several unusual detours for me where I have retraced my steps in order travel to a particular destination. For instance, in "Last Boat to Astrakhan" I flew back from Chechnya to Moscow to commence a river cruise to Astrakhan. Similarly, I flew to Bergen in Norway to "Return to Murmansk" by yacht in the book I have just reviewed.

For my next trip, however, I am returning to Transnistria for a second stopover. It is rather ironic that one of the smallest states on my travels is also one of the few to merit more than one visit! My reasons will be detailed in the next entry on this blog.

Due to the massive distance involved, I shell out £285 for a one-way flight on Rossiya-Russian Airlines which departs at 22:15 Murmansk and drops me at 15:15 in Chisinau, Moldova. The lengthy trip duration is largely down to two long stopovers: 7 hours 45 minutes in St. Petersburg and 5 hours in Moscow.

As there are no civilian flights into Transnistria, I travel the 35 miles from Chisinau to Bender by taking a Marshrutka (a small white minibus that sits about 14 people – very cheap at 25 Lei). I must admit to being worried about the border crossing – having heard lots of horror stories about Westerners being singled out and asked for bribes. However, my crossing is simple and businesslike. A few straightforward questions: “Where do you come, how long will you stay, where will you stay, how much money do you carry”, then customs have a brief look in the trunk and I am asked to fill in a simple immigration form (written in Russian and English). These forms can be obtained at the border, or you can try asking your Marshutka driver for a form, or anketa ("DAIE-teh anKYEtu").

And so I arrive in Bender – a small city of just under 100,000 people on the banks of the river Dniester. I am heading to the ‘Low River' area – populated largely by a community of displaced Siberians who are fiercely independent and maintain a strict social code of honour among criminals…

Samara: Narrow Horizons in a Vast Land: Ordinary Lives in a Little Tenement on the Volga ((Russian Volga Federal District)

2011-01-02T14:58:00.000-08:00

For my stop in the Volga Federal District of Russia I find myself again in the riverside city of Samara (previously a stopover on the “Last Boat to Astrakhan”). Samara is a modern city, one of the largest in Russia (around 1.2 million inhabitants). it is a leading industrial centre in the Volga Area, and is among the top ten Russian cities in terms of national income and industrial volume.

On the surface this shows – the futuristic airport of glass and steel is hugely impressive, and many of the commercial buildings in the city centre bear the names of large national corporations.

The accommodation during my time in Samara was rather more modest however, sharing a small communal apartment in a tenement block at Number Four, Specialist Alley courtesy of Englishwoman C.S. Walton’s “Little Tenement on the Volga”. Walton appears to have travelled widely throughout Europe, Asia and the Americas - learning Russian on an earlier stay in the USSR – yet her reasons for spending a year in Samara during 1993 remain a little vague: “I landed in Samara through a chance meeting with a refugee in London. Valentina said she had grown tired on living on the edge of civilisation. She gave me an invitation to the home town she had chosen to escape.”

The first thing that strikes Ms Walton upon arriving at Samara's Department of Visas and Foreign Affairs is the grinding bureaucracy of the city and, one senses, the country as a whole. The native population appears wearily resigned to this pervasive and inefficient officialdom: the various peasants in this particular waiting room radiate “ptierpelost – a characteristically Russian expression for patience and the capacity to endure”.

Walton patently struggles to fit into this mindset, and one senses an exasperation on her part with what she sees as a subservience on the part of the general populace in the face of state incompetence. Chapter titles such as “The Idiocy of Everyday Life” do come across as rather abrasive, and one does wonder what her hosts might think of their lives being described in such stark terms. This can be seen further in her descriptions of the daily, grinding battle to buy supplies – involving hours of queuing for scarce products that are often of dubious actual use (“It was a victory if by the end of the day if I could procure yoghurt, mineral water or eggs”).

Here, at least, Walton does acknowledge that much of her perception is filtered through her Western eyes – what is a tedious and stressful ordeal for her is actually seen as a social activity for her fellow Russians. Her realisation of this can be seen where she describes how: “People constantly shouted questions to assistants over the heads of waiting customers, yet prices were clearly marked on the front of the counter. At first I wondered whether everyone was terribly short-sighted, or perhaps illiterate; finally I understood that in Russia shopping is a social activity and any opportunity for argument or conversation is gratefully seized upon.”

Overall, however, one feels that Walton finds the Russians who surround her to be oppressive in their acceptance of what she sees as intolerable living conditions for the 1990s. Her description of her accommodation indicates she finds her surroundings equally oppressive: “Each room housed a couple or family. Each flat [of 10 to 12 rooms] contained one kitchen and one washroom…clothes and sheets were washed here in metal tubs. Water had to be heated up on the stoves. The washrooms contained two lavatories and two cold water taps over a trough. Some residents kept their personal wooden toilet seats hanging from nails on the wall.”

During the course of the book Walton’s bewilderment and frustration turn to anger and sadness as she observes a depressing cycle of social disenfranchisement which largely manifests itself in a widespread alcoholism; especially among the men of the lowly social strata of the city that Walton inhabits. Local people describe the consequences of such social isolation with a telling casualness ”It looks peaceful out there but in fact this area is full of alcoholics, junkies, and criminals. Last Sunday they took away a drunk woman from our stairway who had been beaten half to death. The neighbours heard her screaming but of course no one opened their doors.”

Walton herself encounters this problem first-hand. However, unlike the locals she positions this social ill in terms of gender – depicting an inevitable vicious circle whereby Samaran women contribute to there own social inequality by encouraging ‘infantilism’ in their menfolk, leading to a lack of responsibility and an increasing reliance on the bottle:

“Drinking must be less damaging to general female health than the perpetual infantilism they nurture in their men. Female care allows men to make an art form of irresponsibility. They learn to cope with life with a bottle in the hand and a woman in the kitchen.”

Walton is even, in a quite amusing episode, on the receiving end of this mentality when dating a Russian: in an awkward exchange with his mother Walton is forced to make a shocking (to the mother) admission: “When I finally told her that her son dined in his works canteen she was shocked into silence. Then her lips compressed in disapproval: ‘I’ll come around after work and cook his supper here,’ she announced.” Compounding this cultural abyss a proposal of marriage swiftly follows – and is even more swiftly rejected!

What should be stressed here is that – for all her sadness at the social disenfranchisement of her neighbours and outrage at the gender inequalities she witnesses - Walton is also open to the positives of the society that she is observing.

That not all men are drunken boors is personified in the person of Boris, a neighbour whom Walton befriends, and who proves to be helpful, generous and willing to take Walton under his wing in terms of guiding her through the complex mores of Russian society.

Another fascinating character that Walton meets is Lina Ivanovna Shatalova, the local ‘wise-woman’ who lives in a shack off Specialist Alley with a menagerie of rescued animals. One senses that Walton finds a certain affinity with Lina’s unwillingness to conform the Samaran social norms, and certainly Lina has a fascinating back story which Walton recounts in vivid prose. Lina was born in 1934 after the great famine in the Ukraine and then went on to live through the Second World War, Nazi occupation, Soviet occupation, displacement to Siberia, life in a dangerous chemical factory in Novokuibyshevsk and then a job as a carriage attendant on the railways (dealing with abusive and philandering husbands and partners along the way).

Later on, Walton begins to find further evidence that “The surface conformism of Samarans masked deep political cynicism.” Towards the end of her stay she has a particularly poignant meeting with Natasha from Chapaevsk, a satellite town of Samara. Natasha stands out in protesting to the authorities about the living conditions she is forced to bring her family up in: “The town of Chapaevsk is a contaminated pit, ringed by military plants. My daughter is seriously ill…her doctors are useless. They won’t admit that the environment is poisoning her. It’s a question of political interests.” One recalls the shadow of Belarus, contaminated by a remote government through Chernobyl, here (and an earlier stop on my Round The World trip). Walton’s summary of this encounter is heart-breaking: “Most women in Chapaevsk chose to anaesthetise themselves against life. Natasha was exceptional in her conviction that things did not have to be as they were. She had tried to halt the destruction of her environment and to improve her quality of life. Tired and disillusioned, she is stuck in Chapaevsk watching her hair fall out.”

What this demonstrates, rather starkly, is that an unwillingness to question the system – even in modern times - is just as likely to be driven by fear as apathy. And when the system IS questioned, there are no easy answers.

Walton sums up her account and her experiences of Samara concisely yet effectively at the end of this book: “Number Four, Specialist Alley is a microcosm of provincial Russia – a depressed and impoverished world, shot through with moments of beauty and compassion.”

Certainly, despite the grimness of Walton's observations of life here, one gets a sense of the humanity and the resilience of the residents of this city, and one can only hope that its surface prosperity has filtered down more equitably to its populace in recent years.

From Samara, I take another strange detour – flying from Samara to the seaport of Bergen in Norway, despite my next destination being Murmansk high up in Russia’s Northwestern district. The reason for this is that – as with Astrakhan earlier – I shall be travelling to Murmansk by water with a book called “Return to Murmansk.” In 1990, Henry Swain sailed the 34-foot yacht Callisto to Murmansk. He had been there 45 years earlier, on a Royal Navy warship escorting American merchant vessels charged with supplying vital aid to the Soviets. U-boats prowled the Russian coast and the Luftwaffe nestled menacingly in Norway, while the cruel Arctic winter offered its own deadly hazard – ice.

Swain's return journey, along one thousand miles of rocky coastline and over the Barents Sea, as well as his account of the reception he received in modern-day Murmansk, forms the main narrative of my next destination.

Due to the sheer distance involved in travelling from Samara to Bergen, I opt to fly. Although quicker, this is no easy option and requires a number of changes to make it affordable. As it is, the one-way journey costs me £307 in total – but beware, some operators will quote routes that will cost you from £1000 to £1500 economy class!

My itinerary is as follows:

1) Aeroflot flight 836 departs Samara at 6.40am and arrives at 8:30am in Sheremetyevo in Moscow, followed by a stopover of 3 hours.

2) Air Baltic flight 7425 departs Sheremetyevo at 11.30am and arrives at 12:10pm in Riga, Latvia (I gain an hour here due to time difference – the flight actually takes 1 hour 40 minutes). There is a brief stopover of 45 minutes here before boarding a rather bumpy turboprop plane:

3) Air Baltic flight 135, which departs 12:55pm Riga and arrives 1:30pm Copenhagen Airport, where we stopover for 1 hour 35 minutes before the last leg of the journey:

4) SAS flight 2872 that departs 4:20pm from Copenhagen Airport and finally arrives at 5:40pm in Bergen, Norway.

From here, I make my bleary-eyed way through driving rain via the Airport Bus to Bergen’s busy seaport, located in the city centre (this normally takes 25 minutes, but my journey is 40 minutes due to hitting the tail-end of rush hour – still it is a LOT cheaper than a taxi!!).

Here I hook up with the 34-foot yacht Callisto and prepare for a 1000-mile journey around the rocky coastline of Norway and Russia in order to “Return to Murmansk”.

The Tide Turns on Communism: Cruising Down the Volga on the Last Boat to Astrakhan (Russian Southern Federal District)

2010-12-28T07:22:00.000-08:00

My journey to the Southern Federal District of Russia really WAS as much about the journey as the destination. For this trip I retraced my steps from Chechnya to Moscow (for reasons outlined in my previous blog) – and then began my river cruise down the Volga (Russia’s main river) to Astrakhan, the primary city in Russia’s Southern Federal District, courtesy of “Last Boat to Astrakhan” by Robert Haupt.

In 1995, his fifth year in Russia as a foreign correspondent, celebrated Australian journalist Robert Haupt decided to take a boat trip down the Volga River to Astrakhan by the Caspian Sea. This journey forms the core of his book, which interweaves strands of art literature, politics, history, economics and geography to capture a country and a people for which the author had an immense passion. I say ‘had’, as sadly Mr Haupt died soon after the publication of this work.

Haupt's time on the Volga cruise ship Fyodor Shalyapin, along with his earlier experiences while living in Moscow, forms a framework around which he intersperses historical episodes, numerous quotes from earlier traveller's accounts, and his own perceptive observations, to give an impression of the character of Russia. The difficult transformation of Russia since the end of communism is a central theme. However periods of difficult transformation are also presented as being characteristic of the wider flow of Russian history, and Haupt makes many telling points about how and why Russian society differs from the West, and why we in 'the West' can often misunderstand Russia by judging it through the perspective of our own past.

Haupt uses the story of his apartment building's plumbing system to illustrate the 'workings' of Russian bureaucracy; and the plight of the Chaika watch factory trying to sell handmade products in competition to machine-produced electronic watches from China as an example of dead-end paths still being followed.

Whilst discussing bribery in the police (after reading the observation of a British MP, writing in the Times, that the Yaroslavl traffic police hadn't been paid for months), Haupt notes that “What he meant was that they had not been paid by the government for months; those who live in Yaroslavl or drive through it feed the police force there everyday.” and goes on to observe that “Jurisprudence is as poorly developed in Russia as particle physics in Rwanda. To a Russian, the law is a source of oppression, not an avenue for the relief of injustice.”

The above examples encapsulate much of how this book is structured. On the surface this is an engaging and insightful account of Haupt’s journey from Moscow down to Astrakhan by river cruise. We are treated to some fascinating observations not just of the stopovers along the way but also his fellow passengers – largely the tracksuited nouveau riche of New Russia - as well as lengthy and involved digressions of Haupt’s observations of Russia’s socio-economic past, present and likely future.

I must admit, the latter often defeated me. Haupt was obviously a highly intelligent individual with an in-depth knowledge of Russia’s workings, and he exposits these eloquently here. However, not having the same knowledge of Russia (nor, I fear, the same level of intellect), these narrative diversions often left me a little bewildered. I occasionally found myself floundering though pages of in-depth socio-political analysis like a poor swimmer in a lake of intellect, looking for an island of straightforward narrative description!

That said, I can only attribute this as a fault on my part not the author’s. After all, I am on a journey of observation, keen to glean facts and impressions about each place that I visit – and the fact that I am on a schedule to visit every country in the world means that I am occasionally impatient when being given essential background information and historical context to places I am visiting.

Furthermore, during the 3000km(!) trip from Moscow to Astrakhan we are introduced to interesting descriptions of a range of cities and towns that have developed, prospered (and in some cases perished) as a result of the rise and fall of the mighty Volga river and its importance to Russia.

Ultimately, we arrive at our destination of the city of Astrakhan in Russia’s Southern Federal District.

“In Astrakhan, the air is heavy, the people sleepy. Nothing seems to get underway before ten-thirty or so. The cars move with astonishing slowness along wide streets lined by motionless trees. Even a road accident – a man who had steered his red motorcycle and sidecar into the path of a police jeep – appeared as a tableau, onlookers frozen in mid-stare as the motorcyclist, his blue helmet neatly placed on the road beside him, solemnly picked pieces of dry grass from his socks. Even when something like this happened, everyone seemed to be waiting for something to happen.”

Haupt goes on to describe Navy Day in Astrakhan. This is, apparently “the occasion in a Fleet town for epic displays of drunkenness”. Haupt’s descriptions of how drunken “young men – boys, really – with their caps pushed back to near-vertical, leant on their girlfriends and climbed imaginary stairs on their way home” are telling – they form a notable and telling precursor to the next book on my journey: “Little Tenement on the Volga.” This account is written by Englishwoman C.S. Walton about a year spent in Samara in the Volga Federal District, and one of the overriding themes of her fascinating observations here, is that of stoical females (girlfriends, wives, mothers) coping with their own harsh lives and the pressures of supporting their families. The images of Astrakhan’s Naval Day are telling: often Walton’s depiction of Samaran women’s lives involves them looking after men – sons, lovers, husbands – who are enslaved to alcoholism, with the women themselves enslaved by the Soviet social system of female subjugation.

Samara – one of the largest cities in Russia – lies in the Volga Federal District. Having already passed through here during my river cruise courtesy with Robert Haupt I am tempted to retrace part of my Volga river cruise to return here. However, the current price of 100 EURO for a single berth on one of today’s cruise ships PER NIGHT is off-putting. And even if I had been tempted, it is December and decidedly off-season (cruises only run between May and October).

Therefore, I opt for the train – quicker than the six days a cruise would take between these destinations - but still nearly 28 hours (well, the journey IS 1147km in total)!

I take the easy option for booking and buy my tickets online at realrussia.co.uk – a very user-friendly UK-based website that sends me my tickets via email for collection at Astrakhan station. I buy a one-way 2nd class ticket for £64.97 on the 373 train, which is on the lower-quality and slower end of the Russian train scale (apparently, the higher the classification number, the lower the grade of train).

And so I set off from Astrakhan’s spacious train station at 13.25, taking a train that – after numerous stops - will drop me off at Samara the next day at 16.23 in the afternoon (before it heads on to its final destination of Beijing!).

A word about the train itself: my cabin is second class, sometimes called a ‘Kupe.’ This is a cabin for four people with two lower bunks with storage underneath, two upper bunks, a window table and a lockable door. There is also a shared toilet for the carriage and a restaurant car. Russian restaurant car food is quite edible and not expensive. Allow about US$15-$20 for a 2-course meal with a bottle of beer. During my day-long trip I have ham and fried eggs for breakfast, schnitzel and potatoes for lunch and dinner, with soups and salads for starters. I also have a few shots of vodka in the evening – after all, when in Rome (well, Russia)…

And so I arrive, surprisingly refreshed, in the city of Samara in the Volga Federal District. The modern train station, I have to say, looks amazingly like a huge glass R2-D2 from Star Wars…. My rather-more modest accommodation in Samara is at Number Four, Specialist Alley, a cramped communal apartment which was occupied by Englishwoman C. S. Wilson during 1993, and whose account of her stay there forms the next leg of my journey.

Under Oath: A Surgeon’s Testimony of Hope and Despair in Chechnya (Russian North Caucasian Federal District)

2010-12-18T14:45:00.000-08:00

“The Oath: A Surgeon Under Fire” tells the story of Khassan Baiev, a cosmetic surgeon working in Moscow but born in the Chechnyan town of Alkhan Kala whose life - along with that of the rest of the population of Chechnya – is turned upside down by several wars with Russia from the 1990s onwards, as a result of Chechnya’s declaration of independence.

After the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991, the Chechen-Ingush Soviet Republic was split into two: the Republic of Ingushetia and Republic of Chechnya. The latter proclaimed the Chechen Republic of Ichkeria, which sought independence. Following the First Chechen War with Russia (1994-96), Chechnya gained de facto independence as the Chechen Republic of Ichkeria. Russian federal control was restored during the Second Chechen War (1999 – 2007). Since then there has been a systematic reconstruction and rebuilding process, though sporadic fighting continues in the mountains and southern regions of the republic.

The above factual paragraph however, does not go any way towards giving the historical context of the conflict, nor the scarcely believable human tragedies that these conflicts inflicted on all involved – civilian and military. Baiev’s book, however, depicts these elements in graphic detail and to great effect.

Whilst this is very much the story of Baiev’s life it is also the story of the homeland that he loves so much. Indeed the fact that the horrific descriptions of war in this account are sandwiched between a prologue detailing Baiev’s idyllic rural childhood and his later life as a refugee in urban Boston (safe, but cut off from his nation and his extended family), only serves to highlight what has been lost to this nation – and the book’s author – through this conflict.

Even during Baiev’s childhood it is apparent that as a Chechnyan he is an outsider in his “Russian” motherland. His father’s accounts of being denounced as a Nazi collaborator in WW2 because he was a Chechnyan – despite having fought with the Soviet Army at Murmansk - is particularly telling.

Another example of disenfranchisement through his ethnic origin is seen in his being denied at the last minute of attending the World Sombo Martial Arts Championships at the last minute, despite his prowess in the sport as a youth, by the KGB so as not to have Russia represented by a Chechynan.

However, the above slight – though reprehensible – pales next to what Baiev and his countrymen endured after August 1994, when Russia massed thousands of troops along the border of Chechnya and Baiev, then 31, left his promising surgical career in Moscow to aid his Chechen countrymen.

What follows is a harrowing and relentless account of Baiev’s forced move from cosmetic surgeon to wartime field surgeon. Whilst trying to keep a semblance of normality with his family and his staff, Baiev is faced with treating an ever-growing conveyor belt of wounded – many from mine and shrapnel wounds – with ever-diminishing supplies (even resorting to using sewing thread in operations). Baiev’s matter-of-fact narrative jars heavily (to great effect) with descriptions of 48-hour surgical sessions where he could no longer move his arms through the amount of amputational sawing he had to do, through to descriptions of himself and his staff having to work whilst feeling faint due to the amount of blood they had to directly donate to treat the wounded.

His efforts to save lives in the midst of war are played out against a backdrop of constant shelling, threats to his life and – on several occasions (one resulting in him being in a coma for some time) the physical destruction of the hospital premises he is working in.

This brings to mind a phrase that Baiev quotes on several occasions in the book: “The Russians destroy, Chechnyans rebuild.”

And, in the context of this war, the Russian army does destroy: buildings (Baiev’s family home is targeted several times), cities (the capital of Grozny is literally razed to the ground), and indeed people. Time and again we hear of men, women and children – young and old – whose bodies are shattered by this conflict. And just as the populace rebuild the cities, it is surgeons who are left to rebuild the shattered bodies of the wounded.

Sadly, just as some buildings and cities were bombed beyond repair – so some causalities could not be saved. And it is here that the mental toll of war begins to be inflicted upon Baiev – he is haunted by the images of friends, family and strangers who were simply beyond salvation despite his expertise.

But this account is not just a litany of horror. What makes this book relevant and unique is the fact that Baiev – according to the Hippocratic Oath and his Muslim beliefs – treats each patient equally; be they civilian, Chechnyan fighter or Russian soldier.

For this, he becomes vilified as a traitor by both sides – although there are individual flashes of humanity which provide a certain counterpoint of hope in the overall despair of the conflict. Not least among these is a Russian FSB (the former KGB) colonel who risks his own life to help Baiev escape to America at the point where his assassination by one side or the other has become inevitable. The ultimate fate of this brave individual, which we learn later, only adds to the poignancy of this act.

If this account tells us one thing it is this – that war and interracial hatred is more about governments and regimes than individuals: who are capable of great heroism as well as hateful acts.

I should also make it clear here that Baiev – whilst a patriot and a proud Chechnyan – is no apologist for the atrocities that were also carried out by the Chechnyan separatists, such as the taking hostage of a Moscow theatre audience of 850 people in 2002. Most of the Chechnyans and around 130 hostages died as a result – mainly from a gas pumped into the theatre by Russian forces. Baiev is unequivocal in condemning this. The book was published before the further outrage in 2004 where separatist took an entire school hostage. Ultimately, at least 334 hostages were killed, including 186 children. Hundreds more were injured and many were reported missing. One can only imagine that Baiev would have condemned this act also, had it happened before publication.

In summary then, this book shows two things – the human capacity for evil and the human capacity for good. Reading this book, one can feel uplifted by the capacity for good in the worst of scenarios, but one does not hold out much hope of this struggle between good and evil ever resulting in more than a stalemate.

Still, to end on a positive note: a touching detail of Baiev’s later life (effectively in exile) in the US is that he was finally free to compete in the World Sombo Championships (in Paris) in 2001. These are the championships the KGB denied him way back in 1983. He won – and was able to raise the Chechnyan flag on the winner’s podium.

From Chechnya I make the rather unusual move to take a return flight back from Grozny to Moscow, my previous destination. The reason for retracing my steps is the fast moving changes of national / federal boundaries! Chechnya was chosen as my stopover in Russia’s 'Southern Federal District'. However, earlier this year (2010) the District was split into two: The 'Southern Federal District' and the 'North Caucasian Federal District'. Chechnya now falls into the latter so I needed to quickly find a stopover for the former!!

This I have done with a book by foreign correspondent Robert Haupt called “Last Boat to Astrakhan”. This is an account of his riverboat cruise down the Volga, starting at Moscow and travelling down into the Southern Federal area of Astrakhan, ending at the Caspian Sea.

Thus – rather than describing a book and then my onward journey as usual - this book IS my onward journey, as I will take a leisurely cruise from Moscow’s North River Terminal down the Volga – Russia’s primary river – to Astrakhan on the cruise ship Fyodor Shalyapin. I would love to give you the price of this trip but – as it was taken in 1995, I can only tell you it involved a shopping bag full of inflation-era roubles! This particular route has since been discontinued, but similar cruises are operating today (and they aren’t cheap!)

I shall let you know if it is worth the money in my next post.

Moscow: The Russian Bear plays host to Ancient Chinese Foxes and Modern Werewolves (Russian Central Federal District)

2010-12-14T09:23:00.000-08:00

My stopover in Moscow - in Russia's Central Federal District - is represented by the novel "The Sacred Book of the Werewolf" by acclaimed contemporary author Victor Pelevin.

In this satirical, erotic allegory of the post-Soviet and post-9/11 world, Pelevin gives new meaning to the words “unreliable narrator.” The story is told by a shape-shifting nymphet named A Hu-Li, a red-haired Asiatic call girl who is some 2,000 years old but looks 14. Her name, said aloud, sounds like a Russian obscenity, but it derives from the Chinese expression for fox spirit, huli jing — an epithet that doubles in China as a put-down for a lascivious home-wrecker. By day, A Hu-Li lives in a dark warren under the bleachers at an equestrian complex in Bitsevsky Park in Moscow; by night, she works the high-end Hotel National, hunting investment bankers.

While she may look like an ordinary (albeit exceptionally alluring) sex worker, A Hu-Li is a supernatural creature, a “professional impersonator of an adolescent girl with big innocent eyes” who ensorcells her clients by whipping out her luxuriant fox tail before each tryst and setting it a-whir like a pinwheeling ray gun, beaming hypnotic carnal fantasies into her customers’ minds. Although the men feel the telepathic pleasures in the flesh, a hotel spy-cam would reveal that the vixen took no physical part in the gymnastics. The men frolic alone.

However, early in the novel, as A Hu-Li plies her trade, her signals get jammed when she brushes up against a member of the F.S.B. (the new K.G.B.), the “captain of the hit men’s brigade.” Alexander Sery (his surname, which means “grey” in Russian, is also a euphemism for the black market) is “unshaven, sullen and very good-looking,” with a “fierce, wolfish” mien, for which there’s a very good reason. Alexander is a werewolf, and A Hu-Li’s shifty vulpine defenses prove useless against his crude lupine brio. His greyish-yellow eyes burn into her retinas, but the “most significant thing,” she notes, is that his face “was a face from the past. There used to be a lot of faces like that around in the old days, when people believed in love and God.”

Alexander calls his lover Ada — a nod to her Internet name, to Nabokov and to the Russian word for hell. She nicknames him Shurik, deliberately suggesting the name of the dog Sharik from Bulgakov’s story (famous in Russia) “Heart of a Dog,” about a cur who turns into a proletarian and becomes so annoying that he has to be stopped. Their werefox and werewolf games begin with lovestruck “tailechery” (a form of transcendental canine commingling) but detour into more dangerous sport as A Hu-Li and Shurik initiate each other into secret passions. She likes to put on an evening gown, drop by farmhouses and horrify the occupants by nabbing their hens and bolting, transforming into a werefox as she flees. He likes to rally with other F.S.B. werewolves in the frozen north, howling at a cow skull on a stake in hopes of necromantically summoning oil from the substrate into Mother Russia’s waiting pipelines. Watching this scene, seeing the cow’s skull, A Hu-Li is reminded of a grim Russian fairy tale about a slaughtered cow who takes pity on an orphan and sends the girl gold from the grave (a story told to her by Shurik, just prior to this episode). Touched, A Hu-Li adds her own soulful lament to the cacophony: “We were all howling, with our faces turned to the moon, howling and weeping for ourselves and for our impossible country, for our pitiful life, stupid death and sacred $100 a barrel.” In response to her emotion (she thinks), oil comes burbling up the stake. Shurik laughs at her sentimentality. “It’s my job to get the oil flowing,” he scoffs. “And for that, the skull has to cry.”

It’s a joy to read Pelevin’s phantasmagoria so brilliantly translated by Andrew Bromfield, a crowning achievement of the pair’s longtime association. Complex ideas are rendered simply and organically, never disturbing the narrative flow. Bromfield’s English text is fleet and magical.

Animal parables lie at the heart of every culture. Usually such tales are meant to instruct human behavior, but Russian folktales are unusual because they so often lack a moral. Instead, they portray bleak or unjust situations in mesmerizing language, making a fable of resignation itself. Russian children grow up on stories like the adventures of Alyonushka and her thirsty brother, Ivanushka, who turned into a goat after he drank water from a hoof print.

Werewolf literature is an offshoot of the man-and-beast genre and an abiding preoccupation of this author. In his early story “A Werewolf Problem in Central Russia,” Pelevin sent an unsuspecting young man to a village near an old collective farm to take part in a gathering of werewolves, creatures whose existence he had not previously suspected. “What are werewolves, really?” he asks the leader of the pack. “What are people, really?” the leader retorts, baring his teeth.

For a man as steeped in Nabokovian wordplay as Pelevin is, it can be no mistake that in the Russian version of “The Sacred Book of the Werewolf” he chose the word oboroten, which means shape-shifter or, literally, someone who turns back to what he was before, instead of vervolk, which he used for his earlier werewolf tale. Could this choice be a comment on present-day Russia? Is there a moral to Pelevin’s story? What are changelings, really? Those are questions best answered by A Hu-Li.

The above review was written by Liesl Schillinger for the New York Times Book Review © 2008.

Apologies from myself for my tardiness in posting a review of this fascinating book. Whilst pursuing my ‘virtual’ round the world trip, occasionally I am distracted by real world events in my life and, as I have occasionally before, will need to recourse to existing reviews to keep my travel journal up to date. Where possible I shall return to add my own views: but please be assured that when I add a third party review I will only be if that review fully endorses my own opinions about a book and destination. As does the one above!

As I mentioned earlier I have divided the seven largest countries in the world up into their main regions, so as to be truly representative. Therefore I have split Russia up into its eight Federal Districts, with a book for each. Having starting my journey within Russia in the most internationally well-known Central Federal District courtesy of Moscow, I now make my way to a much more contentious region.

The next stop on my journey is to a small town called Alkhan Kala with occasional forays to Grozny. Both of these locations are based within the republic of Chechnya. Whilst Chechnya is officially located within Russia’s North Caucasian Federal District, it is involved in a long and bloody battle with Russia for independence. It is this struggle and its tragic consequences that form the backdrop to my next book: “The Oath: A Surgeon Under Fire” in which the author, Khassan Baiev (a Muslim Chechnyan surgeon) describes his harrowing experiences throughout the Chechnyan-Russian wars of the 1990s and the 21st Century - and the personal implications of following the Hippocratic Oath by treating both Chechnyan and Russian fighters alongside innocent civilians.

And so, warily, I prepare to leave Moscow. Sadly, travel from Moscow to Grozny, the capital of Chechnya, is complicated due to the conflict, so I stay on a few days whilst I arrange complicated Visas and a safe route into the country. Fortunately, Chechnya's airport is finally open again for the first time since the start of the war. Planes to Grozny leave 3 times a week from Moscow's Vnukovo airport. Estimated flying time is 2 hours and 30 minutes. Having been lucky enough to secure such a flight I arrive in my destination of Chechnya. I shall post an update on this leg of my journey soon.

Belarus: Dark Times Under the Black Cloud of Chernobyl

2010-12-12T14:50:00.000-08:00

Given my parameters of each book on my journey being post 1990 and set in the country of origin, it may seem rather strange that I have selected a book to represent Belarus that is about the Chernobyl nuclear disaster – as this happened in 1986 in neighbouring Ukraine.

However, the devastating impact of that event had far-reaching consequences, both geographically and in its long term effects, and “The Trace of the Black Wind”, published in 1996, examines these profound effects from the Belarussian perspective.

The disaster occurred on 26 April 1986, 1:23 A.M., at reactor number four at the Chernobyl plant, near the town of Pripyat, during an unauthorised systems test. A sudden power output surge took place, and when an attempt was made at an emergency shutdown, a more extreme spike in power output occurred which led to the rupture of a reactor vessel as well as a series of explosions. This event exposed the graphite moderator components of the reactor to air and they ignited; the resulting fire sent a plume of radioactive fallout into the atmosphere and over an extensive area, including Pripyat. The plume drifted over large parts of the western Soviet Union, and much of Europe. As of December 2000, 350,400 people had been evacuated and resettled from the most severely contaminated areas of Belarus, Russia, and Ukraine. According to official post-Soviet data, up to 70% of the fallout landed in Belarus.

The text of the book is made up of a series of competition-winning essays written by Belarussian schoolchildren about the disaster and its impact upon their short lives. Overall the result is profoundly saddening, and recurrent motifs are of young lives blighted by ill-health and the loss of loved-ones, as well as regret at the loss of their homeland (many areas of Belarus are still contaminated and effectively out of bounds).

What is particularly striking is the ordinariness of many of the recollections of the fateful day, April 26th 1986 – this disaster did, after all, occur many miles away and the deadly radiation that followed was undetectable to most people. Time after time, we hear accounts of children being allowed to play outdoors for weeks after the event itself, due to lack of information from the authorities. And once the scale of the disaster did begin to filter through, then idyllic childhood memories are replaced by panic stricken flight, confusion and fear, and ultimately illness and death.

It must be said that, whilst effective in some ways, the format of this book does inevitably lead to a sense of repetition:- many of the essays follow the same structure: the day of the disaster, subsequent flight from their homes and long term illnesses of themselves or friends and relatives. Whilst always affecting, this does not lend itself easily to a reading in one sitting… Similarly, the quality of the writing varies widely, and the tone can border on the contrived in some instances.

One other minor gripe is that throughout the book we are also provided with photographs and drawings made by schoolchildren; but these to not relate to the stories on the pages they appear next to, and no real context is ever given to them.

However, there are many instances here where the simplistic innocence of the child’s perspective jars with the horrific scenario with extremely moving consequences. Often it is the realistic, matter-of-fact tone of these accounts which highlight their tragedy, for instance, in ‘A Saint Martyr’ by Viktoria Kozlova:

“This is the story of the short life and quick death of a little girl from Polesye. Her father died after an unsuccessful bone marrow transplant operation. He was buried in Mitiniskoe graveyard, and a few days later his nameless daughter was buried with him. The girl did not suffer much really, they did not even have time to give her a proper name. She was christened by radiation in her mother’s womb on April 26. And now this nameless girl, a saint martyr, lies on the Chernobyl altar of innocent victims next to her father. She never knew the happiness of childhood or the joys of womanhood and motherhood.”

Another heartrending example is found in, ‘A Smell of Mint in the Air’ by Olga Detyuk.

“When Mother came home from the doctor’s and told me everything it would have been rather natural of me to cry out “Mummy, why me? What have I done?” But Mother did it for me. She burst out crying like a child, brushing her tears against her cheeks with the palms of her hands, saying over and over again, “Olya, Olya! Why you? Why do you have to die?” There was nothing left for me to do but purse my lips and keep silent. I was at a loss. I did not know what to do, for I had never been dying before.”

“The Trace of the Black Wind” depicts a country with proud traditions and a proud people, yet this is a country devastated by radiation (many of the essay writers compare it to the after effects of a nuclear war). In many ways, what we get here is a sense of a Belarus which has been lost to the disaster, with huge areas evacuated and never returned to, land unfarmable and generations blighted by illness and death. Yet through all of this relentless tragedy, there runs a sense of hope at the determination of this young generation to address these issues, and in doing so, to begin to build a future for this benighted country.

From Belarus I now make my way to its giant of a neighbour: Russia. I shall be spending some time in Russia, as – due to the size of this country - I have split it up into its eight Federal Districts, with a book for each. I am starting with “The Sacred Book of the Werewolf” by renowned Russian author Victor Pelevin, which is set in Moscow in the Central Federal District.

Fortunately whilst the train journey from Minsk to Moscow is a long one – around 11.5 hours(!) it is at least direct, and relatively simple to organise. Although first I have to apply for my tourist visa (which is actually quite simple – you can do it online for a cost of $30 with a 24 hour turnaround). I also apply for my transit visa (allowing me to leave Belarus!) a few days in advance at a cost of $20.

I book my tickets in advance (this route is very busy) and, given the length of the journey, I fork out $150 for a first class ticket with a private sleeper car – which is actually quite luxurious - departing for Moscow from Minsk's "Passazhirskiy" Station in the heart of the city. And so I arrive in Moscow, refreshed and ready for my next port of call (although it is absolutely freezing!!).

Lithuania Past & Present: “The Last Girl” Leaves a Lasting Impression

2010-12-03T11:53:00.000-08:00

I have to say I struggled to find a suitable book to represent Lithuania whilst planning my route around the world. Despite the rich history of this country, translated works are still few and far between – and contemporary works in translation are non-existent. I was, therefore, delighted to come across “The Last Girl” by Stephan Collishaw.

Whilst Stephan is not a native author (being born in Nottingham in the UK in 1968), he has an interesting cultural link with Lithuania. On a whim, he relocated to Vilnius in 1995, where he met and married a Lithuanian woman named Marija, who had been teaching him the Lithuanian language. Marija already had two daughters from a prior relationship and later gave birth to Collishaw's son Lukas. The family relocated to Nottinghamshire in 2001. By this time, he had written a total of three unpublished novels, and at his wife's urging, began taking his writing more seriously. “The Last Girl” was his first published novel, which was released in 2003.

This novel garnered universally positive reviews upon its release and it is not hard to see why. For a debut novel, by a relatively young author from another country, Collishaw weaves an insightful, empathetic and thought-provoking novel about both a country and its inhabitants living in the modern-day yet haunted by a tragic past.

In broad terms, the novel is split up into three distinct, yet interrelated, narratives. The first concerns an elderly writer, a borderline alcoholic who no longer writes yet has an obsession with photographing women with their babies on the streets of modern-day Vilnius. The second is an extended account of the modern day tribulations of Svetlana, a washerwoman living on the breadline and dealing with an abusive (and often mercifully absent) husband, who happens to take in laundry for Steponas. In a decaying back street of the city this woman struggles to raise her family. As her son dreams of a better life, she is torn between Vilnius' twilight world of prostitution and her determination to secure hope for her children. The final third takes place in the Lithuania of the second world war, and gives an account of the tragic consequences of independence, Soviet rule and then Nazi occupation, whilst providing the back story to the life of Steponas.

In terms of the narrative, The Last Girl is an engaging and extremely well written novel. The characters are, in the main, portrayed entirely realistically: Collishaw does not hesitate to acknowledge their flaws, whilst allowing enough of their humanity to show through to allow us to empathise with them as readers. Steponas’s refusal to confront his dubious past, and resultant use of alcohol to avoid dealing with his conscience is a case in point. What becomes apparent from the start is that there is a dark element of Steponas’s past which he has yet to deal with, and it is the faces of the women and babies that he photographs that he sees the reflection this secret. A secret he has spent years trying to bury. It is perhaps here that I would tend to find fault in the narrative – as the denouement is sign-posted very early on in the book and, when it comes, seems to lack a degree of emotional punch.

That said, this is astoundingly complex for a first novel. The city - tenderly drawn - feels tense, vivid, effortlessly real. Collishaw’s Vilnius combines past and present, with the rubble of the Jewish ghetto lying side by side with the fallen statues of communist heroes.

Not only does Collishaw take on this huge swath of history - the eradication of the Jewish ghettos, the Soviet occupation of Vilnius - but he also has the nerve to take us into the minds of both Steponas and Svetlana, with their different agendas, different unsettled scores. And no layer is wasted. Each adds meaning, makes the whole more uneasy and disturbing - a feat few first-time novelists could pull off – and results in an excellent stopover on my journey.

And so on to the ex-Soviet Republic of Belarus – a country massively affected by the 1986 Chernobyl nuclear disaster, of which I shall be reading more in my next book “Trace of the Black Wind”.

Before setting off I ensure that I obtain the necessary Visa for travel into Belarus. There are three kiosks at Vilnius’ modern train station that sell these, and I order a 10 day tourist Visa – ordering it at 9 in the morning and receiving it at 4 in the afternoon for 78 Euros.

The train from Vilnius to central Minsk costs me just 15 Euros for a second class ticket (in a four-person passenger compartment) and take about four and a half hours, leaving at 17.43. The journey is fine, not the fastest or most modern trains you will ever see but they get you there in reasonable comfort and cheaply!

And so on to Belarus and “The Trace of the Black Wind” - a collection of essays written by Belarussian children about their memories of the Chernobyl nuclear disaster and the impact that it has had on them and their country in later life.

Growing Pains: Seeking Independence in Post-Soviet Latvia

2010-10-22T09:18:00.000-07:00

Well, the differences between my trip to Latvia – courtesy of “The Tale of the White Crow” and my previous stopover in Estonia (“Things in the Night”) could hardly be more stark.

As detailed in my last blog entry, I found the Estonian novel (by acclaimed literary figure Mati Unt, writing in his mid-50s) too self-consciously postmodern, too inaccessibly complex, and lacking in insight for a non-native reader. However, “The Tale of the White Crow”, by contrast, is a straightforward, diary-form narrative written by Iveta Melnika: an adolescent girl growing up in 1990s Latvia. As such, her account honestly details not only key social and political issues unique to the country at this time as it gained fledging independence, but also chronicles her own – more universal – concerns of growing up, parental disputes, peer pressure and relationships; as she seeks to establish her own independence on her journey into adulthood.

I should clarify here that this is not a fictional narrative, rather the edited actual diary of the author, produced in tandem with the American publisher David Pichaske – a Fulbright lecturer in Latvia at the time who met Iveta in a film class. As he states in his brief, yet insightful, preface to the book:

“I went to Latvia thinking “book” right from the start. I gradually discovered, however, that Iveta had a better story to tell than I did. In some ways she was a better story-teller: fresh, enthusiastic, a good eye for detail and a good ear for speech. I had a ton of photos, but Iveta had a life.”

And this is what we get in this book – and why I am so pleased that it fits my criteria so well – we gain a true insight of a life lived in the Latvian capital city Riga at the turn of the millennium, during a time of real flux for this complex nation. Through Iveta’s eyes we gain an unmediated, realist view of everyday Latvian life: the communal apartments (complete with neighbourly wars over the use of shared kitchens and bathrooms), the food shortages and the euphoria – then disillusionment – of independence from the Soviet Union. At one point Iveta’s father astutely observes that before independence there was not enough food in the shops - whereas post-independence the shops are full of food but no-one can afford it…

These insights are all the more interesting in being filtered through, and overlaid with, the everyday and universal concerns of Iveta herself as she makes the transition form child to adult – concerns which would no doubt resonate with young and old readers in the West (they certainly conjured up some of my own teenage memories!). For instance her painful descriptions of sitting out school discos without a dance partner, her self-consciousness that her parents cannot afford to buy her the latest fashions, and the anxiety of not being ‘part of the in-crowd’ at school. Indeed the title of this work comes from her analogy of her, and a select few friends, at her school - whilst the majority of her peers are the norm: i.e. black crows, she and her friends are not - and so stand out like "white crows” in the flock. It is heartening, and a sign of her growing maturity during the course of this book, that she comes to see this as strength rather than a weakness.

The book itself, whilst in diary form, does not follow a rigid day-to-day format, rather it is split up into individually numbered chunks of narrative which often skip days or even weeks. This probably reflects the way in which it was written and also a degree of judicious editing (around 66% of the original diaries according to the publisher). What does – fortunately – remain, are Iveta’s colourful observations and individual interpretation of certain English phrases, which actually work very well and serve to remind one that we are reading this work in translation. Stylistic features such as “a lot of bullshits,” I think add a certain colloquial colour to this book.

I must emphasise here that, whilst this is essentially a diary transcript, Iveta has an effective descriptive ability that raises this above the average journal. Her sense of teenage isolation and awkwardness could easily have become cliched but is actually portrayed in an engaging way - and also her descriptions of the very real sense of uncertainly and potential threat felt by the populace, as independence drew near yet the Soviet forces belligerently remained in situ is palpable and effectively written. Similarly, her description of the disillusionment amongst the older generation post-independence – represented by her parents – is both sensitively and poignantly portrayed. Throughout the early stages of this book, the family is desperate to move out of their communal apartment and hope that the new regime will lead to this. It ultimately does, but their relocation to a flat in a Soviet-era high rise on the outskirts of town (largely populated by Russians equally disillusioned by their reduction of status as a consequence of independence) neatly demonstrates that independence in this region as a whole has not been without its problems and hardships for the people who fought for it.

The tensions between the long-subjugated natives of this country and the Russians who moved here under Soviet rule (and enjoyed a certain privileged status until independence) is a striking one. I have encountered this in a number of previous locations along the borders of the former USSR. One example was my trip back in March 2009 to Moldova (see my blog on “Lost Province” by Stephen Henighan, which also gave a realistic depiction of life in that country – albeit from an outsider’s perspective).

I fear that I am in danger of going into too much detail of the narrative here and spoiling the plot for potential readers, however I have to address the key ‘plot point’ as it where, for this book. Around the midway stage of this book Iveta strikes up a conversation with an attractive American woman named Lisa who, it turns out, is a senior figure in “The Church of Christ”. This US-funded church, it turns out, is an unofficial evangelical mission operating throughout the former Soviet Union and which has recently established a foothold in Latvia post-independence. Iveta is, of course, flattered by Lisa’s attention and is soon ensconced in the Church – despite her own misgivings and those of her parents.

Whilst Iveta’s astute observations on Latvian life and growing up continue throughout the second half of this work, they are largely filtered through the perspective of her involvement with this organisation (and along the way she provides a number of insights into the controlling techniques employed by sects such as this). I found this a bit of a shame as a reader, as this curtailed some of the elements of her narrative that I could empathise with – although I guess this is partly the point: the fact that ‘Churches’ such as this, filling the post-Soviet vacuum, are all too easily in a position to skew the emotional and social development of young people looking for answers in an uncertain environment...

Also, I do feel here that in describing the insidious influence of this US-based sect upon her youth, Iveta is well aware of the obvious analogy to be made in terms of Western influences filling the influential void left by the Soviet society within Latvia – often for self-serving rather than altruistic ends. And this is no bad thing - it demonstrates, as I hope this journey does as a whole, the value of literature in reflecting not only individual countries, but in the growing global nature of our world. The publisher, David Pichaske, sums this point up excellently in his preface to this book:

“You’re holding in your hands a truly remarkable artefact – the story of a girl coming of age in Riga, Latvia, written in English, edited in the United States, printed in Outer Mongolia. Who in the year of my birth, or even the year of Iveta’s birth, could have imagined such a thing?”

Therefore, I leave Latvia with a sense of satisfaction at having gained a unique and personal glimpse into life in this complex country. From here I make my way to the capital city of Vilnius in neighbouring Lithuania. As with Latvia, this country has a chequered history marred by Nazi occupation in the second world war and then a long struggle to free itself of Soviet rule in the latter half of the Twentieth century. The book that I have chosen for this destination is “The Last Girl”, an acclaimed debut novel by British author Stephan Collishaw – and a novel which addresses the harsh realities of both the modern day country and its recent, difficult, past.

I decide to travel from Latvia to Lithuania by bus – both to see the scenery and because they are so close as to make a bus journey bearable!

There are a number of journeys available throughout each day from Riga to Vilnius, via the major coach company: Lux Express. I decide to take their company up on their ‘luxury travel’ claim, and book a ‘Lux Express Lounge’ coach for my journey. My trip leaves Riga at 12.30 arriving Vilnius at 17.00 at a cost of €20.30.

The ‘Lounge’ option costs a couple of extra € but includes a number of benefits such as: a private lounge at the back of the Lux Express bus, leather seating with table, nibbles, Wi-Fi access, hot drinks, newspapers, wider space between seats with more legroom and access to toilets!

I arrive - reasonably refreshed - at Vilnius’ Soviet-looking coach station ready for Lithuania, and next leg of my journey with: “The Last Girl" by Stephan Collishaw.

Estonia: Left in the Dark by "Things in the Night"...

2010-09-25T14:45:00.000-07:00

My trip to Estonia, in the capital city of Tallinn, was a step into the unknown on several counts. Certainly I knew little of Estonia as a country – save for the fact that it is a Baltic state in Northern Europe that underwent an unfortunate and debilitating set of occupations in the past century by the Soviets, then the Nazis, then the Soviets again – before gaining independence again in 1991. More recently, massive economic growth post-independence has been matched by a major slump in the recession period of 2009.

The book of my choice “Things in the Night” by Estonian writer Mati Unt, actually takes place both on the limits of my journey’s parameters (i.e. all books must be set after 1990), and also on the cusp of this small country’s transition from Soviet rule to independence.

Another step into the unknown was that I was not at all familiar with Mati Unt (1944 – 2005) as a writer – although he is obviously highly regarded in his native country.

What immediately became clear to me upon reading this novel, was that Unt was a writer very much in the postmodernist vein. The first few chapters concern an unknown activist, with unknown motives, making his way towards a small power generator with a view to blowing it up. The narrative takes place in the form of an interview with an unknown interviewer.

However, it is soon made apparent that this section is actually an unfinished novel by a famous Estonian author who then proceeds to form the main narrative of this novel. Thus Unt makes his intentions clear from the start – this is to be no clear cut, plot-driven linear novel – rather it increasingly becomes a post-modern metafiction. To clarify: metafiction is a type of fiction that self-consciously addresses the devices of fiction, exposing the fictional illusion. It self-consciously and systematically draws attention to its status as an artifact in posing questions about the relationship between fiction and reality, usually using irony and self-reflection.

If this sounds a little overly “art-for-art’s sake” and disengaging; well sadly that’s how the novel is in my opinion. And I am not a Luddite in terms of literary convention; I am a big fan of postmodern writers ranging from Kurt Vonnegut to Salman Rushdie to Thomas Pynchon. Indeed, one of my favourite books on my “Reading The World” journey so far has been the highly experimental “Natural Novel” by Georgi Gospodinov of Bulgaria. Despite its unusual structure and non-linear plot; Gospodinov’s novel managed to be both engaging and genuinely interesting in terms of giving an insight into an unfamiliar culture and society (you can read my blog entry on this book below).

Sadly – and again, I stress that this is just my opinion – “Things in the Night” is neither engaging nor enlightening. Although of course, as with other works on my travels – I am no doubt missing a number of allusions within the text that are specific to Estonia at this time…

The fact that this review so far has dealt (necessarily) with form and structure rather than any content is telling. I would have liked to come away from this novel with a greater sense of content, of the experience of Estonian people, and of how the crucial events of Estonian independence in the early 1990s actually played out.

That said, there ARE some worthwhile nuggets to be found in this work, and it would be churlish to suggest that there is no definable plot here at all. So I also include an attempt at a straight plot review here also:

“Things in the Night” begins with a Prologue, the first sentence reaching out: "My Dear, I feel I owe you an explanation." The explanation is, mainly, for a novel-project the narrator has long planned - "a book on electricity", he explains, one of his long-time ambitions. Appropriately enough, the next chapter is: The First Chapter of the Novel - but that doesn't get too far: first reality intrudes, and then the whole project peters out, the writer hitting a dead-end very early on.

The planned novel was one of protest and about taking action: the central character wants to blow up a power plant. It's less about changing the world - the act is a gesture, and one of futility at that - than a demonstration of the character's dissatisfaction. As is, he can't even go through with it. But “Things in the Night” continues in this vein of protest, a lashing out in all directions, with no specific targets.

As I have mentioned, this book was written in a then still Soviet Estonia, and in the book life there is explored using a variety of approaches. At one point the narrator explains why he doesn't just describe the situation as it is:

“Because at an everyday level, life in this country is simply appalling, and if you start trying to describe the horror of it, you really have to devote yourself to the task, stack up thousands of pages of all kinds of absurdities [...] but I don't want to write about it all, and nobody would want to read it anyway. One should rather push this frustration down into the subconscious and write as Proust suggested: one of the characters doesn't close a window, doesn't wash his hands, doesn't put on a coat, doesn't say a word to introduce himself. That is a more honest and pure feeling.”

Personally, I would have preferred the detail!
Still, some of the horrors are described, culminating in a nightmarish scenario of a power outage in sub-zero weather, a blacked-out city frozen solid. This is the nearest the novel comes to a plot (coming in the second third of the book) and contains some genuinely eerie descriptions of the abandoned winter nightlandscape of the city that the writer ventures out into.

As I say – there is no clear linear narrative, although the story does progress - albeit fitfully and with a variety of digressions. There's a significant woman in his life (never elaborated upon): Susie; and an antagonist of sorts, Tissen. There is also a large collection of Cacti that the narrator keeps in his high rise apartment flat and whom he engages with to a much greater degree than any of his neighbours, and which he describes at great length...

And there I take my leave of Estonia on my literary trip: a complex novel by an obviously gifted writer, but one which – I have to say – I personally did not engage with. But that is no bad thing – this is a round the world trip and not every location will be an ideal one for every individual! I hope that I haven't been too harsh on this novel: I was just expecting more. Of course, the best way to form your own opinion is to read it yourself - which I would encourage you to do for every book on this journey!

From Estonia I move onto the neighbouring state of Latvia (courtesy of “Tale of the White Crow” by Iveta Melnika) which - at the time of writing this book - was undergoing a similar transformation from Soviet rule to independence. In contrast to Unt’s work, this book is in the form of a diary by an adolescent girl growing up during these major changes, so I anticipate a very different - and more realist - perspective on this particular location.

Having already been to Riga in Latvia (where this book is set) as a connection to get to Estonia, I know where to catch a bus to Tallinn - rather than getting a taxi which can be very expensive. To buy the ticket on the bus, trolley or tram costs €25, but if you buy the tickets in a kiosk it is only €15. There are kiosks everywhere and they are easy to recognise with their yellow sign saying R Kiosk. The ticket is then validated on the bus, trolley or tram.

From Tallinn airport it is a quick flight to Riga, the capital city of Latvia. It is back via AirBaltic and – if you are quick enough – you can get a relatively cheap flight. Mine was €52 Economy Class, leaving at 21.35 and arriving in Riga at 22.30 (there were only a couple of seats left when I booked...)

And so, on to: “The Tale of the White Crow” by Iveta Melnika. This is set from the 1990s era of Perestroika (which brought both freedoms and uncertainly to many former Soviet states) through to the new millennium.

I look forward to updating you soon…

An intriguing novel from start to Finnish: the secret life of trolls (and their keepers)

2010-09-17T08:28:00.000-07:00

“Troll: A Love Story” by Johanna Sinisalo (or “Not Before Sundown” to give it its original title) is set in Tampere, a major southern city in contemporary Finland. Despite the modern setting, this novel takes place in a world in which the troll (Felipithecus trollius) is a species that really does exist. Even so, they are semi-mythical creatures: sightings are very rare, descriptions of and stories about them often seem like tall tales, and no one knows much about them.

It is interesting that a troll forms a key protagonist here, as I have found that a theme of ‘mythology in a modern context’ runs through a number of works I have planned for the Nordic / Baltic region. For instance the next novel on my journey, set in Estonia, plays on the werewolf legend to a degree, as does the entry for Moscow in Russia. Perhaps this is an indication of native authors attempting to reconcile the tradition of their home countries with their rapidly changing modern contexts? Anyway, on to Finland.

Commercial photographer Mikael Kalervo Hartikainen, commonly known as Angel, stumbles across a young male troll after a drunken night out – it is being taunted and beaten by a group of youths, whom he saves it from - and he takes it home with him to his top floor apartment. The novel as a whole focuses primarily on their relationship – a relationship that undergoes a number of radical phases… First he merely wants to save it, then to release it; but ultimately he finds the beguiling hold of the animal (with features not too different from the human) too great... Secrecy also complicates matters: he knows he can't let anyone know what he's hiding in his apartment (it would contravene Finnish laws on keeping wild animals). He also doesn't really know how to care for the animal, which normally hibernates in the winter and likes to hunt for its food.

The novel is presented in very short chapters, many less than a page long. These alternate between Angel's first-person accounts and those of several other characters – a neighbour, friends, lovers, enemies - as well as newspaper and book excerpts generally dealing with trolls (presumably reflecting the results of Angel’s research into trolls, as well as providing a chorus of sorts on the main narrative). The story of Angel and his troll (whom he names Pessi) is recounted, while the whole mythology of trolls is also nicely built up over the course of the book.

Angel is gay, and his relationships present both problems and opportunities in this narrative as he tries to balance getting what he needs to save and preserve Pessi with his own romantic feelings (and the feelings of others for him). Ex-lovers, those interested in him, and those he's interested in, make for an increasingly complicated tangle of people and events with far-reaching consequences. Especially as one ex-lover is an expert veterinary surgeon with the potential knowledge to save Pessi when he, initially, shows signs of critical illness.

As Pessi grows protective - disliking the scent of another man on Angel - and then when Angel uses Pessi in a photo for a jeans-advert (which the troll doesn't like in the least), it's clear things have to come to a violent head at some point. And they do.

A touchingly painful sub-plot concerns Angel's neighbour, a Filipino mail-order bride named Palomita who is married to an abusive ogre of a man. Angel becomes a small window on the outside world for her, with her situation a distorted mirror of what is happening in the other apartment: she too is a kept pet. She idolises Angel romantically from their few, brief meetings, and hopes that he will provide her with an escape from her caged life. Whilst ultimately he does, in a way: it is through circumstances she could never have anticipated…

The author, Sinisalo, juggles all of this quite well. It's an affecting story, with enough surprises and twists to ultimately be anything but simple. There's a lot here, and it could easily have become a disjointed mish-mash of episodic descriptions - but it is to the author’s credit that the novel works very well as a coherent whole. My main gripe is that some of the lengthier “research texts” break the narrative up more than they add to this, but this is a minor point. And a further area I would question is the rather contrived ending (which I won’t reveal to potential readers!). Overall, however, I looked forward to this novel - and put it down feeling more than satisfied. An imaginative plot, interesting protagonists of an ambivalent nature (in both Angel and Pessi) and some genuinely shocking and surprising moments - both violent and non-violent…. I shall desist from further description in case I spoil key plot points!

And so, having met a troll for the first time, I travel from Finland to Estonia (often called a Baltic state, but one which increasingly – since its independence from the USSR in 1991 – sees itself as Nordic).

Indeed, the book for this destination is called “Things in the Night” by native author Mati Unt, is set in 1990 when Estonia was on the cusp of independence. Mati Unt was born in 1944 and so experienced Estonia under both rule and its belated independence. He was a major literary figure in Estonia – publishing his first novel in 1962, and continuing to write until his death in 2005.

In practical terms, I make my way from Finland to Estonia by air (as one needs to cross the Gulf of Finland to travel between countries – otherwise a lengthy and convoluted land trip through Russia is required). And so I board an AirBaltic flight from Tampere at 8.05am arriving at my connection in Riga in Latvia (my destination after Estonia) at 9.20. From there it is a quick turnaround on the planes to get the 10am from Riga to Tallinn airport arriving at 10.55. Given the connection, this is not a bad journey time of just under 3 hours (although the one-way price is not cheap at EUR 97.75). As far as experience goes – I did not have the check in problems that some describe at Riga, but have the say this was not the most comfortable of flights (tiny leg room) and the air crew seemed non-existent…

Still, I make it to Estonia in one piece and am looking forward to “Things in the Night” – a postmodern reflection of a country on the cusp on independence from communist rule.

Shedding (Northern) Light on the Sámi culture

2010-09-11T15:14:00.000-07:00

In plotting my trip around the world thus far, I have relied heavily on the Internet - searching literary reviews, emailing cultural departments and libraries, and checking out online book clubs (not to mention hours spent trawling 'Wikipedia'!)

Yet I came across my next destination, and my next book, by pure chance – in a local ‘PoundStore’! For those of you not acquainted with these outlets, they are cheap and cheerful shops where everything – literally – costs £1 sterling. Stocks change from week to week so it is pot luck as to what you may find… it just happened to be my good luck to come across “Let The Northern Lights Erase Your Name” by Vendela Vida, in the book section. And with this new work came a new destination on my journey: Sápmi. Whilst not an official state as such, Sápmi is a cultural region in the Arctic Circle inhabited by the Sámi people. It is located in Northern Europe and stretches over four countries: Norway, Sweden, Finland, and Russia.

Whilst the book was only £1, this is no bargain basement work – indeed it was previously voted “Radio 4 Book of week”. I must concur, as the book itself was a pleasure to read and also an evocative insight into the Sámi culture (despite the author and protagonist both being North American).

Vida, writing her second novel, uses a prose that is both sparse and detached – a mode which perfectly matches both the isolation of the location and the emotional detachment of the main protagonist, Clarissa Iverton. The main plot is equally economic – Clarissa’s mother, Olivia, disappeared when she was 14 years old, leaving her and her severely disabled brother to be raised by her father. At the age of 28, her father dies and she discovers that he was not actually her biological father. As a result, Clarissa abandons her fiancé and travels from her native New York to the northern Arctic region of Sápmi. She knows from family papers that this is where her absent mother travelled to in her youth (during a time of local protest at the building of a dam in the area by the Norwegian government). Clarissa travels to this remote, snowbound location with the vague notion of finding some answers as to the true nature of her birth and parentage. Despite some red herrings, she finally does find some unexpected truths – with consequences that are both devastating yet redemptive.

However, it is not just the plot that makes this brief novel so engaging: as indeed it is. Vida’s sparing prose eloquently reflects both the isolation not only of the Arctic landscape - which is depicted beautifully – but also the emotional isolation of the main characters. Indeed, all of these characters reflect their surroundings in their detachment… Clarissa, in leaving for Sápmi without telling her fiancé shows the same lack of empathy as did her mother in leaving her and father; her disabled brother, Jeremy, is ultimately detached in being unable to engage with others or respond to any form of stimuli; and most of the well-intentioned Sámi that Clarissa meets on her journey are unable to engage due to language barriers with her. One exception to the latter group is Henrik, a local Sámi – a young reindeer farmer – whom Clarissa befriends and who she briefly harbours feelings for (although the romantic potential of this narrative arc inevitably falls victim to the isolationist mise-en-scène of the novel).

There are resolutions of sorts in this story, though I would not wish to spoil these for potential readers by going into too much detail here... suffice to say that there are certain denouements along the way. These are generally more of a surprise to Clarissa than the reader as they are quite obviously signposted by Vida… and ultimately the plot is counterbalanced by a conclusion which is most likely more satisfactory to Clarissa than the reader!

Aside from the main narrative, what Vida offers in terms of bringing the Sápmi region to life for the reader is a combination of evocative description and cultural context.

In terms of description, Vida uses her sparse prose to effectively depict the landscape of this desolate Arctic region. Often the best descriptions involve metaphors employed by the American narrator in describing this unfamiliar landscape, for instance: “The sun never rose, but at ten thirty, the sky looked like a dark blue parachute concealing a flame”…”The snow beneath my feet sparkled like sunlit cement…”

Vida is equally efficient in her coverage of the political / cultural issues of this region. Notably, she sets a key period of Clarissa’s mother’s life in Sápmi at the time of the Alta Dam protests in the late 1970s / early 1980s. This was a major protest by the Sámi against the proposed construction of a dam and hydroelectric power plant by the Norwegian government, that would create an artificial lake and inundate the Sámi village of Máze. More than one thousand protesters chained themselves to the site when the work started again in January 1981. The police responded with large forces, and at one point 10% of all Norwegian police officers were stationed in Alta. The protesters were forcibly removed by police.

At the time a number of Sámi were arrested and charged with violating laws against rioting. The central organisations for the Sámi people discontinued all co-operation with the Norwegian government. Two Sámi women even travelled to Rome to petition the Pope. However, ultimately the power plant was built.

Aside from this specific example, Vida also refers to a more insidious influence on the region by the established governments to the South. At one point Clarissa hitches a ride with a native called Sara who tells her story: “At a young age, she was sent to a Norwegian school, as were most of the Sámi in Finnmark at that time. ‘The government wanted the children to learn Norwegian, so we were sent to schools where we slept and lived… [as a result] I was so taken from my heritage that I was embarrassed when I saw the [Alta Dam] protesters’ ”.

In conclusion, this was a book that I greatly enjoyed – not only because it was well written and engaging in a narrative sense – but also because I learnt, through a fictional setting, about a land and a culture of which I was previously unaware. If my 'round the world' trip is about anything, then this is it. The fact that I only stumbled across this book also underlines the fact that the world is a vast and incredibly diverse place, and no matter how thorough one tries to be in representing it through travel, one can only ever scratch the surface of this amazing globe.

From the upper latitudes of the Arctic Circle, I now travel south, to the major city of Tampere in Finland. In order to get to my destination I retrace my steps to Finland’s capital city of Helsinki (see my previous blog entry for the gory details of this 21 hour journey by bus and train). From Helsinki, things are much simpler: I take an ‘Express Bus’ departing from platform 13 in front of the international flights terminal. This runs every hour from Helsinki Airport to Tampere bus station (with a total journey time of 2.5 hours for €25). The modern, air-conditioned buses make a number of stops at locations both large and small along the way (Hämeenlinna, at the midway point, seems to be a particulraly picturesque place to visit...)

Thus I arrive in southern Finland courtesy of “Troll: A Love Story” by native author Johanna Sinisalo. I will explore this work in my next blog; but suffice it to say, this intriguing story involves a troll (a traditional Nordic mythological creature) and its impact in upon a modern day Finish city-dweller who takes it into his home…

Falling for Norway: A Mystery but is it Murder?

2010-09-02T15:37:00.000-07:00

A key reason for choosing “Stella Descending” (by Linn Ullmann) for the Norwegian leg of my journey was that I was intrigued by the premise, which centres around the repercussions of a single, tragic event. On 27 August 2000 the Stella of the title plunges nine stories off a rooftop to her death. For reasons never fully explained, she was up there with Martin, her husband. It is unclear whether she jumped, fell, or was pushed – and this forms the dramatic crux of this novel.

Stella and Martin were together for over a decade. They have a daughter, Bee who is ten - a silent, introspective child whom, we learn, Martin was never able to bond with. Stella also has another child, fifteen-year-old Amanda, though her father is long out of the picture. As well as providing emotional support to Bee, Amanda shares with the reader her view of events: which are seen through the prism of her transition from childhood to adolescence; ageing in a confusing environment where reality is cryptic and fantasy the day-to-day norm. For instance Amanda describes to Bee, in vivid detail, her rationalisation of her mother's descent:

"We say that Mama is falling little by little, day by day, kind of in bits: first a finger, then an eye, and then a knee, and then a foot, then a toe, and then another toe." Amanda says. "I tell Bee…that Mama falls and falls and never hits the ground." On her way down, Amanda explains, Stella meets birds flying south, a squirrel fallen from a tree, a cod fished from water. "Maybe Mama will meet Granny, too, I say; God must have kicked Granny out of heaven a long time ago, she was so grumpy and tight-lipped."

“Stella Descending” is actually narrated by several characters, including eyewitness accounts from the three passers-by who witnessed the fatal fall. There is also some commentary from special investigator Corinne Danielsen (an overweight, ageing detective who can sense a murderer through her stomach rumblings, yet - for such a potentially interesting character - she remains strangely in the background of this novel). There are also accounts and reflections by Amanda (but not Bee), Axel (an old man Stella befriended in a hospital she worked at), and even Stella herself. In addition there is a transcript of a video recording Martin and Stella made on the day of her death (ostensibly to record their possessions for insurance purposes, although the transcripts serve more to provide a voyeuristic view of the increasing disconnection in their relationship: a rather sad documentation of inevitable dissolution).

Of all of the above narrators, a major figure is the aged curmudgeon Axel who has lived for thirty years in his "temporary" apartment in a nondescript section of Oslo. "I am not usually in harmony with my surroundings," Axel explains. "In fact, I detest my surroundings, and my surroundings detest me."

Despite an apparent lack of common ground, Axel and Stella become close friends. Axel is in love or what passes for him as such. Stella senses a sympathetic ear. They meet when Axel is hospitalised. Stella is his nurse. Their friendship coincides with the beginning of Stella's relationship with Martin, so Axel provides a unique perspective. "Stella was too good for him," Axel says, describing Martin. "In my view he is a conceited ass… he is a brute, but he did not kill her. Such things do, after all, take a courage of sorts."

All of these accounts focus on the fall and its aftermath (especially the day of Stella's funeral), but include reminiscences going back years. Some are only related second-hand - it is Corinne who recounts much of what Martin has to say, for example - and events and occurrences (including the fall itself) are often seen through different eyes. On a thematic note, Axel is fascinated by Ferris wheels, and it is like one of these that the story keeps returning to the same places.

The novel presents an interesting mix of voices: old Axel, who has also become an important anchor for Amanda, suspicious Corinne, calmly nostalgic Stella. Much doesn't seem particularly significant at first - or even almost too trivial to bother with - but it's a fine web Ullmann spins, and ultimately a coherent picture of the relationships between these characters emerges. However, this is a novel of separation more than connection: of unbridgeable gaps, the inability to truly communicate and to hold fast to each other - making for a novel that is both affecting and yet also profoundly melancholy.

“Stella Descending” doesn't come to a neat, clean murder-mystery conclusion - it's nowhere near that simple: although it does read like a mystery of sorts (and it is interesting to note how many of the books on the Scandinavian leg of my journey owe something to the detective genre). On balance, this has been an ideal, and enjoyable, representation for my journey to Norway.

As an aside, author Linn Ullmann is the daughter of acclaimed Norwegian actress, Liv Ullmann, and the equally esteemed Swedish director, Ingmar Bergman. Hard acts to follow, but Ullmann acquits herself well here, in what was her second novel.

From Norway, my next stop is a rather unconventional one - the destination being Sápmi: a cultural region in the Arctic circle traditionally inhabited by the Sámi people. Sápmi is located in Northern Europe and stretches over four countries: Norway, Sweden, Finland, and Russia. In researching my journey, I felt that this region had enough autonomy and independent culture to warrant an entry in its own right. Such decisions are always going to be subjective, but this is one I stand by.

And I am pleased that I have, as it has brought me to a sparse, yet affecting, book called “Let the Northern Lights Erase Your Name” by Vendela Vida published in 2007 – of which more later.

I have to say that travel from these two destinations is less of a smooth transition! From Oslo I take a cheap flight into Finland (a snip online via edreams.com for a one-way trip to Helsinki Vantaa airport for €16.80). However, from there travel is less direct to this remote region: there is no direct route to my ultimate destination of Inari; so I then need to embark upon a 12-hour train ride to Rovanemi (which is followed by a bus to Ivalo, and then another bus to Inari:- a total of 21 hours from Helsinki).

At least on the initial train journey I am able to book a comfortable 2nd class sleeper carriage (with three beds – the other two mercifully empty) and nice clean blankets. I shall quote Vendela Vida for a description of this first leg of the journey:

“As the train left the station, I pressed my forehead to the cold window. We started out slow, passing houses the colour of Viking ships in children’s books – utterly confident blues, reds, yellows. Ladders led to the rooftops, to ease the shovelling off of snow…the farther north we travelled, the darker it grew. By three o’clock, it was already night”.

My train arrives at Rovenemi after midnight, and there is a long wait until the double-decker bus arrives at 6am. After one more change of buses I arrive in snowbound Inari at nine in the morning – although it is hard to tell it is morning here as the sun never seems to rise, the only indication of daylight being a dark blue tinge to the sky above…

Fire & Ice: The Past & Present Collide in Sweden

2010-08-21T14:23:00.001-07:00

Swedish author Henning Mankell has become well known of late thanks to the BBC's adaptation of his acclaimed Kurt Wallander series (which I must admit to not having seen). "Italian Shoes", however - the book of his that I have chosen to represent Sweden - is a one-off story spanning a year in the life of a 66-year-old former surgeon living in self-imposed exile on a small island in the Swedish archipelago, having botched an operation twelve years earlier and taken early retirement as a consequence.

At the time that we are introduced to our main protagonist, he lives alone on the island save for a cat and a dog. The tale involves the very unexpected return into his life of a woman he once loved and deserted thirty-seven years back who now has a terminal disease, and three other women of widely differing circumstances who have a profound effect on his sense of being: and upon whose lives he has - sometimes unknowingly - made a significant impact.

Mankell is a natural story-teller and his latest novel is rich in all manner of emotions. Loneliness, regret, mortality and failure are just some of the issues covered here, told in the first-person throughout with a wonderful sense of comic timing in spite of the generally depressing themes. The central character Frederik Welin has only one friend - a hypochondriac postman, who makes the most of the fact that one of his customers is an ex-medical professional - and even then he doesn't like him very much, and hasn't invited him into his lonely abode in all of the twelve years that he has been delivering and collecting the post.

That I cannot really reveal more about the intricacies of the plot itself is a testament to Mankell's compelling narrative ability - there is plenty to describe, but I would be spoiling the book for potential readers if I tried to focus on any individual elements...(and perhaps this is a reflection of Mankells' credentials as a detective story writer).

What I can say is that Mankell is adept at describing the environment, in this case the often frozen sea and snow-covered terrain of a desolate region of Sweden, but he is even better at characterisation and dialogue. While the topics central to the main characters' lives are largely sad and downbeat, the overall impression from reading the story is surprisingly uplifting, and full of moments to make you smile if not laugh out loud. It must have been challenging to have chosen to write in the first-person about a man who is basically selfish and inconsiderate, because it then means that any impressions about him have to come in the form of responses to his self-centred behaviour from the characters around him - there is no judgement in the narrative as it is played out in diary-like style with only occasional snippets of inner reflection. The prose is easy and uncomplicated (compliments must go to the outstanding translation by Laurie Thompson) yet moods and events change very abruptly without any forewarning.

I cannot think of a genre into which this book fits, but it is certainly a very intelligent piece of work by Mankell, full of serious and profound issues that will make you pause to reflect and consider, yet relieved on countless occasions by moments of spirit-raising humour. I believe that anyone reading this will take something positive away from it, something to reflect on looking both backwards and forwards in time.

As this novel ends where it begins - on the Swedish archipelago - I retrace my steps from there to Stockholm in order to travel to my next destination of Norway.

I decide to take a train from Stockholm Centralstation: an impressive C19th edifice of a similar design to St Pancras in London. I board the SJ Intercity 625 at Stockholm Central at 8.29 in the morning and just over 6 hours later (at 14.36) I find myself in Oslo's main station for a one-way fare of about 460 Swedish Krona (about £40). The train is efficient and modern: with large seats, air conditioning and great on-board food facilities... I have to say the exterior view is even more impressive - as the train sweeps through a landscape which is both snowbound and desolate, yet majestically beautiful (save for the regular punctuation of industrial centres and commercial parks).

However, I arrive well-refreshed for the Norwegian leg of my journey in the capital of Oslo, which is a challenging psychological drama entitled "Stella Descending" by native author Linn Ullmann.

I look forward to updating you on this leg of my journey soon!

Serious Literature about a Danish Clown

2010-08-01T14:49:00.000-07:00

Certain readers may remember Danish author Peter Høeg, in relation to his earlier novel “Miss Smilla's Feeling for Snow” (1992) which achieved well-deserved international acclaim in translation – as well as a film adaptation (as "Smilla's Sense of Snow").

Despite this success, Høeg acquired a reputation for being hard to place in terms of literary style, and subsequent works: “Borderliners” (1993), “The Woman and the Ape” (1996) were not so well received by critics.

Always protective of his privacy, Høeg virtually disappeared in 1996 after the luke-warm reception of “The Woman and the Ape”. He re-surfaced in 2006 with “The Quiet Girl”, his first novel in 10 years. At the time of its publication, reception in Denmark was mixed at best, and the novel was generally disregarded as being either too complex or too post-modern.

Personally I think this novel represents a significant return to form for Høeg. Complex and post-modern this novel certainly is; but it is also enjoyable and rewarding. Whilst often baffling in terms of its convoluted plot and bewildering mix of philosophical musings and full-on thriller plot-lines; I can honestly say that this was one of the most enjoyable novels on my journey so far.

So where to start with a description? Well…

Kasper Krone, the unlikely hero of Peter Høeg’s new novel, is a clown. His story is set in a contemporary - yet alternate – reality: a Copenhagen shaken by earthquake and flood. This novel is an equally unlikely page-turner: the thriller as philosophical novel and post-modern comedy.

As per convention: the thriller aspect hurtles along; accelerated with conspiracy, incident and - often unlikely - plot twists. Trying to make sense of these (along with the reader) is the main protagonist Kasper, who is not just any clown, but an international star performing in circuses across Europe and the United States (although this back story is always very much kept out of the main plot).

His act apparently includes the pathos of the violin and the music of Bach. Able to quote from Kierkegaard or St Mark as required, Kasper is erudite and self-confident to an almost hypnotic degree.

His dark side, however, sets the action in motion. Gambling debts, unpaid bills and tax evasion have caught up with him, and bureaucrats from Denmark and Spain threaten to have him thrown in jail. Coming to his rescue is an order of nuns, willing to negotiate a settlement and seek a pardon in exchange for his help with a group of unusual children gathered under their care. He is called in to help because, in the surreal world of this novel, God, whom he refers to as SheAlmighty, "had tuned each person in a musical key, and Kasper could hear it." Not only do people have a kind of aural signature, but also life itself is a great symphony, composed by SheAlmighty, inaudible to all but Kasper.

The children under the nuns' protection are able to manipulate their aural aura in strange and significant ways. When acting in harmony, they can create a power strong enough to move extremely large objects - perhaps linked to Copenhagen's devastating earthquake? Byzantine forces of good and evil, particularly the shadowy Konon Corporation, want to channel that acoustic-kinesthetic energy, but only Kaspar can truly come close to understanding the mysterious power of the children.

When one of these children goes missing and is reported kidnapped, Kasper must find her. As mentioned above, you can skate quickly on the surface of the story of his hunt for this 'quiet girl', and feel that Høeg is deliberately overstating the case. Coincidence abounds. Credulity is stretched and snapped.

Late in the story, for example, Kasper, wheelchair-bound from a gunshot wound and a broken wrist, and his companions - his father dying of cancer, his literally legless sidekick, his long lost but now returned lover and an African nun with a black belt in Aikido - sneak below Copenhagen's main sewage station to slide through pipes 200 feet under the harbour and into the evil Konon Corp's super-secure headquarters. The novel is stocked with nuns and thugs, real estate speculators, monks and tax collectors and dozens more who accelerate and add vivid colour to the deliberately over-the-top plot.

But like the mystical music always there beyond our hearing, the essence of the novel hides within the object of Kasper's quest. The missing 'quiet girl', KlaraMaria, is an old soul in a 12-year-old body, who balances the frenzy and chaos of Kasper's life. The hero is on an existential quest, and through this quest he finds his own answer to the riddle of love and faith.

That Høeg splices together so many conventions should come as no surprise to readers of “Miss Smilla's Feeling for Snow”.

Treat “The Quiet Girl” as a thriller, and you'll sprint happily to its unexpected and enigmatic ending. Treat the novel as a something more, and you may find yourself re-reading this book more than once to enjoy its many layers.

Whichever path you take (and it may well be both!) - ignore the critics: this is a wonderful novel.

Anyhow, the path I am now taking is on my global journey, and will take me from Denmark to Sweden, and on to the novel “Italian Shoes” - which despite its name is set in the Swedish Archipelago and is by renowned Swedish author Henning Mankell (best known in the UK for his televised detective series featuring the fictional Kurt Wallander).

As a first stop off, I take a direct flight from Copenhagen into Stockholm Arlanda airport for just €70.20, leaving Denmark 18.05 and arriving in Sweden at 19.15 (whilst less scenic than taking a train or coach; it is certainly quicker and cheaper...).

An onward journey into the remote location of this novel is required, so I charter a boat from Blasieholmskajen in central Stockholm and head out to a remote island in the Archipeligo...

Double Dutch: An Interesting Book of Two Halves from The Netherlands….

2010-07-14T14:01:00.000-07:00

I have to say I am in two minds about “The Sundial” – Maarten ‘T Hart’s book which represents The Netherlands on my trip. On the one hand, I enjoyed what is a quirky and unusual novel about the taking on of another’s identity, and its consequences, yet - given that this is widely promoted as a complex crime thriller – I felt a little short-changed in that department…

I think maybe the problem is that this novel is trying to be several things at once: a straightforward crime thriller, a mediation of the notion of ‘self’ and also a depiction of an ensemble of off-the-wall characters living together in the provincial city of Maasslius in southern Holland.

Perhaps before further analysis I should offer an overview of the main plot of this book. The publisher’s description covers this fairly well:

The Sundial opens with Leonie Kuyper attending the funeral of her best friend Roos Berczy, who has seemingly died of sunstroke. Leonie has always felt somewhat overshadowed by Roos, who was striking looking and a brilliant pharmacological research assistant to boot. She turns out to have made Leonie her sole heir, provided that she moves into Roos' apartment and cares for her cats. For Leonie, an impoverished translator, it is an offer she cannot refuse and she becomes the owner of a beautiful apartment, a large portfolio of common stocks, and an expensive wardrobe. Gradually Leonie assumes Roos' identity. By wearing her clothes and make-up, she begins to resemble her deceased friend and, as a result, Roos' past starts to crowd in on her. Was Roos a chemist involved in the manufacture of Ecstasy? But Leonie is also confronted with the possibility that Roos had information about the falsification of research findings and might have been murdered by a colleague. And then there's the riddle of exactly how Roos died...

And, as far as plot goes, that is pretty much what you get – and Hart does a workmanlike job of playing out this story. However, I can’t help feeling that the plot is actually more of a secondary device that Hart employs to explore his main interest of the psychological process of Leonie taking on Roos’ personae (physically and mentally). Indeed, Hart has gained something of a reputation as a cross-dresser in his native Holland, often appearing on chat shows dressed as his alter ego 'Martha', and I can’t help feeling that this novel may have been stronger as a psychological exploration of this process of taking on a new identity, without the crime thriller element tacked on.

Indeed, for me, the main ‘was she or wasn’t she murdered’ element was the least convincing and the least satisfying element of this book. What I did find more interesting were the idiosyncratic characters that we are introduced to along the way (the unreconstructed builder Fred, the stuttering lawyer Graafland, the shameless voyeur Mastenbroek, the mentally-fragile Fiona), and Hart has a good feel for the appropriate dialogues and descriptions of these interesting individuals. Interestingly, the one character that does not come across with any conviction in this book is the deceased Roos. Even in retrospect I would have thought we might have got more of a sense of this complex and convoluted character, but for me she remained an enigma, which is curious given that we are constantly told what a larger-than-life person she was.

And so, as a whole, an interesting book but ultimately not a fully satisfying one in a literary sense. That said, it gave me a good sense of a slice of life in modern Holland (a key criteria for my choices of destinations on my journey!) and contained some nice descriptions of the Dutch landscape - both urban and rural - along the way…

And so I make my way from Maasslius to Copenhagen in Denmark, where I shall be visiting courtesy of native author Peter Høeg’s slightly surrealist novel: “The Quiet Girl”. I retrace my steps back to Amsterdam Central station and catch a direct rail link to Schiphol International Airport for just €3.60. From there - having scoped a cheap flight to Denmark (and beware – there are some carriers who will charge you over €300 for a one way trip!) – I board the 17:30 flight on Scandinavian Airlines direct to Copenhagen in Denmark, arriving just 1 hour 20 minutes later, and a bargain at £84.

I look forward to updating you on my travels in Denmark soon!

Light-Hearted Trips in the Political Heart of Europe: the Banal and the Bizarre Come Together in Belgium

2010-06-26T13:14:00.000-07:00

It must be said that Harry Pearson’s book “A Tall Man in a Low Land: Some Time Among The Belgians” - whilst a serviceable and amusing account of this small but central European country - holds few surprises. This is very much a ‘bemused-Englishman-abroad’ type book in the mould of Charlie Connelly’s earlier account of Liechtenstein (“Stamping Grounds”). However, whilst Connelly’s book had a connecting theme and a purpose - following Liechtenstein’s football team during their futile attempt to quality for the 2002 World Cup – Pearson’s account seems a little unfocussed in comparison.

This is not helped by the fact that his disparate accounts of Belgium cover a series of trips made to the country, spanning several years and in the company of various companions. The narrative sometimes segues suddenly between these trips, which can be a little disorientating for the less alert of us readers. I was often left confused as to whether he was recalling a trip with Steve, an old friend, or a more recent excursion with Catherine, his girlfriend (both of whom are very much in the background in this book, and are rarely given any sort of voice). Indeed at some point in the book Harry and Catherine suddenly gain a young baby on their travels, which disorientated me even further...

That is not to say that there aren’t some amusing passages in this book – such as his description of the Belgium enthusiasm for (if not proficiency in) ill–advised and potentially-lethal DIY – and his musings on the possible link between the Belgium sense of national individualism and the large quantities of dog mess on the streets of Brussels. However, occasionally one feels that Pearson is trying a little too hard to demonstrate his credentials as both author and comic. For instance his description of a farmers’ wife as having the “slender, pallid beauty of one of the female revellers of Bosch’s ’Garden of Earthly Delights’ (though she was wearing considerably more clothing, obviously)” – seems a little forced.

That said, whilst it took a while for me to engage with this book, I did begin to warm to the accounts after the halfway mark, and Pearson obviously has a certain affection for this idiosyncratic nation. His accounts of the various nationalistic affiliations to Belgium’s official languages - especially between the Dutch-speaking Flemish and the French-speaking Walloons (who generally seem to ignore each others’ existence; with the minority German-speakers caught somewhere in the middle) - are informative and entertaining. I particularly enjoyed the scene where a train announcer has to change the place-names of destination stops on a single journey, according to where in Belgium the train happens to be...

Another interesting account, which comes late on in the book, is of Belgium's former monarch: King Leopold II’s barbaric yet farcical colonisation of the Congo in the 19th century. Whilst drawing on the full horrors of both this debauched individual and his actions (Pearson makes the astute point that King Leopold made around £3million out of his African land-grab; slightly less than a pound per African life lost as a result) he also finds some telling irony here: "Soon African chiefs all across the Congo basin had signed away their independence to an organisation with a blue and yellow banner and its headquarters in Brussels. Euro-sceptics may wish to pause at this point and have a good old rant”.

All in all then, a bit of a mixed bag; but – as with the previous book – an informative and largely engaging account of a small European country seen through the eyes of both a fellow European and a cultural outsider.

I must say, I felt that the conclusion of this book reflected my point about the lack of narrative structure here. Of course, this is a travelogue and not a novel, but the abrupt Epilogue – a mere two pages which start with a stroll through Namur, take in a paragraph’s worth of Antwerp and end with the ferry back to England via Holland - seemed especially sudden and a little dissatisfying. In articulating this feeling I shall paraphrase my conclusion to Charlie Connelly’s earlier account of Liechtenstein:

“If I have one gripe about this book it is that it all ends rather abruptly. [It] includes an Afterword… but - right at the last page – I was left with a feeling that I had spent an enjoyable few hours in a bar with [Harry] as he recounted his adventures and then, mid-sentence, he just got up and left…”

Maybe it’s just down to my company that these authors need to excuse themselves so abruptly!

Anyhow, next stop is The Netherlands; although first I need to take my leave of Belgium. I must admit to being slightly worried about my decision to go by train, given Harry Pearson’s advice on this local mode of transport:

“The railway stations of Brussels at night are no place for anybody who might be susceptible to depression. The first time I arrived in the Belgian capital it was 10.30 pm on a Friday. I got off the train from the airport at Brussels Nord. As I walked through the cavernous tunnels at the Metro, thoughts of loved ones left behind filled my head, the strip lights buzzing above and my footfalls echoing across the emptiness to be heard, as far as I could tell, by no fellow human speakers, a static crackling emerged from the hidden speakers of the tannoy. It was followed shortly by the melancholy tootling of Acker Bilk’s ‘Stranger On The Shore’. Harder men than I would have broken.”

Bearing this in mind, I decide to travel during daylight hours, and arrive at Brussels Nord on a sunny morning. There is a comfortable InterCity train that connects Brussels Nord station and Amsterdam Central Station that runs roughly every hour during the daytime. The single ticket is only €33.40 and the journey takes about 2 and a half hours. The train goes via the river port of Antwerp (whose Central Station looks remarkably like the new St Pancras station in London) and also Den Haag Centraal, the largest train station in the Netherlands.

Amsterdam’s main train station is the real heart of this city – and is indeed centrally located with a buzzing atmosphere mingling travellers and commuters. As it is a nice day, I break my journey here and spend a pleasant afternoon wandering along the main Damrak boulevard and its side streets, pausing for a beer or two (or three) and a salad at a bijou little café by the canal-side.

After an enjoyable afternoon’s excursion in Amsterdam, I board the 14a metro line to Rotterdam Centraal at 22.26, leaving there at 23.13 on a sprinter train that arrives in my destination of Maasslius at 23.32 (it is dark by now so it is hard to describe the scenery on this leg of journey!). The one-way trip sets me back €14.70.

Maasslius is a provincial city in Southern Holland and the setting of my next book: the novel “The Sundial” by native author Maarten ‘T Hart; which sounds like an interesting mystery story of the fatal consequences of mistaken identity…

A Visit to The White Rose: Tales of Luxembourg over a pint, with an Ex-pat Raconteur

2010-06-13T14:37:00.000-07:00

Let’s get one thing straight from the start. David Robinson is a very knowledgeable, very personable and very informative individual who I am pleased to have chosen to guide me on my journey into and across Luxembourg.

What he is not (and I am sure that he would not disagree with this!) - is an author of the world renown - or ability - of, say, Umberto Eco who was our Italian host on this literary round the world trip.

However, in “An Expat’s Life, Luxembourg & The White Rose,” we do get a comprehensive account of the everyday life, the occasional tribulations (including unemployment) and the experiences of an Englishman who decided to leave the rat-race of the banking industry in the UK and try something different. And fair play to him for that.

In this book we hear about the minutiae of life in Luxembourg (always, of course, seen through the filter of an immigrant to the country). Some of this detail is fascinating – for example the accounts of his many trips to the ‘casements’: the underground tunnels of Luxembourg that linked the various fortifications surrounding this small country (many now not publicly accessible and inhabited by huge spiders!). Similarly, his description of the celebrations of ‘la fete Nationale’ – the Duke’s birthday in June – with its fireworks, its festivals and its music is very engaging.

I must say, however, that some of the detail was perhaps, well, too detailed… David’s in-depth description of the system for claiming unemployment benefits in Luxembourg, which spans more than one chapter, was (whilst no doubt helpful to people who happen to be unemployed in Luxembourg), not that relevant or interesting to many of the book’s readers – including myself.

Still, the individual element of this book – whilst sometimes too specific – is also part of its charm. It is written as though the author is chatting to you in the pub of the title ('The White Rose'), and the prose contains a number of conversational asides. Also, David has really done his research, and we learn a lot about both the history of this tiny state, and its contemporary idiosyncrasies (including its prevalence of ‘Salsa clubs’!). If I have one gripe (aside from his occasionally terrible puns - sorry David!), it is that we don’t hear enough about ‘The White Rose’ of the title. I had expected David to give this bar a personality of its own, along with a series of anecdotes related to it and its regulars, but the pub itself is strangely in the background…(unlike the way in which Robert Westgate brought ‘Le Texan’ bar to life in “Monaco Cool” earlier in this trip).

However, what we do get here, is a long (and this is quite a long book at 293 pages), chat with an expat raconteur about his experiences and excursions in Luxembourg. This book pretty much does what it says on the tin. As such I leave the world’s only surviving ‘Grand Duchy’.

And so I make my way back to Luxembourg City’s main rail station, and buy a ticket to Bruxelles-Central (taking care not to buy one for Bruxelles-Midi by mistake). The ticket costs a reasonable 34,60 Euro and 20 minutes later I am sat on a comfortable and clean train heading to the Belgian border.

I must admit I doze off for much of the 3 hour journey, however I do spend some time taking in the picturesque Belgian countryside: acres of green dotted with pretty villages until the urban sprawl of the outskirts of Brussels takes over. I arrive, refreshed, in Bruxelles-Central station (which, with its tall glass 1950s frontage, looks strangely like a John Lewis department store…) and ready for my trip to Belgium courtesy of Harry Pearson’s account of several trips to the country, entitled: “A Tall Man in a Low Land: Some Time Among The Belgians.”

Berlin: A Cold Spell in the Summerhouse

2010-05-23T14:23:00.000-07:00

"Summerhouse, Later" is a collection of short(ish) stories – largely set in modern Berlin – which, despite itself, manages to be quite engaging.

I say despite itself because it seems that the author, Judith Hermann, is consciously trying to evoke a sense of isolation and emotional detachment in these disparate stories… This is reflected in both the language (with its staccato, matter-of-fact delivery) and the narratives themselves, which often end abruptly, with no resolution of sorts.

However, despite these stylistic mannerisms I found the book to be extremely enjoyable and affecting. Indeed the narrative coldness of much of the writing only serves to accentuate some genuine moments of pathos and humanity that occur in this book.

I have been speaking in largely abstract terms about the literary feel of this book so far; but that is not to say that the stories themselves are not of genuine human interest. Indeed, there is a fascinating range of scenarios and characters played out in the nine stories contained herein. I won’t detail the stories themselves here – I would rather encourage you to read them yourselves! – but there is a strong thematic link, in that they all feature individuals who are somehow divorced from their surroundings; who are alienated by a fragmented society yet still a part of that society. This is the common thread that Hermann interweaves between the characters here – be they a bohemian twenty-something partying their way through Berlin’s art scene, or a reclusive scriptwriter who has put those days behind him to concentrate on a peaceful family life, or a lonely old man in a tenement whose interest is life is briefly, and painfully, ignited by the appearance of a transient young female neighbour.

Two of these stories ('Hurricane' and 'Hunter Johnson Music') take place outside of Germany; and whilst I believe the former has something to say about modern Berlin (featuring ex-pat Germans on a Caribbean island); the latter is a real surprise. It is evocatively written about an old-timer living in a downtown US tenement and reads almost like a film script based on an Edward Hopper painting. It is shot through with a classic American gothic literary feel, and this only serves to demonstrate the versatility of this debutante German author.

Regarding this point, in several other reviews the word ‘cinematic’ is used in regards to this book, and it is notable that in one of her stories Hermann name-checks Andrei Tarkovsky – a Russian film-maker who was known for his long-takes, his deliberate inaccessibility and his cold, isolated film style. This is a perfect way to describe Hermann's own literary style.

Elsewhere in this book we are treated to a series of vignettes regarding the disparate (and generally dissolute) lives of contemporary Berliners. As the UK’s “The Independent” newspaper review stated:

“The title story is most telling. A group of friends lead typically bohemian Berlin lives, filling their days with drugs, boredom and the odd bar job. They suffer from the malaise of nothingness, while studying a "sophisticated, neurasthenic, fucked-up look". Only Stein has a dream: a summerhouse. Yet when he achieves the dream, it folds. As Hermann says, the summerhouse is "the moment before happiness" that is best put off until later. These stories are not the confused musings of some doe-eyed voguish Berliner who knows not what to do with her time. The Summerhouse, Later is an elegant and perceptive reading on the emptiness that fills our lives. Its author is a master storyteller.”

I would concur with this – and Hermann is an author that I shall revisit after I finally complete my global journey.

Whilst planning my onward trip from Berlin to my next destination (Luxembourg, courtesy of “An Expat's Life, Luxembourg and The White Rose” by Englishman David Robinson), it becomes clear that direct travel from these neighbouring countries is neither easy nor cheap (the cheapest connecting flight quoted on the Internet is over 400 Euros!!). The best deal I can get is by train which involves a connection and a price tag of £154 (which - to be fair – one can easily pay travelling between cities in the UK!).

And so I leave the huge glass structure of Berlin’s main station (Berlin Hauptbahnhof) at 11.48 and embark on the daunting 9hr 46min journey to Luxembourg’s main station. I connect at Köln Hauptbahnhof (the main rail station in Germany’s Cologne area), arriving at 16.09 and - as I don’t leave until 18.18 - I take the time to grab a bite to eat and a quick tour of Cologne Cathedral, which is next door to the station, with its stunning Gothic architecture. From Köln it is a three hour trip into Luxembourg City’s main station – a large baroque-style building which looks more like the previous stop's Cologne Cathedral than Köln station!

Upon finally arriving in Luxembourg I am now looking forward to an informative account of its capital city (and one of its premiere expat pubs: The White Rose) from David Robinson, who left a life in banking in the City of London to seek a new life abroad in the smallest EU member state…

Positivity in the Face of Adversity. A Poignant Swiss Love Story.

2010-05-15T14:45:00.000-07:00

My journey to Switzerland, a landlocked country dominated by the Alps housing around 8 million people, is represented by “Blue Pills: A Positive Love Story” by native writer and artist Frederik Peeters. This book is a graphic novel, mixing imagery and words: the first such book on my travels since Aleksander Zograf’s “Regards From Serbia”.

Whilst Zograf's Serbian graphic novel depicted the human side of the military battle between men of differing ideologies, Switzerland’s “Blue Pills” depicts a much more personal battle between Man and virus. In this case the battle of a man, a woman and a child with HIV.

This book forms a comic-strip memoir of Peeters’ romance with a HIV-positive woman named Cati (whose young son is also HIV-positive). The plot forms a series of episodes - ranging from his first meeting with Cati, to their relationship developing, her revelation of her condition and her son’s ongoing treatment. The boy gets sick during the course of this narrative, and this effectively serves to cement the fragile relationship between the two protagonists. As such, this is a story of love formed out of adversity, and it is honestly and touchingly depicted through Peeters' words and images. Although it must be said that the translation into English is rather clunky at times. However, given that my own foreign language skills are limited it would be churlish to labour this point!

What Peeters also manages to depict is the way in which a potentially devastating issue such as HIV can be incorporated into the ordinary, the everyday routine. In one sequence, Cati is shown exhaustively checking her gums each morning for signs of bleeding. In another, Peeters discusses the best brand of condom with a baffled male friend (Manix Infini 002, for those of a curious mindset). The daily routines, the frequent hospital visits, the incomprehension of Cati's son when he first starts swallowing anti-retroviral drugs, mashed up in his breakfast-time yoghurt: all these are rendered on the page with a compassionate clarity that could only come from experience.

And it not just about the words - Peeters's fluid, slashing, unfailingly evocative ink brushwork documents the psychological changes he's gone through to great effect. Sure-handedly depicted facial expressions and body language tell a lot of the story, and almost every page is punctuated with a silent panel or two that suggests the way Peeters's newly expanded awareness of his mortality has made him more aware of the world he lives in, too. The penultimate chapter of this book features an interesting visual metaphor: after a doctor tells Peeters that he has "as much chance of catching AIDS as you have of running into a white rhinoceros on your way out", he imagines himself stalked everywhere by the rhino. This is an engaging, touching and surprisingly humorous book. Despite its potentially depressing subject matter, it manages to culminate in an ending which is both heartbreaking, affecting and ultimately hopeful – in the most positive way.

Peeters’ book engaged me to the degree that I made an effort to Google him to see how he and his family are now doing; and I was delighted to find out that (as of 2008, anyway) they are still together, still happy, their son is growing up and they have a healthy daughter, born by Caesarean to minimise the risk of infection through blood. Sorry, if that provides a spoiler to the end of the book but let’s face it, there are much worse spoilers in life.

Does this book tell me much about Switzerland? Well, as I am finding on my travels; there are two types of works on my journey. The first type is the narrative travel journal (such as the last book, Charles Connelly’s account of his stay in Liechtenstein), which give more detail of a traveller’s - i.e. outsider’s view of a country. The second type are those accounts by native authors set in their own countries, such as this one. Whilst we may not learn about the key landmarks and tourist trails through these books, what we do gain is a glimpse of the everyday lives and concerns of people living in these countries. Lives and concerns which often, I have found so far, are generally universal.

And so I bid a fond farewell to Switzerland. I would have liked to travel from Geneva to my next stop of Berlin in Germany by train, as I am told the scenery – especially on the Swiss side - is spectacular. However it seems travel between these two neighbouring countries is not cheap. A train journey between the two – as well as taking over 10 hours – would have cost the equivalent of £165.

Therefore I opt for an EasyJet flight (still not cheap at £134, but it only takes an hour and a half!) from Geneva into Berlin Schönefeld airport. Schönefeld Airport is situated outside the city proper, so I take the short walk to the Berlin Schönefeld Flughafen railway station and catch the Berlin S-Bahn S9 line’s “RE AirportExpress train” which is the only direct link to the city centre of Berlin.

Thus I arrive in Berlin proper, and the next leg of my journey: “Summerhouse, Later” a collection of short stories by acclaimed German author, Judith Hermann, of which more in my next post.

Liechtenstein Football: the Beautiful Game in a Beautiful Country.

2010-05-09T14:32:00.000-07:00

As I think I mentioned in my previous blog, “Stamping Grounds: Exploring Liechtenstein and its World Cup Dream” is the first non-fiction work on my journey for a while, as well as being the first for a while that is written by a non-native of the country (the author being Charlie Connelly from the UK).

I don’t know if it was the first person narrative, the fact that this was a fellow Brit writing, or just the engaging style of Connelly’s prose; but I immediately felt like a long-distance traveller who has happened upon a chance overseas meeting in a bar with a fellow compatriot and suddenly feels homesick as a result…

And I haven’t even left my hometown in England! Maybe that says something about the power of literature…

Anyway, on to Liechtenstein. I have to say that I really enjoyed Connelly’s portrayal of this tiny nation-state: whose 32,000 residents would not even fill Old Trafford, and which could fit into Ireland 437 times. Connelly intersperses his personal experiences of the country with a number of fascinating facts such as these – and indeed the Old Trafford stat is particularly pertinent: as Connelly is here as much because of the unique national football team as the unique country itself – although as becomes clear, the two elements are inextricably linked (despite the home fans’ general indifference to their team).

Connelly arrives in this country pretty much on a whim, which is fine as he brings with him a total ignorance of this state, which I as a reader shared.

Connelly provides a colourful, funny and genuinely affectionate account of this idiosyncratic nation: with just the right amount of historical background; an account of the general tedium of the capital city Vaduz (a description which still manages to be entertaining – especially the inevitable visit to the stamp museum), and a roll-call of the various colourful characters of this tiny state: including a man who is ‘married’ to an eagle, and some truly disturbing hotel staff who seem to be straight out of a 70s Hammer film.

Of course, central to all of this is the Liechtenstein football team, and their efforts to make some sort of an impact upon their 2002 World Cup qualifying group (qualification is never a realistic goal here, from a team whose last competitive goal came 2 years ago and until recently conceded deficits more often seen in cricket matches). Charlie had me biting my nails during his descriptions of the games of this minnow nation - despite me being totally aware that they didn't go on to win the World Cup! – whilst counter-pointing these dramatic descriptions with a series of dialogues (often taking place in one of Liechtenstein’s few nightspots at the end of a drunken evening) with the genuinely self-effacing members of the national football team themselves. It is here that Connelly skilfully uses football as a wider medium to explore Liechtenstein’s national idiosyncrasies.

Connelly makes some interesting points about the differences between his homeland of England here (where success in football – and indeed success at any cost generally - is paramount), and that of Liechtenstein, where quality of living and modest security reflects the more modest, and realistic, aims of the national team and the wider citizenship. On a wider, cultural level, Connelly highlights these differences through a description of the country’s National Day (a brilliant chapter which incorporates equally tragicomic accounts of Connelly’s excruciatingly embarrassing meeting with the country’s monarch, as well as an ill-advised attempt to scale several of the local peaks with some – far fitter – locals). That said, his obvious affection for this country does lead him to draw a few parallels between our nations – such as the shared national anthem tune (apparently the Liechtenstein family, upon establishing their sovereign state, liked the tune and so commissioned a German-language set of lyrics for it), and also the sense of using the monarchy as a means of distinguishing ourselves from neighbouring states.

All in all, an enjoyable book which does not sacrifice insight for entertainment.

If I have one gripe about this book it is that it all ends rather abruptly. Connelly includes an Afterword which provides an update of sorts, but - right at the last page – I was left with a feeling that I had spent an enjoyable few hours in a bar with Charlie as he recounted his adventures and then, mid-sentence, he just got up and left…

Which made me pleased that I had a further chapter on Liechtenstein to finish off with in Colin Leckey’s book “Dots on the Map” (you may remember Colin’s book was a Godsend in providing the only contemporary literary account of San Marino that I could find for my trip). Colin’s wanderings through this tiny monarchy pretty much backed up Connelly’s account (indeed Leckey gives Connelly’s book due credit in his chapter), and it was nice to sign off from this engaging country with an equally engaging account of Leckey’s stopover in the state.

Indeed Leckey - without the need to focus on the national football team - provides a number of insights which add to Connelly's description of this country. For a start, Leckey bases himself outside of the capital, opting instead for a mountain village called Triesenberg; and a B&B named Haus Alpenbeck where (he soon discovers), guests arriving back from travels to Vaduz after 10pm are met with locked doors and an absence of internal lighting... Leckey also gamely takes a number of walking trips around this tiny state. Charles Connelly - in extremely humorous fashion - describes his lack of walking fitness in a particular chapter on an attempt to scale one of Leichenstein's peaks, so it is nice that Leckey takes this challenge up. And we do learn more about this tiny state beyond its capital through these excursions. He uncovers areas which may well of been of interest to Connelly in his book - such as the "National Calculator Museum" in Schaan, and a competitive crazy golf centre in Vaduz. Of particular interest was Leckey's visit to the impressive historical building Castle Gutenberg, in the Balzars region. This is a 13th century structure to rival the ubiquitous Castle Vaduz. Whilst this is apparently owned by the state, it is only open for a few public events each year. However, I am surprised that Charles Connelly did not cover this in his book - perhaps reflecting a rather Vaduz-centric focus to the work.

Thus I make my way to Vaduz’ modest but efficient bus station in the centre of town where I also take a moment to receive the popular souvenir stamp in my passport. From here I take the 12433 bus to Sargans, and so am in Switzerland within half an hour! As there is no border control between Liechtenstein and Switzerland, I don’t need to show my passport (the bus doesn’t even slow down). I take a brisk walk to Sargans’ train station and just catch the 12.28 train to Zurich - a train which, I must say, puts British trains to shame: with its smoked glass, double-decker layout, extremely comfortable seats and working air-conditioning.

More impressive is the amazing scenery on the hour-long journey; as the trip passes along the southern shore of Lake Zurich, against a backdrop of snow-peaked mountains and picturesque villages. Upon arriving at Zurich’s volumous rail station (and ensuring that I don’t mix up Abfahrt (departures) and Ankunft (arrivals) on the connections board – a pitfall that Charlie Connelly fell into); I board the 13.32 InterCity train to Geneva, where I arrive at 16.15.

And so on to my Swiss book “Blue Pills: A Positive Love Story”. This is my first graphic novel since “Regards from Serbia” (which was an account of the Balkans War). My next book deals with an equally serious subject in describing the author’s romance with an HIV-positive woman named Cati (whose young son is also seropositive). As a long-term graphic novel fan, I look forward to updating you all on how this genre deals with this sensitive and personal subject...

Talking About The Weather in Austria…

2010-05-03T13:47:00.000-07:00

I have to say, finding a work for Austria was a tricky one in terms of fitting my criteria of a post-1990s setting. Initially, I opted for “On a Dark Night I Left my Silent House” by Peter Handke – one of Austria’s most noted authors. However I was slightly dissatisfied by the fact that this work - whilst starting off in Austria – also encompasses a picaresque journey through a number of European countries during the 1990s. As such, I persevered in my search and am glad that I did, as it brought me to a fascinating novel entitled “The Weather Fifteen Years Ago” by Austrian writer Wolf Haas.

Wolf Haas – prior to this work, was best known for writing a series of crime novels featuring the character of grumpy ex-detective Brenner, set in Vienna (the city of Haas’ residence). Despite their international acclaim Haas killed off Brenner in book six, and voiced a wish to take a different direction in writing. The result, “The Weather Fifteen Years Ago” is a highly original and affecting work, set in the Austrian holiday resort of Farmach…

Indeed, it is interesting to come across this novel at this stage of my travels as – having just left the Czech Republic with an attempt at a post-modern ‘metafiction’ novel which did not come off, here I believe is a novel with triumphantly succeeds in the genre.

As such “The Weather Fifteen Years Ago” is no conventional narrative. The reader must infer a sensational love story that the real author hasn’t actually written, but which his fictional persona (also called Wolf Haas) describes to an interviewer referred to only as “Book Review”. This takes the form of a play-like dialogue, in which the two discuss the fictional book’s plot and thus reveal the story to the reader.

The real Haas plays several mind-games at once, for the love story begins with an ambiguous kiss between the protagonists who have known each other since childhood. The reader must deduce the mysterious relationships, which zigzag erotically through several characters and two generations. At the core of all this is a sophisticated web of scientific and poetic weather lore.

The prosaic romantic hero of the fictional novel, Vittorio Kowalski, possesses a strange talent: he can remember the weather for every day of the past fifteen years in a village resort in the Austrian Alps called Farmach, where he used to holiday with his family and where he formed a bond with a local girl named Anni. When he is invited to display this uncanny ability on a TV game show, he uncovers memories of his unrequited love for Anni, the accident that led to her father's death, and his own near-fatal experience at the place of their secret childhood meetings. By viewing this TV show, the fictional Wolf Haas becomes intrigued with the back story and, in the course of writing his novel, uncovers a series of revelations which occur both in the past and also in the present, as the adult Vittorio returns to Farmach with dramatic and far-reaching consequences.

As the interview progresses, intricacies of the children’s parents’ stories unfold to reveal a startling erotic entanglement. On the very last day of the fictional transcription, we learn almost everything else.

Without revealing too much of the fictional novel’s plot, I can say that the ‘real’ Wolf Haas uses a fascinating narrative device of the interview with the ‘author’ to tease out the strands of the story in a way which - if told straight, may well have seemed overly melodramatic. As it is, in the use of the structure that he employs, Haas skilfully teases the reader with tid-bits of information about the fictional novel, and it is a testament to his writing that we are kept engrossed in the story arc right to the end (and suffice to say the ‘teasing’ of the reader does not necessarily end at the final page!). Indeed, in the potentially dry format of an interview transcript, Haas writes prose which is truly engaging and affecting – such as where he deconstructs his description of a thunderstorm in the interview whilst simultaneously reconstructing the tension and atmosphere of the portrayal of the storm as described in the novel.

As well as pulling off this literary coup, Haas is also able to include a sub-plot of the literary duelling between the “Book Review” interviewer and the Wolf Haas who is being interviewed (and who, it should be said, is strongly identified with the actual author – to the degree of naming him as the author of the Detective Brenner series). As such, as well as the unfolding of this dramatic story set in the Austrian Alps, we are also treated to an exposition on the relationship between author and literary reviewer. The fact that the reviewer is German is important here; as Haas has in the past been criticised for his use of a narrative style loosely based on the Austrian vernacular (a dialect of German heard on the streets rather than generally used in literature). As such, the literary and social tensions between so-called High German and the vernacular that Haas employs, add to the tension between reviewer and author. This highlights a certain linguistic tension between Germany and Austria - two cultures (as is often said about the UK and the US) who are separated by a common language.

All in all, this is a book that I was not looking forward to – I was concerned that the postmodernist format would make it difficult to engage with. I have in fact found the opposite – this is a wonderful novel that works on two levels – in deconstructing the novel-writing process and in ingeniously presenting an engaging love story set against the evocative backdrop of the beautiful Austrian Alps.

From Austria I make my way to the tiny state of Liechtenstein, courtesy of English writer Charles Connelly and his journal “Stamping Grounds: Exploring Liechtenstein and Its World Cup Dream” which follows the national football team on its unlikely campaign to qualify for the 2002 World Cup, but also depicts his personal observations of this unique European principality.

To be honest, I am going about this leg of the journey in a slightly awkward way – as, for historical and practical reasons, Liechtenstein has no border control with Switzerland, which is the next stop on my journey. Indeed getting to this next stop is no easy matter – Vaduz may be Liechtenstein’s capital, but it boasts neither a train station nor an airport. Fortunately the Liechtenstein Bus service (www.lba.li) takes me from Feldkirch in Vorarlberg (a state in western Austria), through assorted villages to Vaduz, the capital of Liechtenstein. A day pass for the bus costs EUR 3.20 or CHF 5.00 – the Swiss Franc (CHF) being the currency in use in Liechtenstein although many shops also accept Euro. Border controls are minimal. To get to Vaduz I have to change buses in Schaan – with the country’s only railway station (Schaan-Vaduz) being a stone’s throw away from the bus station there. I look forward to updating you with my experience of this tiny state (which is also the first ‘non-fiction’ work on my journey since Transnistria!)

Czech-mating in the New Republic

2010-04-30T15:49:00.000-07:00

“Bringing Up Girls in Bohemia” is a novel by Michal Viewegh:- one of the most popular contemporary Czech writers - and apparently also the best-selling one...

This is a slim but dense novel, which mainly concerns the story of a middle-aged teacher who is employed by a local Mafioso (of whom there seem many in this region…) to teach his 20 year old daughter, Beata, creative writing. From the narrator's first visit to the gloomy bedroom of this uncommunicative individual, it is apparent that this is no ordinary task – he is actually expected to bring her out of her depression after the break-up with a former boyfriend, based upon the vague notion that she has previously expressed a wish to write.

All of this sets the book up to be a relatively light read: an impression reinforced by the book’s cover – which, with its bright-pink cover and cartoon image of a pair of lady’s legs - seems to be consciously positioning itself as a lightweight book. Similarly; the blurb on the back, with phrases such as “picaresque romp” lead to expectations of a description of the amiable adventures of a teacher approaching mid-life crisis who is thrown together with the young daughter of the local gangster who, though 20, exhibits the actions of a stroppy teenager. Indeed, given the age difference, certain echoes of Nabokov are distinctly evident here.

However, despite the basic plot, this book is intended by the author as nothing of the sort. His alternative intention is also flagged up on the back cover description which – as well as ascribing the novel with the dual role of being “a serious exploration of the writer in post-communist Europe", also signposts, almost in passing, Beata’s ultimate suicide.

This dichotomy pretty well sums up the book as a whole:– it uses the surface narrative of the aforementioned plot as a platform for the author to explore his thoughts on the nature of writing through a series of post-modern asides. These asides include the author interrupting the narrative – Vonnegut-like – to discuss his writing of this work, as well as the casual frequent references to Beata’s impending suicide which jar with the ongoing narrative of the development of her relationship with the narrator. More annoyingly, the author frequently breaks up the flow of the narrative by italicising certain words or phrases mid-sentence to no particular effect.

As such, in my opinion, this novel falls between two stools:

On one hand: the basic narrative of a middle aged teacher bringing a young pupil out of depression and into a relationship is simply not engaging. The main issue here is characterisation: Beata, on the one hand, is not a sympathetic character – she comes across as spoilt, self-absorbed and shallow – flitting from one new-age fad to another, just as she flits from one lover to another. An obvious metaphor for the transition of the Czech Republic from East to Western influence, but one which does not really work on the literal level. Also, whilst the narrator has an engaging enough voice, it is hard to find sympathy for him in his hypocrisy in starting a sexual relationship with the young Beata whilst eulogising over his wonderful wife and young daughter back home (his wife, incidentally, is obviously upset over her suspicions of the relationship, and he lies to her when confronted with the issue). As such – the ultimate suicide of Beata, who is never portrayed in more than two-dimensions by the author - and the impact upon the narrator, leave sadly little impact upon the reader.

One the other hand, Viewegh’s attempt at presenting this as metafiction – through his matter-of-fact signposting of the key plot point (Beata’s suicide) right from the outset, his interruptions of the novel by the novel’s author, his seemingly random use of italics and his rather heavy-handed use of post-modernist quotes – all fall rather flat. As does his lengthy insertion of a novel-within-a-novel towards the end of the book, which simply serves to break up the narrative even further with no real purpose that I, as the humble reader, could define.

I am aware that I have given this novel a bit of a mauling so far, and must accede that perhaps this is down to my previous academic background as a student of literary theory: I have seen all of these literary devices used before to much better effect; and felt rather frustrated that they seem to be being employed here rather for the sake of it, at the author’s indulgence, rather than for any valid literary purpose. Although, of course I accept that this is my personal opinion and – as with previous works – there may be important cultural points I am missing, or which have been lost in the translation into English (which, I should point out, is occasionally stilted).

But, of course, my ‘Round the World’ trip is not purely an exercise in literary criticism – it is about what I can find out about each country and its culture through literature. As such, this book certainly offers some nuggets into the lower-middle class lives of Prague residents - teachers in this instance - as well as its richer inhabitants, who earn their money in rather more dubious ways (i.e. Kral – Beata’s gangster father who, among other enterprises, owns the local brothel). Some of the most entertaining – and enlightening - passages in this work involve the often-hilarious exchanges that take place in the teachers' office at school, with wonderfully depicted characters such as:

a) Stribrny – an 18 year old student teacher terrorised by his students who are a mere four years younger than him;
b) Svetlana Trakarova, whose extreme reaction to liberation from the sexual Puritanism of communism leads to wildly inappropriate discourse of a gynaecological nature and actions such as furnishing her young pre-pubescent students with condoms, and
c) Chvatalova-Sukova – an exponent of classical concerts for students which her fellow teachers despair of – as is shown in a genuinely humorous account of a trip to a classical recital attended by a hoard of disinterested students (complete with Walkmen) and even more disinterested teachers…

Sadly these passages, which are a joy to read, and give a flavour of the everyday life of a teacher in contemporary Prague, are too frequently interspersed with the narrative devices as described above. As such this is a curate’s egg of a novel – good in parts, but ultimately disappointing. That said, Michal Viewegh (a born native of Prague) is one of the most popular contemporary Czech writers and the best-selling one. As such, I have no qualms about having included this novel as the representative work for my trip to the Czech Republic – a trip which has now come to an end.

From the Czech Republic, I move on to the neighbouring country of Austria. For this leg of my journey I have selected “The Weather Fifteen Years Ago” by the Austrian novelist Wolf Haas.

The trip from the Czech Republic to Austria is slightly complicated by the fact that this Austrian novel is set in a fairly remote village in the Austrian Alps (Farmach). It is further complicated by the fact that deciphering bus and train timetables in the Czech Republic can seem baffling, and buying tickets can also be a hassle.

However, here we go: my starting point is “Station Praha-Smíchov” in Prague, an historic and functional-looking building from whence I get a train at the inhumane time of 5.11 in the morning! I stay on the train until Schwandorf at 8:53am from where I blearily make my way to the 9:08 München Hbf train:- leaving there at 11:27am and arriving at Salzburg Hbf station at 12:58.

At 13:10 I finally take a local train (“REx 1508”) and arrive in Saalfelden at 14:57. Saalfelden is mainly a summer resort, but winter-sports areas in the mountains are easy to reach, which means it has long been a holiday destination. From there, I get a mercifully uncommunicative taxi ride to the Alpine resort of Farmach, and on to Austria….

Drying out in Poland with 'The Mighty Angel'

2010-04-20T14:35:00.000-07:00

As mentioned in the last post: my first port of call in my visit to Poland is a pub called “The Mighty Angel”, which is also this novel’s title; an apt starting point for this poetic eulogy by the narrator (and, one suspects, the author himself) to the euphoria and tragedy of alcoholism.

Aside from the narrator (Jerzy – who shares the same name as the author), alcoholism has become a way of life for many of the characters in “The Mighty Angel”. Indeed, much of this novel takes place on an ‘alco ward’ in contemporary Warsaw, but the fact that they temporarily have to try and dry out doesn't make much of a difference: the shadow of their overwhelming dependency hangs over everything even there. Jerzy has already been sent there eighteen times, but obviously to little effect for his stays are little more than a pause in his alcohol-consumed life. Indeed, he obviously doesn't take any lessons he might have learned very far, as every time he is released he has the same routine: he heads straight for his local pub, 'The Mighty Angel', for four double-shots, then buy a bottle of vodka before returning home to clean up his trashed apartment in readiness for his next bender.

Jerzy has his routine down pat within the alco ward, too, occupying himself there - and earning decent money and benefits - by writing the various other patients' accounts for the 'emotional journals' they are required to keep, making him: "the secretary of their minds". In his use of writing, Jerzy demonstrates that alcohol is not the only thing that consumes him. As he admits: “I was ruled by my tongue. I was ruled by women. I was ruled by alcohol.“

Whilst two of these loves are undeniable - alcohol, obviously and also language/literature - “Language is my second - what am I saying, second - language is my first addiction”, I was less convinced by his assertion that women form a triumvirate of influence on his life. Certainly, in the main of this novel Jerzy only gives a cursory reference to his former relationships (which include two failed marriages), and the relationships described in the main part of the novel (a truly poignant episode with the possibly-redemptive Joanna – over whom he chooses alcohol – and a brief, slightly superfluous brush with the poet Alberta).

However, in the alco ward he at least gets to indulge his passion for words - although he is frustrated by the need to temper his own natural style (he is: "incapable under any circumstances of forgoing a well-turned phrase") in rendering believable versions of the other alcoholics' tales. Indeed, he comes to worry that: “the unending labour of reproducing the crude style of the alcos was having an impact on my own exquisite turn of phrase”.

As such, much of the novel consists of Jerzy's accounts of his fellow inmates, both in reproductions of some of the accounts he has penned as well as in his more general own descriptions. Either way, it's all presented through his prism, an agreeable style that is amusingly at odds with much of what is recounted. The narrator neither romanticises nor demonises these characters' (and his own) weakness: it's just who they all are. And if quite a few wind up in even sorrier states (including dead), so be it. At this stage, for most of them - and despite the best (or, more often, clueless) efforts by the hospital staff - it's hard to be much more than philosophical. The very matter-of-factness of this delivery is what gives this novel a truly tragic feel, and one which is often augmented by genuinely affecting prose – reflecting the dual concerns of Jerzy: alcohol addiction and the beauty of literature.

Yet “The Mighty Angel” is also a tale of redemption.

All of Jerzy's reflections, including the sums he does of what he's consumed (the equivalent of three thousand six hundred bottles of vodka in the past twenty years) and what it's cost, in cash as well as the human toll, and all these other sorry tales he's rewritten - do make him question his mindless devotion to drinking. Yet it isn't some logical step he takes, or a determined show of willpower that finally moves him to stop drinking. Instead, it is apparently something more intangible, less definable than his addiction to alcohol that leads him to break free of his routine. Without wishing to spoil the ending, this redemption is couched in the terms of unexpectedly found love – his apparent third passion. But I am unconvinced that this is not actually a further exercise in language, and the literature of romance, that Jerzy is employing to describe something ‘other’:- and that perhaps the ending of this book is not as ’redemptive’ as it appears….

If that last statement sounds vague and unsatisfying, then that is fine. For that is how I found the last section of the book. After the initial elegiac, affecting, yet unrelentingly realistic and honest descriptions of an individual’s tragic descent into addition; I found the ending strangely abstract, oblique and – despite its seemingly redemptive nature – disengaging. I’d welcome comments from anyone else who has read this work on their overriding impression of the book which – as I say – undoubtedly displays some beautiful and heart-rending prose, despite its structural shortcomings.

That said, I think Jerzy Pilch is a very talented writer and this is an impressive work; it just left me with a feeling of a lack of consistency in terms of narrative and purpose once I’d finished it. However, Pilch is one of a growing list of authors from this part of the continent whose works I shall seek out after my global trip has concluded.

In the meantime, my journey continues! In keeping with my general policy of combining sleep with travel where possible, I take the one direct night train from Warsaw’s ‘Warszawa Centralna’ station to Prague leaving at 9:35 p.m. and arriving at 7:05 am (having made the essential reservation for a sleeping coach!).

The train arrives at the main station (Hlavni Nadrazni) in Prague, which is close to Wenceslaus Square early in the morning, and thus I arrive at the next leg of my journey: “Bringing Up Girls in Bohemia” by Michal Viewegh:- one of the most popular contemporary Czech writers - and also the best-selling one... I shall update on this work in my next blog…

A Wooden Village in a Concrete Jungle: Slovakia

2010-04-12T11:09:00.000-07:00

If there is a theme running through the past few books that I have covered in my trip through the Balkans and some ‘former East European’ states it is this: there is a world of difference between the relatively poor lives of the main populaces in these countries and the luxurious prospects promised them by the West (a luxury which, of course, also eludes many in the West itself). This is artificially reinforced in these places by imported fictional US television programmes and the riches associated with the local Mafia who have thrived in the post-Communist era in these benighted countries.

It is notable that all of the recent books that I have encountered depict ordinary, relatively decent, but disillusioned people against a backdrop of impoverishment and threats from local, newly-entrepreneurial ‘Mafia’ gangs who are exploiting the political, social and economic confusions of their newly ‘liberated’ nations for personal financial gain through criminal activity. In simple terms: for a lot of ordinary citizens, fear of the state has been replaced by fear of their more immediate society.

The next step on my World Trip is “The Wooden Village” by Peter Pišt'anek, set in Bratislava in the newly independent Slovakia of the 1990s. This is the second in Pišt'anek’s “Rivers of Babylon” trilogy, but serves perfectly well as a standalone novel: the main protagonist of the first book being relegated to a minor character here. Whilst broadly fitting the above description, the main protagonists presented in this work could hardly be described as ordinary or relatively decent…

These characters are an odd bunch, and they go to some extremes to get by. One couple makes their money by charging for the use of the public toilet they watch over – which is also where they sleep at night. They also make money during the day cleaning tables for an outdoor café bar and its surrounding booths (the ‘wooden village’ of the title). These are located in an underused car park – much to the chagrin of the car park attendant who lives on a trailer on the site, and whose tragicomic back story takes up a significant part of this book. Another is a sex worker who has been saving up money working at a brothel called the Perverts' Club in Austria so she can open up her own bordello catering to those same unusual tastes in Slovakia. Another (a former rock band drummer – as was the author) becomes a fake but much admired and very successful healer. As this healer states to a customer at one point, readers need to just: "Get used to it; nothing's too odd for Slovakia." Or, indeed, for Pišt'anek…

Among the side stories is that of an upper class woman who stumbles into the public toilet, finds herself aroused by her surroundings, and lets herself get pimped out by the couple there. Needless to say, it doesn't work out particularly well (for anyone concerned), but seems analogous for the sordid fall from grace of so much of Slovakian life (and its relatively quick and sad demise).

However, it is all oddly engaging - even despite the brutality and the bizarre sex practises. Indeed, the whole novel and its characters therein seem to operate in a self-contained alternate morality; one that allows you to sympathise (if not empathise) with them, despite their outlandish activities. Often Pišt'anek seems to be making the point that it is the wider society that has driven this people to their actions that is grotesque, rather than the individuals themselves… an interesting (albeit contentious) perspective.

Ultimately the sad fates don't wind up that sad after all, even if things don't go exactly as planned or hoped, and if parts of that are not entirely realistic - a baby gets sold off to some passing foreigners with hardly an afterthought, a man is flung out a sixth-floor window but has a guardian angel to soften the landing - Pišt'anek's aplomb carries almost everything off. Indeed, Pišt'anek displays a remarkable charm and good cheer in relating his stories, and though "The Wooden Village" feels more like a series of vignettes than its stronger predecessor and successor, it is very good fun despite itself. As with the previous work on my trip from Ukraine (“Death and the Penguin”) I shall certainly be seeking out the sequel to this book at the end of my global journey.

I now take my leave of Bratislava and travel to Warsaw in Poland, with Jerry Pilch’s “The Mighty Angel”. I decide to combine travel with a much-needed rest and so make an advance reservation for the daily 22.50 EuroNight overnight train to Warsaw’s rather dilapidated Central train station. Whilst the overnight takes a little longer (8 hours 20 minutes, arriving in Warsaw at 7.10 the next day), it does have the advantage of a reasonably comfortable sleeping car, and access to snacks and drinks if you want them. After a reasonable night’s sleep, I arrive in Poland and make my way the “The Mighty Angel”, the local pub from which the next novel gets its name.

(with thanks to The Complete Review)

Death and Penguins in a surreal Ukraine...

2010-04-08T13:52:00.000-07:00

For my stay in Kiev, in the Ukraine, I spent a few days in the company of frustrated author Viktor and his pet penguin, Misha - a depressive creature that he rescued from the local zoo and who now resides in his apartment flat; eating frozen fish and enjoying the occasional dip in an ice-cold bath.

Such a scenario is indicative of the humorous, slightly surreal style of this debut novel; yet belies the darker undertones that run through this book (it is, after all, called ‘Death and the Penguin’).

In searching for suitable books for my journey I have made good use of the online bookstore Amazon – especially as it features some very insightful reviews of certain books by highly articulate readers. My decision to read this book for my Ukraine stopover was largely influenced by an well-written, considered and accurate review by David J Loftus, of Portland USA. In fact I cannot sum this work up better than the review itself and so I will, if I may, defer to Mr Loftus’ review as the main blog entry for this book:

“Viktor, a lonely journalist nearing 40, lives in Kiev with an Emperor penguin he adopted a year ago when the zoo gave up many of the animals it could no longer afford to feed. Misha, the penguin, lives a quiet, subdued life consisting of little more than a steady diet of fish and cold baths.

“Happily, a newspaper hires Viktor to write advance obituaries: summings-up of notable persons' lives to be kept on file for the day the subject dies. It's steady work for decent pay. The editor even encourages Viktor to stretch out the pieces with a little literary-philosophical content.

“One day, a sinister but friendly visitor passes along his own obit assignments for very good money. When Viktor complains about having composed more than a hundred obits but having nothing published, the visitor asks which Viktor thinks is his best piece ... and within a day, the subject is dead! Complications and further deaths ensue.

“More assignments come from the mobster ("Misha-not-penguin"), who then leaves his young daughter with Viktor "for a short time," but never returns. Little Sonya comes with a big packet of money, so Viktor is able to hire 20-year-old Nina as a day nanny for her. Soon, this quasi-family is settled in for the long haul -- with their penguin -- except that more and more of Viktor's obituary subjects get killed!

“Death and the Penguin is written in a dry, simple style. The chapters are short, the narrative rarely embellished. Though there is plenty of humor, it is not laugh-out-loud but of the wry-smile-to-oneself variety.

“This is not magic realism, but straight realistic narrative of people (and penguin) behaving quite plausibly under increasingly-odd circumstances. It's a queerly unsensational story that seems perversely matter-of-fact, but accelerates into a sudden and very satisfying climax.”

My one quibble with the above review is that – whilst I found the ending sudden to the point of abruptness – I did not find it satisfying, and was left pondering over too many loose ends (especially in regards to Misha!). However, I note that the author Andrey Kurkov, has written a sequel to this novel (“Penguin Lost”) which seeks to resolve this issue. Whilst bound to my 'Round the World' literary trip for the foreseeable future, this is one book I will definitely be seeking out when I have completed my journey!

And now I make my way from Kiev to the capital of neighbouring Slovakia: Bratislava (represented by the visceral novel “The Wooden Village” by native author Peter Pi's-Tanek). Having had enough of plodding trains and bumpy car journeys for a while, I elect to make the trip between these two capital cities by plane. Via a taxi, I get a cheap flight with Malev Hungarian Airlines from Kiev airport (actually known as 'Boryspil International Airport', which is 18 miles east of Kiev itself) leaving at 16.15 and - after a brief stopover back in Budapest - I arrive in Bratislava at 21.00 in the evening, from where I get the N61 bus into the city centre...

Back to the USSR (in Transnistria)

2010-04-06T14:37:00.000-07:00

For a tiny state which is not recognised by any UN country, it is perhaps ironic that Transnistria’s book forms the biggest and most imposing book on my global travel bookcase to date!

This constitutes an impressive A4 book with a number of personal accounts translated into German, English and Russian; along with an absolutely beautiful range of photographs which perfectly capture Transnistrian life in terms of intimate family life in apartment blocks; work in the local radio station; and photos of high profile political candidates.

On a personal level; this was one of the stopovers I was most looking forward to. For many people in the West, Transnistria doesn’t even exist. Moldova and the Ukraine are vague entities in Western media, and so a country desperate to acknowledge its own existence between these two countries is going to struggle in terms of gaining any sort of profile.

The authors of this book; Kramar and Marcell Nimfuehr (both from Austria); explored this fascinating region on the left bank of the Dniestr for more than five years. They got to known the land and the people: they did reportage, interviews and made friends. One of these was a young college lecturer and translator, Andrey Smolensky. Together they explored places that no Western journalist had access to in producing this book.

This is a pictorial book, a political account, a travel account, a book on propaganda and counter-propaganda. With "This is Radio PMR", the Austrian authors – along with their native Transnistrian contacts - have created a visually stunning photographic portrait. As well as their impressive photographs a number of transcribed radio-shows and interviews help to depict a colourful image of "the little Soviet Union".

For me, there are two particularly enlightening sections.

The first deals with “The War of Transnistria” which followed armed clashes on a limited scale that broke out between Transnistrian separatists and Moldova as early as November 1990 at Dubăsari. Volunteers, including Cossacks, came from Russia and Ukraine to help the separatist side. Starting from March 2 1992, there was concerted military action between Moldova and Transnistria. Throughout early 1992 the fighting intensified. The former Soviet 14th Guards Army entered the conflict in its final stage, opening fire against Moldovan forces and since then, Moldova has exercised no effective control or influence on Transnistrian authorities. A ceasefire agreement was signed on July 21, 1992 and has held to the present day. This is seen as a significant date in Transnistrian history, along with other dates relevant to the establishment of the USSR, such as the October Revolution, which are still observed. The accounts by veterans and widows of this recent conflict are particularly affecting – especially as they are accompanied by images of the deceased, and the families left to mourn them.

The second section deals with the cultural side of Transnistria – and involves accounts by a younger, more questioning section of the populace. An interesting example is Artiom Nikolaevich Masur, a young actor and musician, whose views contrast sharply with many of the establishment voices heard in this work. His direct perspective cuts through much of the formulaic political commentary that we encounter elsewhere in the book. For instance, he states: “I Am Moldovan, but I don’t care. Nationalities are stupid…I also wouldn’t call myself Pridnestrovian. It’s all politics. I am not interested in politics…I am simply Artiom”. This individualist view shows that despite its strict pro-Soviet society, counter-culture - in limited form perhaps - does exists in Transnistria.

It is interesting that the Radio PMR of the title (depicted through snippets of broadcasts in the mid-2000s translated by Andrey Smolensky) is largely pro-PMR. The provocative title “This is Radio PMR” echoes the call signs of freedom radio of subjugated nations in the Second World War; however it quickly becomes apparent that many residents of Transnistria DO see themselves as a subjugated nation – seeking freedom from their perceived threat by Moldova, which of course still sees Transnistria as part of its territory. As Andrey states of his broadcasts: “The ultimate aim is to break Moldova’s information blockade against the PMR”.

As such Radio PMR is both an opposition station (against the de jure government of Moldova) and a pro-government station (for the de facto rule of the PMR).

This complex scenario demonstrates the complexity of this disputed nation which this book seeks to represent. It is notable that this book is also, primarily, a photobook (as they say in the cliché:- "a picture paints a thousand words") and the beautiful imagery certainly gives an insightful overview of this nation – from the cramped but homely apartments of its residents, to the grand Soviet-style parades of its government.

If I have one gripe about the production of this book it is this: all too-often, gorgeous two-page photo spreads are marred by the crease in the middle of the book - this volume would perhaps have worked better visually if it were hinged at the left hand edge rather than in the middle, to give the pictures their full impact.

I now take my leave of this strange and contentious - yet fascinating – region to continue my journey into the Ukraine. I considered taking the one daily bus to Kiev from Tiraspol, but - worried about the many online stories about harassment and bribery requests from border guides – I decide to play it safe and, through asking around with a few key contacts; I manage to secure the services of a Russian-speaking driver with a private car with Russian number plates, who will take me from Tiraspol to Kiev direct. Fortunately the border guards seemed disinterested in my transport (they had just pulled over a minibus and taken a couple of Western-looking travellers over for an ‘interview’ in a small hut with four looming guards) and so I was able to continue my journey unmolested into the Ukraine’s capital city Kiev, and the book “Death And The Penguin” by native author Andrey Kurkov.

A Cold War of Words in Moldova

2010-04-05T12:43:00.000-07:00

My stay in the Republic of Moldova took in the book “Lost Province: Adventures in a Moldovan Family”. This book, by Canadian writer Stephen Henighan, details his time spent billeted with a typical Moldovan family in a small apartment in the capital, Chişinău, whilst teaching English at the local University.

As such we get a uniquely intimate look – through the eyes of a Westerner – of the day to day lives of this family, whose concerns, hopes and beliefs in turn give a wider insight into this confused country. Henighan’s role as a language teacher is crucial here: for the tension between the dominant languages of Russian, Romanian and Moldovan (essentially Romanian, but rarely recognised as such, even by the native speakers) demonstrates wider tensions among descendants of Russians imported into the country during the cold war, and those who believe that Moldova should be culturally and ethnically (and economically) linked with its neighbour, Romania. By some, Russian is seen as the language of Soviet colonialism, whereas others see Moldovan as a degenerate language, not fit for the key purposes of civil service and ‘bizniz’. The fact that a language law is about to be passed during Henighan’s visit, declaring Romanian the country’s official language – gives these divisions a particularly political edge.

As with Paula Huntley’s “The Hemingway Book Club of Kosovo”, Henighan’s classroom of students - or ‘little dictators’ as he half-affectionately calls them - provide a barometer of society here, with a contentious mix of Romanian and Russian speakers, each with their own views of the country’s situation (and of the West, which Henighan is seen as typifying, until he disappoints his acquaintances by revealing that he is not up to date with the latest technological gadgets, does not own his own house and is not in regular touch with Michael Jackson).

Throughout the book Henighan cleverly uses the divisive issue of language here, to demonstrate the wider divisions within this complex society. For instance, Henighan is angrily berated a number of times when trying to purchase items in shops, for not speaking Russian; and on one occasion, whilst sitting with a group of Romanians in the dusty communal square outside his hosts’ apartment, the group all uniformly switch to Russian, as soon as a sole Russian speaker joins them.

These divisions are seen within Henighan’s host family as well – Dora and Senya and their two sons Serge and Andrei: whereas Dora speaks mainly Romanian, her son, Andrei, speaks mainly Russian, which he sees as the language of ‘bizniz’, and he is dismissive of Romanian. Some of Henighan’s greatest insights into life in early 1990s Moldova come through his depictions of family life – especially in Dora’s world-weary view of the world, and 20-year old Andrei’s frustration at the lack of job opportunities in his homeland, which is finely balanced between comedy (in his scheme to bring the Jackson family to play a concert in Moldova) and tragedy (in his inevitable gravitation towards a life of petty crime with the local ‘mafia’ gangs).

Some of the broader depictions of life in this economically-struggling country are also telling; the purchase of a carton of orange juice is seen as a luxury – costing almost a month’s salary – and the casual mugging of Henighan on a tram by the local ‘police’ is especially shocking. Yet Henighan has an obvious and genuine warmth towards this lost province, and seems especially comfortable in the communal square outside his building where people of all ages gather to chat, play and drink wine from the nearby kiosks. He sees this as a 'little village' in the midst of a grey metropolis, and identifies here the remnants of traditional Moldovan communal life.

However, one cannot but help feel a sense of pessimism for this struggling country, and this is borne out by Henighan’s return visit, ten years later in 2001. On the surface of it things seem to have improved – the street-life in downtown Chişinău seems more lively and vibrant, with global chains (including the inevitable McDonalds) and designer brands on show. However his visit to Dora – now estranged from her husband and sons, still living in the same apartment block – shows this to be a thin veneer of success. As Dora says: “you have to understand that in the past few years life here has been very, very hard. Many families have broken up….All that stuff you see downtown, near your hotel – that’s not for us, that’s not for ordinary people. For most people things are getting worse and worse.”

The fact that Dora’s own family unit has broken up – she is divorcing Senya, and no longer speaks to Andrei or Serge, whose allegiance now lies with the local criminal gangs – is an effective depiction of a wider social malaise in this complex country.

All in all, this is a well-written, entertaining and insightful look at life in the 1990s in this complex, divided yet engaging post-Soviet country. I would be fascinated to hear about the lives of these individuals a decade on from the Epilogue, in 2011...

And so from one complex, divided place to another – and one which is intractably linked with Moldova itself…

Transnistria, also known as Trans-Dniester or Transdniestria is a breakaway territory located mostly in a strip between the Dniester River and the eastern Moldovan border to Ukraine. It is generally recognised internationally as being de jure in Eastern Moldova as the autonomous region Stînga Nistrului. Since its declaration of independence in 1990, and especially after the War of Transnistria in 1992, it is governed de facto by the unrecognised Pridnestrovian Moldavian Republic (PMR, also known as "Pridnestrovie"), which claims the east bank of the river Dniester and a small area located on the right bank of the Dnestr river. The modern Republic of Moldova does not recognise this secession and considers territories controlled by the PMR to be a part of Moldova's sovereign territory. Transnistria's sovereignty is not recognised by any member of the United Nations and it has no official diplomatic relations with any of those states, although it has strong ties with Russia, as well as being recognised by the disputed former Soviet states of Abkhazia, and South Ossetia.

I take the slow train from Chişinău to the capital city of Tiraspol, arriving two hours later to a scene that could be straight out of Soviet-era Russian – a large tank greets the train as it rolls into the station, and upon leaving the station I am met with a large embossed plaque featuring Lenin in the small square outside. I look forward to updating you on the book “This Is Radio PMR: News From Transnistria” soon.

Sampling small town life in Romania

2010-03-27T10:21:00.000-07:00

My trip to Romania took me to a remote town and mountain resort named in the book only as W, but seemingly based on the actual resort of Sinaia.

Romania itself is located in South-eastern and Central Europe, North of the Balkan Peninsula, on the Lower Danube, within and outside the Carpathian arch, bordering on the Black Sea. The country shares a border with Hungary and Serbia to the west, Ukraine and the Republic of Moldova to the north-east, and Bulgaria to the south.

Interestingly, the oldest modern human remains in Europe were discovered in the "Cave With Bones" in present day Romania. The remains are approximately 42,000 years old and as Europe’s oldest remains of Homo sapiens, they may represent the first such people to have entered the continent.

It is therefore perhaps fitting that my book of choice for Romania is “Little Fingers” by (then) debut novelist Filip Florian. The main premise of this work revolves around a huge pit containing a significant number of human remains, found as the result of a recent excavation of a fort on the outskirts of the town. Added to this premise is the strange fact that the little fingers of these skeletons appear to be missing – or are going missing.

This discovery acts as a catalyst to bring out a number of underlying tensions within the town (and, one assumes, Romania as a whole). Views are polarised: the Chief of Police is convinced that these are proof of a recent atrocity under Communist rule; the main protagonist of the novel – the archaeologist Petrus whose excavation is postponed due to the discovery – believes them to be the remains of plague victims; and the visionary local priest links them to his visions of the Virgin Mary as a divine intervention of sorts.

It must be said, however, that this description – and that given by the publishers – is in danger of painting a picture of a more coherent narrative than actually exists. Rather, this initial scenario acts as a focal point to hang a number of very disparate and unconnected portraits of key figures within the town. Petrus’ account probably comes nearest to a narrative account, depicting his boredom at his enforced absence from the archaeological site, and his blossoming relationship with a daughter of one of his Aunt’s friends in the town. Elsewhere in this work however, things are much less structured: ranging from an effectively comical account of the life of a photographers’ camel through to a long (some might say overlong) account of the history of the local priest, Onufrie. The arrival, late on in the novel, of a group of Argentinean ‘experts’ intent on ascertaining if these remains really are the result of a recent governmental massacre, is obviously intended to bring in a degree of political satire in relating the recent Argentinean junta to that of Romania’s recent Communist past, but I have to say much of this intent went over my head.

That said, despite the fractured narrative I did enjoy this book – it was well written, had some interesting characters, and depicted life in post-Ceauşescu Romania well (albeit in the confines of a small mountain resort). The characters were uniformly fascinating – and diverse – and Florian maintained a rich vein of humour throughout.

As one Amazon reviewer put it:

“This novel, aside from being a subtle analysis of the difficult transition from dictatorship to democracy, and portrait of Romania through its interspersing folk tales, faith, tradition, originality, hospitality and inborn artistic spirit of its people, is a beautiful set of tales about loneliness, alienation between people and looking for one's own means of expression.”

I couldn’t put it better myself, so shall sign off on this perceptive analysis.

I now travel onwards to Chişinău, in the Republic of Moldova, located between Romania to the west and Ukraine to the north, east and south, with the book “Lost Province: Adventures in a Moldovan Family” by Canadian writer Stephen Henighan. This work is about his time lodging with a Moldovan family whilst working as an English teacher in the capital city.

Trains between Romania and Moldova depart from Bucharest, so I get on one of the regular InterCity trains from Sinai to Bucharest. It costs about 10 Euro for a 2nd class ticket and takes just an hour and half. I arrive in Bucharest’s Gara de Nord station and grab a quick meal (a lovely, but filling, plate of 'Frigărui' skewered meat) before getting onto the overnight train, which is direct into Chişinău in Moldova, taking about 12 hours. A point to be aware of: when the train changes wheels at the border (Romania and Moldova trains run on different gauge rails) it’s like getting a free trip on a carnival ride (except that it happens in the middle of the night, when you’d least like that kind of thrill)!

Strange Days in Hungary

2010-03-19T15:55:00.000-07:00

I have just spent a fascinating couple of weeks in the outer reaches of Hungary, with an excellent novel entitled “The Melancholy of Resistance” by acclaimed Hungarian author László Krasznahorkai.

I have visited around 20 countries on my journey to date, and whilst every book has had its merits and value I have encountered a range of different literary forms, and a range of literary accomplishment. Krasznahorkai, it must be said, stands out at this stage of my travels as a hugely significant writer whose importance has been rightly recognised outside of his native country. According to Susan Sontag, he is “the contemporary Hungarian master of apocalypse who inspires comparison with Gogol and Melville”. W. G. Sebald had this to say: “The universality of Krasznahorkai's vision rivals that of Gogol's Dead Souls and far surpasses all the lesser concerns of contemporary writing.”

I have to agree. The key premise of this novel is deceptively simple – a strange circus rolls into a small, run-down town, purporting to show a huge whale carcass as its main exhibit, along with a shadowy figure known as ‘The Prince’. This character appears to have a sinister hold over previous towns’ audiences – many of whom have travelled into this town with the circus… with a possibly nefarious intent.

Against this backdrop we are concerned with the machinations of three main characters:

Valuska – a hapless and pliable, but essentially good-natured individual who is widely seen as the town idiot and is caught up in events with tragic consequences.

Mrs Eszter – a totalitarian individual who is plotting a take-over of the town, with both the circus and Valuska as key tools for realising this.

Mr Eszter – the downtrodden academic husband of Mrs Eszter: a recluse who has removed himself from the disintegrating society around him, yet is spurred into action in defending Valuska; who he alone can see merit in.

My initial thoughts as the plot unfolded were that Krasznahorkai was depicting a scenario with strong echoes of the US author Ray Bradbury. Bradbury’s works are shot through with similar gothic depictions of small town values being challenged by the appearance of sinister circuses (such as the short story collection “Dark Carnival”, and his seminal novel “Something Wicked This Way Comes”)

However, whilst Bradbury tends to use this device as a means to affirm positive small-town social values in the face of external threats (the threat is generally overcome by the wholesome US protagonists), no such succour is afforded here. Rather than a challenge to be overcome, the circus here is more of a mirror that is held up to an already rotten society (graphically depicted by the descriptions of refuge-strewn streets and roaming packs of feral cats who have gained ascendancy over their human neighbours). Furthermore, it is a catalyst to a scenario which – given the downbeat but also ironically humorous first half of the book – is genuinely shocking in its impact on both the town and the main protagonists.

I won’t elaborate further on this; as to do so would be to spoil the excellent plot, but suffice to say that Krasznahorkai does not compromise in his apocalyptic vision of events in this work. Related to this point - and I have felt this in previous works on my travels – I cannot help feeling that perhaps I am missing out on key allegorical points that are being made in this novel. As a non-Hungarian I feel that maybe the relevance of the whale is passing me by in some way, as is the dilemma of Valuska’s character in the face of the circus driven mob. And indeed the enigmatic role of “The Prince” (which is, for me, the least satisfactory character in the book as he is altogether too enigmatic – although that is possibly the point!).

I should also make a reference to Krasznahorkai’s wonderful use of grammar and language in this book. Whilst this is not a stream-of-consciousness work, his elongated sentences are beautifully constructed and unique in their delivery. As the translator George Szirtes puts it: “a slow lava flow of narrative, a vast black river of type.” Yet this is an eminently readable work – and due respect should also be given to George Szirtes in his excellent translation here.

All in all, a dark, difficult, but extremely rewarding and enjoyable book. I didn’t want the novel to end and I reread the final chapter several times for the sheer pleasure of it. You can’t really give higher praise to a book than that.

A Hungarian colleague of mine has recently stated that this book is not an accurate representation of Hungary as a country, as it is set miles from the capital of Budapest. And of course she is right: it isn’t. No book, in a single location (even a capital city), can ever represent an entire nation – and that goes for my own home nation of England. However that is also the nature of any trip around the world, or to other countries. Even if one visits a place in person, one will never see the whole country, or the whole cultural context of that society, in a single visit. All we can ever do as an individual is try to get a sense of a nation: along with, hopefully, an appreciation of our common similarities and a celebration of our differences. That is what I am attempting in this trip – however, if you feel I am getting the balance wrong for any particular country please do let me know.

And so it is time to leave Hungary for the neighbouring state of Romania. I steel myself for the series of rickety trains back to Budapest and then – being a glutton for punishment! – take a 14 hour over-night train from Budapest direct to Brasov (in Transylvania). Having made the connection at Brasov’s (rather functional) station I then, in the early hours, take the one hour journey by rail from Brasov to Sinaia:- a small spa resort in the Carpathian mountains where my visit to Romania begins… with the novel “Little Fingers” by Filip Florian.

Living the High(-rise) Life in Slovenia

2010-02-25T14:44:00.000-08:00

For my stay in Slovenia I spent a fascinating few days in the company of a diverse group of individuals in Fužine, apparently one of the less salubrious areas of the capital city, Ljubljana.

The author, Andrej Skubic, is also an accomplished translator; and it came as no surprise that he has translated – amongst others – the gritty urban Scottish author Irvine Welsh of ‘Trainspotting’ fame. Whilst this novel is not derivative of Welsh’s breakthrough novel, there is a certain focus on the immediate first-person narrative, told in local dialect (which the translation into English captures well), which Welsh also typifies.

However, whilst Welsh tends to go for a range of different narrative voices in his works; they are generally from the same socio-economic background (i.e. working class Edinburgh) - whereas Skubic paints a much wider social palette. His protagonists range from the 16-year old Janina (the daughter of a Montenegrin immigrant, finding her own identity in an alien environment), to Igor (a former bus driver now striking out into entrepreneurial flat-letting - most of the protagonists live within a particular towerblock in Fužine), through to Vera (a retired professor of linguistics at Slovenia’s University, and a divorcee forced to re-appraise both her younger and present life through a chance contact with a former friend and colleague).

Most interesting to myself however - and possibly also to Skubic himself, as this character forms the main narrative focus of the book – is Pero. Pero is a former counter-culture heavy metal freak who displays a touching bewilderment that his former youthful friends have either become ‘respectable’ by getting jobs and families; or have died through excess of drugs or drink. We first meet Pero in a desperate state of isolation and alcoholism in the aforementioned high-rise. A possible redemption is hinted at in his decision to raise himself out of drink-induced stupor and contact his old crowd; and at first we are led to believe this may be an option. However, it soon becomes clear that his ‘crowd’ have moved on (whether through social inclusion, death or drug addition) and Pero is left alone…leading to a poignant series of vignettes where Pero refuses to accept this and describes imaginary social outings with his old friends who are not there for him.

Gluing this disparate narrative together (which all takes place within 24 hours) is the build up between a football match taking place on the day of the very first football match between independent Slovenia and Yugoslavia. This match is an obvious metaphor in terms of ‘Yugo’ / Slovenian tensions, with some characters (e.g. Vera and Janina) indifferent to the outcome, and others such as Pero and Igor placing a huge degree of importance on it. Skubic as an author ramps up a charged sense of tension around the match itself which never ignites (Igor has an verbal confrontation with an adversary which never erupts into violence in the book), and it has to be said that Fužine’s more nefarious inhabitants come off as much more restrained than Welsh’s casual exponents of violence based in Edinburgh.

Ultimately, this novel is not a didactic one – i.e. it presents a number of perspectives of Slovenian lives and views without being judgmental. However, the metaphor of the football match seems – to me – to be saying that there are inevitable divisions in Slovenian society (along class and ethnic lines) but they do not need to be ones which lead to violence. Even the two opposing characters who we are lead to expect a fight between in the book whilst the match is on (Igor and Mirkovic) diffuse the situation (albeit not on friendly terms). They find a way to each save face without violence. Indeed if the football match is seen as a metaphor for the potential divisions in Slovenian society, it is telling that the final result – so important to the opposing factions – is never even revealed in the book (we find out that 6 goals have been scored, as Janina counts the fireworks from her room, but we do not know which side has scored the goals). And maybe that is the point of the book: countries and societies will inevitably have their differences; but these can actually lead to common ground rather than conflict. A football match has people that want one side or another to win, but surely they are all unified in being followers of football?

And on that note, I depart Slovenia via Ljubljana airport and make my way to Hungary; touching down in Budapest but then making my way via a series of trains (of varying quality and reliability - a bit like London trains!) to a small village in South-east Hungary, courtesy of the acclaimed gothic novel: "The Melancholy of Resistance" by the Hungarian author László Krasznahorkai.

A meeting of past and present in Montenegro

2010-02-17T07:04:00.000-08:00

For my stay in Montenegro I travelled around some of the more rural areas of this country known as the ‘Black Mountain’. This is a fascinating country in many ways, from its turbulent past, to its majestic scenery – and the fact that it is one of the newest countries on my travels; having only achieved independence from Serbia in 2006.

Most fascinating of all are the people we meet within the book that represents Montenegro here: “A Stranger’s Supper: An Oral History of Centenarian Women in Montenegro” by Zorka Milich (a US citizen of Montenegrin origins who speaks fluent Montenegrin). In this book, written in the 1990s, Milich recounts conversations that she had with a number of Montenegrin women who were over 100 years old in 1990, and so remembered over a century of their countries history – mostly consisting of war and conflict. It is ironic that more was to come in 1991-1995 in the Bosnian and Croatian Wars, and NATO bombing of the country in 1999…

Milich conducts the dialogues here in the form of a series of interviews which, with each individual, cover key themes such as arranged marriages, war, blood feuds, death of loved ones, the rigours of domestic and farm work (both of which fell to the women – the men were almost always at war or preparing for war), and child birth. It is impossible not to be affected by the stories told here, with their hardship, tragedy and – in some cases – almost unimaginable cruelty. What is especially affecting is the stoicism of the women here, they get on with the hardships of their lives because that is how life was and is, on the ‘black mountain’.

Whilst it is obvious that these women lived in a heavily patriarchal society, Milich is even-handed in her approach to these tales – she avoids using these accounts to pursue wider feminist arguments, and puts the society into the context of the country’s history – she also demonstrates, through the interviews themselves, how the women were themselves a part of maintaining the status quo of this society: women who had children out of wedlock – or who could not bear sons (a cardinal sin in this male-dominated society) – were equally ostracised by their female counterparts as by the men.

If there is one weakness to this approach that Milich takes, it is certain inflexibility in the format of her interviews. She asks the same questions of all of the women, and to varying degrees the responses are the same – early marriage to a stranger, difficult childbirth of many children (not all of whom survived), a life of hard toil and war and a regret in later life that they remain as a burden to their family. Whilst not to undermine the fascinating content of these tales, this does lead to a sense of repetition by the end of this book – although perhaps Milich was attempting to show here that a Montenegrin woman’s lot was universal in the 20th Century – be she Orthodox Serb, Muslim or Catholic.

Above all what comes across here is a revelation that conditions of living – especially for women – which one might assume died out in Europe in the Middle Ages, persisted well into the last century and beyond. That is not to say that this book is not without its flashes of humour however – there is universal horror expressed at the suggestion that these women may have kissed their husbands and bemusement at the freedoms of the younger generation… indeed perhaps our later generations have something to learn here from the humility and lack of materialism of the lives depicted here: whilst living harsh lives, the women here are able to take pleasure in the essentials of life, in answer to the question, “What was the happiest day of your life?”, one woman answers:

“ The happiest day of my life is today. I have a grandchildren and great-grandchildren. I have sons. One came to visit me today, and he bought me a gift… People live better today than we ever lived. I would not want to go back. I cannot do better than I am now. Nothing is missing.”

Words of hope for the future from a 102-year-old woman (although words that were followed by a further decade of war in this tiny country. One can only hope that this nation-state will find peace in the wake of independence).

And so I take my leave of this fascinating, but troubled, country. I take a direct flight from Podgorica Golubovci airport at 15.15 and just over an hour later I am touching down in Ljubljana’s “Jože Pučnik Airport” (formerly Brnik Airport) in Slovenia. From here I take a taxi 20km south to Ljubljana itself, finally arriving in on of the less salubrious neighbourhoods on the outskirts of this capital city – a suburb of high-rise tenements known as Fužine. My stay here in Slovenia will encompass a novel by Andrej E. Skubic, a Slovenian writer and translator. The novel is "Fužine Blues": which follows a single day in the life of four people in Fužine, the infamous ghetto in Ljubljana, a unique day, 13th June 2002, the day of the very first football match between independent Slovenia and Yugoslavia.

I thank the Slovene Writers Association (http://www.drustvo-dsp.si/) for their help in not only suggesting this book, but also sending me a copy at their own expense. I look forward to updating on this leg of my trip soon.

Zagreb, Exit South

2010-01-27T12:52:00.000-08:00

As I mentioned in my last blog, my next destination was Zagreb in Croatia, with "Zagreb, Exit South" by Edo Popović. This was another country impacted by the Bosnian War and the wider Balkan conflicts of the 1990s. However, for this leg I travelled not just between countries but forward in time... to 2005, for an account of lives in this Balkan state several years on from the war:- lives which are nevertheless still impacted upon by those recent conflicts.

Firstly, I have to say that I am really pleased that I came across Popović as a writer, I loved the realist approach that he takes in depicting Zagreb through his main protagonist, the failed writer Baba - both in terms of addressing difficult personal issues, and in his depiction of the wider social problems of the city of Zagreb. Whether these issues are a product of the past conflict or the current commercialisation of the country (or a mix of both) is never made clear - and to be fair to Popović this is not really his concern.. I would put him more in the genre of social commentators such as Bukowski, Selby or Salinger (who sadly died today: 28/01/10). What he is detailing is the minutiae of a set of personal lives which are bound by a shared youthful past but which are now slowly disintegrating - largely through the ravages of the recent social and political upheavals of the country - but also on an individual level due to alcohol abuse (a common theme in many European works which I am using as stopping points on my world trip; including those in the UK).

In terms of narrative: I can offer no better detailed account than the publisher's synoposis of this work:

"Zagreb, Exit South masterfully illuminates the lives of diverse, colorful characters adrift in postwar Croatia. Through bleary, middle-aged eyes, stymied writer Baba takes readers on an amusing, thought-provoking ride as he circles the streets of Zagreb bemoaning the dying out of domestic beer, Kancheli's ridiculous musical lighter, and the fear of going home. His wife Vera, facing wrinkles and an alcoholic spouse, discovers that e-mail is cheaper than therapy as she reshapes her life. Reflective insight, biting humor, and life-changing experiences combine to revive hope in the shadows of Zagreb's city buildings".

And so I move on to the neighbouring state of Montenegro... I had planned to visit this country after my trip to Bosnia & Herzegovina as it shares more of a land border, however there were Visa problems (okay: in real terms my Montenegrin book didn't arrive on time!)

Of all of the major countries and tiny states throughout the world - including those tiny island-states in the pacific with no literary history - I found Montenegro the most difficult country to find a book for. I toyed with an idea of a history book about Montenegro in the past 100 years; but this would have been a compromise as it would not have been about the PEOPLE and the CULTURE of this tiny, yet strategically important, country.

And so I was delighted to find - at a late stage - a wonderful work entitled "A Stranger's Supper: An Oral History of Centenarian Women in Montenegro". This book consists of interviews with about a dozen Centenerian women (all of whom were between 101 and 114 years old!) in Montenegro. One woman is a Serb muslim, the other a Catholic Albanian and there's a Muslim Albanian and the rest are Serb women.

In being written post-1990 and featuring current recollections of these women in the last decade of the twentieth century, this book fits my travel criteria well:- I feel that this work forms an invaluable addition to my trip and a unique perspective on the conflicts that have beset this region throughout (and beyond) living memory...

And so I take my leave of Croatia, via Croatia Airlines at Zagreb Pleso airport... I advise you to shop around if you are making this journey: I was quoted up to €948 for this one-way trip but ended up paying €109 in total including taxes and admin!

I leave Zagreb Pleso at 14.10 and arrive in Montenegro at Podgorica Golubovci airport at 15.20. I look forward to updating you on this leg of my journey soon...

Views of Bosnia and Herzegovina

2010-01-24T11:41:00.000-08:00

Following on from Serbia, I have just spent six days in the capital of Bosnia & Herzegovina: Sarajevo.

In line with my rules for my 'Round the World' trip, this book was written post-1990 (in 1994), and this makes it all the more shocking in its depiction of the graphic horrors of a war-torn European country in the very recent past.

In 1994 the Bosnian War was at its height - an international armed conflict that took place between March 1992 and November 1995, involving the neighbouring states of Croatia and the (then) Federal Republic of Yugoslavia. Sarajevo was in the heart of this conflict and so, unlike my trip to Kosova (which took place after conflict had ended) and Serbia (where the protagonist was dangerously close to, but somewhat removed from, the conflict around him), here we find ourselves in the horrifying and bloody midst of war.

The book starts with an almost elegiac and nostalgic recollection of a bus trip to a scenic waterfall at Jajce, as recalled by a young boy. Whilst there is a degree of trauma here (a fatal road accident is witnessed), this vignette is in stark contrast to the collection of short stories that follow...

The overriding theme of this collection of short stories is that of ordinary lives suddenly interrupted - and often cut short - by shocking violence, usually in the form of heavy shelling on the city. The format is often similar in each work, a purposefully mundane description of ordinary urban lives - and then a cataclysmic moment of violence - often retold in the same mundane, matter-of-fact tone as the preceding part of the story. For instance in an excerpt from "The Gardener"... "We were coming home with our water when the shells began to fall, so we ran into the nearest building. The hall was already full of people. Ivanka leaned against the wall and put her canisters down, but I didn't let go of mine. She lit a cigarette, and then the place just exploded. People fell to the ground, and then one by one they stood up again. All except Ivanka, that is - she didn't stand up."

And the author, Miljenko Jergović, does not limit his observations of the conflict to the somewhat detached use of shells on civilian cities, he also describes with great insight and pathos the way in which personal relationships and communities were torn apart by the ethnic divisions which shaped this conflict. Stories such as "Beard" illustrate the heart-breaking instances where neighbour was turned against neighbour in this conflict, and the spectre of ethnic cleansing - in this instance at the hands of 'Chetniks' (Serbian paramilitaries) - infuses many of these accounts with brutal realism ("Beard" opens with the line... "Juraj's head lay in the mud like an empty dish into which the raindrops fell. But the soldiers marched past without giving him a second look").

All this is not to say that there is no room for humanity - and even humour - in this collection ("Beetle" is a poignant story - at first seemingly written to a lost loved one but which, as it turns out, is actually a requiem to a beloved VW Beetle Car owned by the narrator - itself a metaphor for the loss of normal life in post-war Bosnia & Herzegovina:- and the irony of the Beetle being a car designed by the Nazi regime of World War II is not lost on the author).

In striking such a balance - and in the sheer descriptive and emotional quality of the writing - Jergović shows himself to be a writer of real quality, one whom, like so many other writers I have encountered in this part of Europe, is deserving of a much wider audience in the Western world. When my ‘Round the World’ trip is eventually over, Jergović is a writer whom I shall return to and whose other works I will seek out.

If I have one criticism it is this - the constant format of normal lives destroyed by conflict in each successive story has the effect of numbing the reader to the impact of these stories by the end of the book. However, in achieving this effect - perhaps unconsciously - Jergović effectively demonstrates how us readers in the relatively peaceful West reacted to the Balkan Wars on the 1990s at the time... horror at first, sympathy, and then a sense of numbness at the repetition of the atrocities played out on the news each night... and even, eventually, a tragic disengagement with the plight of our neighbours in Southeastern Europe.

And now it is time to leave, and to make my way to Zagreb in Croatia, with "Zagreb, Exit South" by Edo Popović. This is another country impacted by the Bosnian War and the wider Balkan conflicts of the 1990s. However, for this leg I am travelling not just between countries but forward in time... to 2005, for an account of lives in this Balkan state several years on from the war, lives which are nevertheless still impacted upon by those recent conflicts.

The trip between these two cities is a long one (8 - 9 hours) so I decide to take a night train from Sarajevo, leaving at 9.20pm. I opt for a secured berth on the couchette car, meaning I am able to get a few hours sleep on the journey. The train itself has seen better days, but the couchette is clean and comfortable enough and worth the extra 10EURO - although there is an inconvenient ticket and passport check at the Bosnia/Croatia border crossing which means you won't get an uninterrupted night's sleep!

I arrive in Zagreb's cathedral-like train station at 6.42 in the morning and on to my new destination, the novel: "Zagreb, Exit South" by Edo Popović.

A Picture of Serbia

2010-01-10T12:58:00.000-08:00

It is now the 10th January and I am taking my leave of Serbia, having spent my time in the personable company of Aleksander Zograf (a pseudonym of Sasa Rakezic); a comic strip writer from the industrial town of Pančevo, about 12km from Belgrade.

It was interesting to read this book immediately following the 'Hemingway Book Club of Kosovo', just to get a different perspective on the tragic events that were happening in this area at the end of the millenium.

As with Paula Huntley's book, this book takes the form of a journal - spanning the years from 1993, during the inital Balkans conflicts, through to the UN bombing of Serbia at the end of the decade and ending with the death of Slobodan Milošević in 2006. The key difference here is that - Aleksander being a cartoonist - much of this account is made up of comic strip / graphic novel format (with a strong visual influence from US cartoonist Robert Crumb), with the middle section being a compilation of sporadic emails that he sent to his international friends during the 'crisis in Serbia'.

The visual aspect is an interesting one, as is the perspective of this individual who is well placed to represent the 'ordinary man in the street' in Serbia during this conflict. After the demonisation of Serbs in the previous book - this brings a needed balance (Paula Huntley herself admits to having no contact herself whilst in Kosovo, with the Serbs who remained there under KFOR protection).

Indeed Zograf himself - certainly no supporter of the regime that he finds himself under - takes a laudably balanced approach to the conflict: equally concerned for the innocent victims of the UN bombings in Belgrade as for the Kosovan Albanians suffering at the hands of Serbian paramilitaries. He even finds time to sympathise with the UN pilots who are bombing his home-town ("It must be a really hard job...I guess every land, viewed from the air, looks beautiful, and the pilots have to drop bombs, right on the towns and people below, and risk their lives for some reason that is more or less abtract to them...In a way, they are the victims of this war, just like those tiny little people down on earth.")

What really comes across here is the sheer frustration of an ordinary individual who just wants to go about a normal life, and who cannot understand the madness unfolding around him; in the form of Serbian propaganda and aggression in Kosovo, seemingly random UN bombings of his home town and Belgrade, and the slow disintegration of the social structure within which he has lived.

That said, Zograf - whilst no doubt psychologically traumatised by the circumstances he finds himself in - is somewhat removed from the full horrors endured on both sides of the conflict. The bombs that drop on his hometown shake his building and invade his dreams but he is never directly impacted upon by an explosion at close range (his one injury incurred during the narrative is a broken arm - a result of falling off his bike), and he is able to travel abroad to the US and Italy at times during this time period.

That is not to trivialise what must have been a terrible experience, and certainly one which I could never comprehend, it is just to say that the true value of this work is to show that - for many people during times of conflict - life simply has to go as normally as possible. Also, this approach (and I am getting ahead of myself a little here) made the graphic, immediate, descriptions of the horrors of the Balkans conflict featured in the next leg of my journey ('Sarajevo Marlboro') all the more shocking and visceral.

To sum up then, this book is highly recommended in that it gives a view of an ordinary Serbian - rather than the Serbian extremists - and reminds us that all sides suffered terrible innocent casualties during this conflict. I would also recommend that you least read an overview of the context of this conflict before reading this, and the previous book, as it really will add value to these legs of the world trip. Indeed the next few ports of call on my journey are all former Yugoslavian states which were badly affected by the conflicts of the 1990s.

And so, I move on from Serbia to Sarajevo, the capital of neighbouring Bosnia and Herzegovina. It is back onto the 'Beograd Centar' commuter rail line into Belgrade and from there I make my way across the city to the Lasta Bus Station (I walk as I have some time to spare - the one bus from there to Sarajevo does not leave until 4.00pm).

I embark on my journey in a pleasantly clean and comfortable Lasta bus which stops frequently over the next hour until our last port of call in Serbia, a picturesque-looking village named Jarak. From there it is direct for several hours (I resist the urge to snooze in order to enjoy the amazing scenery), until I am deposited in Sarajevo's main bus station at 10.45pm.

Thus begins my next leg of the round the world journey... 'Sarajevo Marlboro' - a collection of short stories by Miljenko Jergović, written in 1994 (in the midst of the 1992-1995 'Bosnian War') - and thus giving a perspective of life in the epicentre of this violent period.

Kosovo and some reflections on my journey so far....

2010-01-01T10:08:00.000-08:00

And so, as the year draws to a close, I take my leave of Kosovo; the last book of 2009 on my ongoing 'round the world' trip...

Before I discuss my Kosovan sojourn, this seems like a good time to reflect upon my journey so far, which started way back in May of this year. The concept of travelling around the world through literature was one which I had been toying with for some time, and a six-month period of unemployment (now gladly resolved) gave me that opportunity... I was also fortunate that I was able to use the Internet to plan, plot and share my thoughts on my visits - and indeed without the use of the Internet as a resource to identify key works, I would not have been able to get close of my aim of visiting all official (and several unofficial) states in the world.

I had originally only planned to identify my trips three or four countries ahead, but tracking down representative works of each country has been such a fascinating exercise that I have only another 15 or so countries on my itinerary to track books down for! Of course, I am aware that this journey may take some years and that more relevant books may appear for certain countries, so I shall be constantly reviewing my choices... and any suggestions are more than welcome! The help and assistance that I have had from authors, academics and readers from across the globe has been overwhelming, and I am truly grateful for all those who have taken the time to contact me, respond to my emails and - in some cases - even sent me books...

In reviewing my book choices I am also acutely aware of the importance of identifying native authors where possible; and I am pleased that I have only had to resort to four non-native authors on my journey so far. That said, the next leg of my journey "The Hemingway Book Club of Kosovo" is written by an American, Paula Huntley, who journeyed to Kosovo in 2000 as part of a UN-led restructuring programme. However, given the sensitive and polarised nature of the recent conflict in Serbia and Kosovo, it could be argued that an outsiders' view is perhaps beneficial here in providing a less subjective perspective on the situation in Kosovo....

The premise then, of this book, is that it is culled from a series of journal extracts and emails written by Paula during her year-long stay in Kosovo where she travelled with her husband, teaching English at the University in Pristina. Indeed Paula herself calls this "an accidental book", and whilst the diary format has no doubt undergone a degree of rewriting prior to publication, the format does give an immediacy and honesty to the narrative: Paula questions her own innermost motivations in journeying to Kosovo:- as well as making interesting parallels of the prejudice she sees around her with her own previous racial intolerance whilst growing up in 1960s America.

However, this is not an introspective work, and indeed one of the most effective elements of this book are her vivid descriptions of a war-torn Kosovo desparately trying to get back to normal within the artificial confines of UN administration. The physical descriptions are particularly telling:

"Prishtina is a city of fragments. There are few whole things here - few intact surfaces, few complete buildings, few functional systems. Concrete sidewalks are split and buckled, stuccoed walls are crazed and stained, roads are gullied and pocked with holes big enough to swallow a small car, steps are crumbling, ragged-edged. Turbid, smelly gray-water seeps from every crack and pit. And everywhere, everywhere, garbage."

Defying these grim conditions are the key characters: the Kosovan students who attend her English lessons and the titular Book Club. These students provide fascinating insights into the psyche of this region, and their optimisim and fortitude is universally humbling given that they are effectively suffering a double tragedy - a scarred past of death and displacement at the hands of Serbian paramilitaries; and an uncertain future in a country still devastated by war and reliant upon the fickle Western powers for support. All see themselves as 'lucky' (they are, after all, still alive) and see the learning of English as a ticket to a better future. Whilst some achieve their dreams of escaping their situations, to varying degrees, Paula is acutely aware that she may well be raising unrealistic expectations among her students; a heartbreaking prospect for both writer and reader.

Paula herself proves to be an insightful guide into Kosovo here - she is always aware that her views of the country are tempered by a Western/US perspective and she shows a rare sensitivity in her actions - for instance, whilst attempting to encourage her Kosovo Albanian students to acknowledge that not all Serbians are murderers and aggressors, she wisely retreats in the face of obvious confusion and even anger. These individuals' wounds are simply too recent and too deep, although by the end of the book there are signs of hope here too...as Paula says in a recent interview "Kosovo will be judged by how well the Albanian majority of some 90 per cent protects the Serbs, Roma and other minority groups. Are they up to this? I hope so. Everything depends upon it".

Ultimately, this is a story of a country and a people scarred and traumatised by recent war, who desperately require an autonomy and stake in their own future which they are unlikely to attain whilst they remain under international governance - a situation which remains nearly a decade after this book was written. As of 2010, the status of Kosovo remains unclear - of the 5 permanent members of the UN Security Council the US, UK and France acknowledged a declaration of Kosovan independence in 2008, yet this has not been formalised due to the resistance of China and Russia.

On a personal note, I must admit to being shamefully unaware of the details of the Kosovan crisis and the Balkan conflict of the 1990s... as a twentysomething living in the UK at the time, I was aware of the conflict from the nightly news reports of NATO bombings and I recall being appalled at the UN's failure to prevent the Srebenica massacre in 1995, but the details never really struck home. To me, this was a conflict happening elsewhere, to other people, and I never really engaged with it. As a final thought, I have to say I would welcome an update from Paula Huntley on how these various individuals are doing, almost a decade on from her book's events.

In any case, I am grateful that my journey round the world - whilst inevitably limited - is at least giving myself, and hopefully followers of this Blog, a glimpse into the terrible real-life situations that so many of our fellow global citizens find themselves in.

With this in mind, I am setting out from Pristina, Kosovo, to its controversial neighbour, Serbia (Serbia itself still claims Kosovo as one of its own territories). The general populace of Serbia were not untouched by the wars of the 90s/early 00s themselves (or ignorant of the plight of the people of Kosovo) and my next account takes me to the industrial town of Pančevo, which was heavily bombed by NATO forces at the turn of the Millenium as a result of Serbian aggression in Kosovo.

The book in question is "Regards From Serbia" by Aleksandar Zograf, a resident of Pančevo (about 15km from Belgrade) during the conflicts. This is a mix of graphic novel (Zograf is a cartoonist) and email diary to his friends outside of Serbia during the bombing campaign. I will write more of this work when I have finished reading it, but suffice to say, as an ordinary individual, he expresses the same horror, bewilderment and frustration as his Kosovan counterparts during this terrible conflict.

To this day, direct travel is still not permitted from Kosovo to Serbia if the journey has not started in Serbia itself (there is talk of this ban being lifted soon for international citizens but not for Kosovan passport holders. The embargo will remain in place "primarily because of the [Kosovo] Albanian population’s crime links in Western Europe” according to Serbia's interior minister).

Thus I have no option but to make my way to the recently renovated Pristina International Airport and get a cheap flight from Pristina back to Tirana in Albania.

From there I get a 12.20pm connecting 'Alitalia' flight to Rome, leaving Rome at 2.30pm and finally arriving at Belgrade's Nikola Tesla Airport at 4.30pm (convoluted but - relatively! - cheap at $380).

From here I get a (surprisingly cheap) taxi - making sure it has the blue city taxi sign on the roof as well as the offical logo of the taxi company - travelling about 12km east of the airport into Belgrade proper where I catch the reasonably efficient commuter rail from 'Beograd Centar' direct to 'Pančevo Vojlovica'.

And so I arrive at my destination in Serbia - Pančevo - eager to see the other side of the conflict referred to in my Kosovan stopover, and also aware that this represents a significant gateway on my travels into the other former Yugoslavian states of Montenegro, Croatia, Bosnia etc. I hope to find out more about this tragic conflict through this leg of my journey. However - above all - I hope to get a sense of the everyday lives of our fellow European citizens in this ravaged region; almost a decade after the conflict which has defined their lives for so long...