Istanbul to London in five weeks

The first part of the journey took us through Bulgaria, the remnants of communism enveloped the city of Varna, our first place of rest.  We stayed with a local couple, whom we had met through the Couch Surfing website.  They offered us their hospitality in their small 12^th floor apartment, in the living room, which doubled as a spare bedroom, a lounge, and washing area.  The relics of communism loomed once again.  We stayed for one night, in this weirdly pseudo-touristic city on the coast, with its run-down communo-monotonous architecture, and its bland buildings.  It made me think that although communism promised relative equality for its people, that samey-sameness was also one of its greatest pitfalls.  Everything was bland, watered down, and seemed to lack passion. People, I don’t imagine, cope well in such circumstances – we lust after diversity.  This apparent sameness was dull.  It is true that Capitalism breeds greed and human inequality.  And although this is far from ideal, at least it encouraged excitement! 

 

Our second night in Bulgaria was in a small village, where we had heard that Emir Kustarice, a well-known gypsy-art-film director would be performing with his band, the No Smoking Orchestra.  We left left Varna late in the afternoon, and arrived in Kavarna in the nick of time, cleverly supplied with a full Russian hipflask of local Vodka, and a litre of orange juice (also spiked with Vodka for good measure), and discovered an electric  atmosphere with a large group of impassioned groupies,  as well as a freedom away from the social constraints  that Turkey seemed to impose.

I had not noticed these constraints until this point, as I enjoyed Turkey thoroughly and had easily adapted to its culture and way of life.  In Turkey, the religious influences directed social behaviour, encouraging taboos linked with expected ways of behaving, that infiltrated all aspect of life.  For instance, women have to abide by certain social mores, and are excluded from a lot of the social life than men enjoy.  Many bars and drinking holes are testosterone-friendly, and oestrogen-unfriendly.  This by-product of the somewhat out-dated Islamic social norms in a country that boasts secularism, remain deeply entrenched.  Indeed, on the Black Sea Coast where such chauvinist tendencies were even more extreme, women and men weren’t even allowed on the same beach.  Another social peculiarity was the caution one needed when broaching subjects of a touchy nature.  Religion and politics, for instance, were generally considered taboo amongst us ex-pats, and we were even cautioned by our managers at the language school not to venture forth in such debate.  The mere mention of any ideas that challenged the fundamental beliefs in Islam caused deep stirring and discomfort, and so were best avoided. 

So anyway, the melodic and yet cacophonic sounds of the gypsy band were intoxicating and demanded the total  involvement of its audience.  As the night wore on many devoted fans sprung up onto the  stage, only to dive off again, then climbed the lighting poles and cheered and shouted loudly.  Generally, both from the audience and the band itself, everyone misbehaved and went quite mad. I kept waiting for someone to pull out a pistol and start firing victory shots into the night sky!  Alas, it didn’t happen.

The surrealistic crazy night demanded a good night’s rest in a quiet parking lot after which we continued along the coast and into Romania.  We arrived quickly in Varma Veche, a tiny village just over the border, that comprised of a small collection of developing bars along a beautiful beach, along with scores of motorhomes and tents all free-camping on the beach.  This was a good sign and we happily plonked ourselves amidst these interesting travellers, many of whom were hippies, who spent most of the day frolicking about naked in the shallow waves of the Black Sea.  We met a curios young Belgian, tanned as toast, with wild long hair and a wispy Jesus-style beard.  He spoke with honesty and conviction, and we happily made his acquaintance and his friend for the few days we spent on this beautiful beach.  This fine short-term friend, also came supplied with Bulgarian Black Ram whisky, which he offered at will and I graciously accepted.

After a few days, we drove on to Tulcea, a small town on the Danube River.  We caught a 5-hour ferry, without our dearly beloved BattleBus, down the Danube to its Delta, at the mouth of the Black Sea.  This Delta comprised of a rich eco-systemic marshland, which has landed itself safely on the list of World Heritage Sites.  It is also not a well-known tourist destination, which is the kind of experience I far prefer to being lumped with a bunch of Americans and Europeans with their cameras swinging wildly around their necks.  We pitched our tent near a small guest house and got drunk with the locals that night.  But this proved a little difficult as most of these locals spoke very sparse English, and their thick Romanian accents were difficult to decipher.  I was impressed with their general openness and interest in intelligent conversation, yet was baffled most of the time as I couldn’t understand the particulars of what they were saying. 

The Delta was unimaginably beautiful.  We walked along one of the many estuaries of the Delta, all of which eventually joined the Sea.  It teamed with birds, including stalks and pelicans, and as the sun set, the insects and frogs brought the night to life with their chirping and croaking.  After so long in the confines of the concrete jungle of Istanbul, this return to nature was like returning home. 

We left the Delta and went back to the comfort of our dear BattleBus, which after only one night in a tent we had missed extremely.  Our confidence for free-camping was improving, and we spent another night alongside the Danube en route to Transylvania.  But this time, the deathly squeal of mosquitos filled the night sky. 

Swarms of savage mossies lusted after our blood so intensely, that it was near impossible to endure being outside for even a few moments.  We were not equipped with repellent, we were powerless against their attack.  Despite our efforts, using concoctions of vinegar and alcohol and various other remedies, they got through, their lethal proboscises plunging deep through our clothing into our flesh, their gorged bellies sucking desperately, vampiring our blood.  We knew at once we were in Transylvania, home of the legendry Count Dracula.  Tearing at our skin, the itching became so intolerable, that we were forced to scream wildly and run frantically for the cover of the van.  We couldn’t understand how the locals sat around their fires, seemingly unaffected.  

After a moment to discuss our plan of counter-attack, and to tend to injuries, we ripped out our mosquito net that we had bought in South Africa yet hardly used.  Wildly, hopping from foot to foot, scratching and swatting the carnivorous little bastards, we slung the net over a hook under the awning of the van and dived into its shelter.  A few of the little critters had managed to steal into our hideaway, but we quickly squashed them, leaving blood stained carcasses stuck to the netting. We sat in our tent facing the wetlands and playing Tavla (a Turkish version of Backgammon).  A black cloud of winged monsters formed around our netting, and probed inwards, desperately trying to find blood.  Finally safe from their lustful attack, we gazed curiously at the festivities of the Romanians around us also camped up for the night.  As their fires roared, they danced wildly, singing out, rejoicing life. The full-moon beamed magnificently over the Delta, its light caressing the beach.  Hours passed.

The following few days we spent exploring the castles and hiking in the Bucegi mountain range of Transylvania. Due to the popularity with tourists of this remote and magical land, we were pretty much confined to campsites as opposed to free-camping, which we far prefer.  Yet we were grateful for the comfort of accessible toilets, hot water on tap, washing machines, and electricity.  One morning I stood by the dish-washing area along with four old guys who stood in front of their sinks.  Grey haired and pot-bellied, these relaxed looking old folk chatted idly, in what sounded like German, as they washed their dishes in their pink and blue plastic basins.  Campsites in this part of the world always attract a similar bunch.  Retired European couples in their fancy campervans sightseeing by day and drinking wine by night.  Their population make-up is, at a guess, 50% German, 25% Dutch, 10% French, with the remaining 15% coming from a variety of other European countries including Norway, Denmark, Italy, Slovenia, Romania, and Hungary.  Oh, and of course, there is always the token Aussie.  In almost every travelling situation, if you keep your ears and eyes open, you will see him or her or them, lurking somewhere inconspicuous.  Travelling on a low budget, with a fun happy-go-lucky attitude, smiling, if you befriend him, you are guaranteed for a night of merry-making, drinking ‘biih’, and spinning a few yarns. 

I looked again at the four old boys washing their dishes.  Their wives, no doubt had cooked the meals, and had sent their hubby’s off, diligently, to do the washing up.  They clittered and clanged their soapy dishes, splashing wildly, with their impressive moustaches and thick grey hair, dressed in karki shorts, and checked shirts, chatting excitedly.  I noticed their footware, and chuckled.  They all wore Crocs.  I could almost imagine the campsite attendant organizing them into batches of four so that they would all fit into the dish-washing area, and also paying attention to their nationality to allow them to communicate.  “Next four to the basins”, the campsite attendant would shout.  “You sir, where are you from?”  “Holland”, the chubby fellow would respond, hopingly.  “Well, you’ll have to wait sir,” he would bellow.  “I have three Germans going forward now, but I have a couple Dutchy’s sitting patiently on the grass over there.  If you’ll just go and get acquainted and I’m sure I can get you lot squeezed in next.” Like cattle, the elderly European folk graze these campsites graciously throughout the summer months.

After our brief, yet extremely enjoyable week in Transylvania, we drove on to Hungary and booked into another campsite in Budapest.  There we met the two token Aussies fairly swiftly and spent the evening drinking delicious Polish Vodka and sampling a little Palinka, a local Romanian drink that we have nicknamed Stinky Palinki owing to its foul stench and putrid taste.  Budapest is indeed all that it is made out to be.  Enchanting, fascinating, and spectacular.  After a couple of days of sightseeing and cycling around this gracious city on situated on the banks of the mighty Danube, we continued onwards and upwards, north bound through Slovakia and into Poland. 

Our first stop was Zakopane, a quaint mountain resort, very popular with Polish holiday makers.  During the summer, it teams with hikers, and in the winter, it becomes a hideaway for day-time skiers.  We hiked and climbed, up to peaks of 2500m and exhausted, in the evening, we drank cheap Polish beer.  Cheap certainly doesn’t mean nasty in Poland, but its all cheap, ranging from about 30 cents for a big bottle in a shop, up to about 1.20 Euros in a fashionable bar. 

From Zakopane, we drove on to Krakow, and so un-impressed were we by the expensive camp-site and unfriendly staff, and more so, the dismal weather that had descended on us, that we only stayed a couple of days in this famous and historic city.  This is not to say that we did not enjoy Krakow, as it truly is a beautiful city with a great atmosphere, but the weather was really crap, drizzly, and cold.  We decided it was important to visit the shockingly miserable confines of Auswitz, Poland’s famous Nazi concentration camp, in which 20 000 people were murdered.  This terrifying place left us feeling dejected and hurt as we drove on to our next resting place, Wroclaw, where our spirits were lifted as we enjoyed an evening with an ex-work colleague of mine from London.  We were able to wash all our clothes and have a proper shower, and thus rejuvenated, but sick of Polish rain, which had not ceased since we arrived, we drove on to Berlin.

Berlin – what a mind-spin!  We were kindly accommodated by two 30-something year-old alternative ‘hippy’ types, from the Couch Surfing website, who not only entertained us, cycled around with us, and drank beer with us, but also advised us on some really cool, alternative, underground places to hang out.  After doing a free city walking tour, with a zany charismatic tour guide who passionately informed of us of Berlin’s dark and sinister history, we ventured ‘underground’ to mingle with the alternative squatters, hippy’s, beatniks, and activists that lurk around this electrifying city, giving it the magical and alluring energy that pulsates on every street corner.

Berlin has an indescribable quality, that it hard to describe and can only be experienced.  The colourful graffiti that illuminates most street corners, not to mention the Berlin Wall itself, livens its atmosphere like lazers at a nightclub.  It is as though the authorities themselves have been the perpetrators of this finely skilled art, since they don’t seem to give a damn that it covers almost every bare wall in town.  Not in a dirty or skanky manner, but rather as an expression of freedom.  Many Berliners are remorseful of their dark history, from the Holocaust and Hitler, to the Berlin Wall, that jailed in thousands of West Berliners, inside a fortress surrounded by communism.  Although West Germany employed democratic capitalism, Berlin was separated within East Germany, and thus became an icon of so-called Western ‘freedom’ towards the East.    This created extreme tension, and the heavily controlled wall was the source of much suffering and death as  many East Berliners attempted to escape their system of communism-gone-wrong by scaling, flying over, or even burying underneath the wall.  Most were shot and killed. And now, as though the melting pot of modern-day Berlin, with its East and West, its Turkish, indeed its multi-culturalism, and of course its tourism, its people have not forgotten its recent atrocities.  The underground scene, run largely by the 30-something year-old activists of Berlin’s tumultuous past, now live their lives passionately, and with conviction.  Many of them avoid the normality of modern day westernized lifestyles, devoting themselves to careers and money-making.  Instead, they squat properties, arrange parties, spray paint, and become Jacks-of-all-trades.  It is a cheap city, with lots to offer.  It is possible to eat a meal for 1.50 Euro in squatted properties, cooked by german guys smoking pot, every night of the week.  It is also possible to find arty clubs and watering holes where great varieties of interesting folk hang-out.  They are cheap and cheerful, and very friendly.  It is as though classism doest exist in Berlin and everyone is equal, and it truly is a place that I will remember forever.  Perhaps the fusion of the influences from Capitalism and Communism, two political systems that both have much to offer but that so easily go astray, has come to together in Berlin creating a free and equal society.  At least that’s how it seemed to me in the short space I was there. 

After an absolutely crazy night out, we got ready to depart for Belgium, tired and dishevelled. I checked the internet as we got ready to leave and was surprised to discover that a good friend from London was in Berlin for one night only.  There was no choice but to stay for another crazy night with him, so this we did, and again had an insane experience in the streets of Berlin.  This was also the night that Michael Jackson died, which we learned from the big screens showing CNN Live in some of the bars, and added to the surrealism of the evening.

From Berlin, after leaving Nic, our friend from England, we drove on to Belgium, and stayed a couple of nights with friends of a friend in Brussels.  I must admit, I wasn’t expecting much from Brussels, but I was very pleasantly surprised.  This charming and stylish city is home to a cultured bunch of inhabitants who use language with such fluidity and grace, as though not one particular language or dialect is dominant.  Conversation both amongst friends and strangers morphs between Dutch, Flemmish, English and French with such ease and eloquence, that their refined manner of speech is impressive and very alluring.  The young lads we stayed with could hold articulate intelligent conversations with each other in any of these four languages, and move between them as though they were not talking four different languages, but only one.  I don’t think that they even have ‘mother tongues’ as their native language seems to consist of all four, and no one language appears to dominate.  I am told that this is particular to Brussels, and certainly when we got out of Brussels and into the smaller regions of Belgium, this was less apparent.  Although most Belgians seem to be multi-lingual, or at least bi-lingual, most will stick to a particular language according to the region they live. 

We drove to Ghent, where we cycled around this attractive and also stylish city, and then spent a night parked on the beach  at Middelkirk.  We are now en route to Boulogne-sur-Mer, near Calais in France, where we will catch our ferry back to the UK.  It is strange to be back so close to Britain, after leaving over fourteen months ago with the intention of not returning but rather of driving through the Middle-east, Asia, and eventually making it to Australia with the van, but well, things have changed.  Visa issues for Iran caused us to return, but also allowed us some unforgettable amazing experiences along the way.  And, after two weeks in, England involving sorting out paperwork, selling the van, and catching up with old friends, we will fly to Australia to spend some quality time with Amanda’s family, whom I am very excited to meet properly and get to know, and then we will fly to Malaysia to travel through South-East Asia.   This last fourteen months has opened my eyes, has helped me appreciate living simplistically, has brought me closer and into deeper love with Amanda, and has been shit loads of fun! 

 

Although this is the last blog entry of this trip, it is only just the beginning of the future.