Old way

New way

I sometimes wonder if there is a better way of things, a fairer way. A direction away from the consumption driven, egotistical and totally unsustainable path of capitalism. A place where the values of family, community and the environment take priority. The well being of the whole and not just the gifted few. Is this a Utopian Marxists dream? Only time holds the answers. Although i do believe it is within our grasp, if we let it slip we let the inherit problems of capitalism (poverty, greed, environmental and social destruction) take hold and capitalize. Some ideas just do not avail us.

Although I do not write today to talk politics, I want to relate to you an experience that I had in Bulgaria late 2009. I spent roughly one month traveling around the country and another month in a small hostel with some good friends that i met there. During my stay and our many visits to a nearby local tavern my friend and I heard a story about an old soviet ruin in the mountains nearby called Buzludzha. The story had me intrigued as to why i could find no further information in any guide books or for that matter on the Internet. I began to ask around the towns folk and was often given short abrupt answers at even the mention of the name. One old timer informed me that the soviet era was still the not so distant past for allot of Bulgarians and a past many would rather forget.

Despite this eventually we had loose directions marked on a map of the nearby mountains that would require what seemed like a couple hours bus ride,  some hitch hiking then a small hike to the location of the old soviet ruins of Buzludzha. So my friend and i set off with small packs filled with water, a map and not much else. By the time we made the easy hitch to the starting point of the trek it was late in the afternoon, even so we continued up the mountain.

The first sign of the ruins that we came across were two giant fists holding torches raised up in the air. They had the very distinct and somewhat crude artistic value that pertains to most soviet era monuments. A thick grey mist surrounded us deadening all sounds adding to the ominous and sad air of this forgotten place. We spent some time walking and climbing over and around the structure, in awe. Yet it was a mere shadow of what was to come…

Shivering, we made our way through the heavy grey mist without speaking a word to each other. Later I was to find out this very mountain was the scene of the culminating battle between Bulgarian rebels led by the infamous Hadji Dimitar and Stefan Karadzha against the Turks in 1981. Many years after this the socialist movement in Bulgaria was also born in this location when party members gathered here in secret.

Continuing still up the mountain, the short alpine grass was laden with dew. My eyes had been almost wholly following my feet, my mind being pre occupied with other thoughts until i heard a sharp gasp from my friend. Looking up i saw something emerging out of the think fog off in the distance. The shadow of a large shape that can only be described as a UFO with a large tower disappearing into the whiteness above it.

She turned around, looking at me with a huge grin, whispering as not to disturb the silence “Its fucking huge!”

I crouched down framing this…. Thing… and took a shot.

Filled with excitement and surprise we raced up the rest of the short slope we were ascending to the summit. We were greeted with the incredible and somewhat ominous scene that was layed out before us. We found ourselves almost underneath the huge structure as it rose above us, we were in some sort of parade ground or ceremonial area in front of the building. This place sent goosebumps running over my entire body…

Plastered on the outside of the building was patches of Nazi and Communistic graffiti. Along with some embossed Cyrillic lettering near the massive and heavily barred entrance doors that we were obviously unable to read. Following the perimeter of the building we eventually found a small hole on one side that someone had created to gain entrance. Lowering ourselves into the hole we found ourself in one of the underground levels of the building.

I switched my headlight on and was greeted with a vision of rubble  and decay. Everything from old shoes to crumbling pieces of the building itself lay scattered on the floor. Finding some stairs we crept up to the ground level that was above us. The past opulence of this place was very apparent.  Every surface  floor, walls and ceiling were covered in marble that glittered in the light from my headlamp, there were also tatters of red felt carpet that were visible here and there. The sheer size of this place was mesmerizing. We then entered what was obviously the main hall and interior of the circular structure. Before us stretched an enormous room filled with incredibly intricate and beautifully made tile mosaics that were in extreme sates of disrepair, many of the tiles scattered in heaps on the floor. The mosaics depicted soviet era political effigy such as portraits of Lenin and Starlin alongside murals of nuclear rocket and the like. Looking up one sees the immense vaulted circular dome ceiling with the soviet hammer and sickle set as the centre piece.

As it was far too late to be hitching back to town, and any buses had long since finished service for the day we decided to spend the fast approaching night here. It was not an easy decision to say the least, the idea of spending the night in this place sent shivers up my spine and terrified both my companion and myself… So we both spent a sleepless night huddled together and freezing in the lower levels of the building. Listening to the strange noises that surrounded us fully expecting some aliens to jump around the corner and take us away. haha. A night i will never forget…

When what seemed like an endless night eventually broke, we were rewarded for our vigil by the most impressive of sunrises looking out through the widows of the “UFO” across the surrounding mountain peaks popping up like islands in a sea of clouds. Not as ill prepared as me my friend had brought some tea with her, although cold, sitting there in those windows sipping tea and watching the sun rise made it all worth it.

If anyone has any further information on this place it would be great if you could leave a comment below. The Wikipedia article has very little information on the building and surrounding area.

View more images from Bulgaria.

Clay vessels used to carry and store water in homes.

A man fishing in the holy Ganges river, Varanasi India.

istanbul

Late 2009 to early 2010 i spent 4 months or so riding a motorcycle around the indescribebly beautiful country of Iran. Despite what  image the media may portray, the people of Iran are some of the friendliest and most hospitibal i have encounterd in all my wanderings. During my stay in Iran I rarely found myself lodging at a hotel or hostel as i was constantly staying with locals who were so kind to offer. More then once i was approached on the street with offers of a place to stay in a family home. Seemingly i was an obvious (and rare) forigner. I soon came to learn just how engrained politness and hospitality is in Persian culture, they even have a word for it… Ta‘arof!  Wikipedia’s definition:

If only the rest of the world followed these simple rules as closely as Iranians seem to do so… Anyway im not here to ramble on about the politness of Persians! I want to relate to you the story of how i came to be riding a motorcycle around this country. read on!

Stepping off the Trans-asian express (an epic journey) in Tabriz, a city in northern Iran,  i found myself wandering around the train station like an elephant who happened to find himself at the bottom of the ocean all of a sudden, out of place to say the least. A sharp, cold mountain breeze greeted me as i exited the station and walked out into the city. Nothing made sense, the people stared, the street signs were all in the cursive Farsi script and there were people in militery uniforms everywhere. The trepidation wormed its way through my guts and turned into a sharp spike of adreniline. What was i doing here? Never before in all my adventures around this globe have i felt more out of place then then those first few hours.

Wandering aimlessly through the streets trying to find somewhere to spend the fast appraoching night was the only loose goal i hung onto. More then once I thought about abandoning all dignity and partaking in a concrete matress next to one of the homeless people on the streets. At least they had fires!

Some time during my meanderings i looked up and saw a young dude with a big smile walking towards me, he as looking directly at me. I did the stupid thing most people do in this situation, looked behind my self and found no one, thinking it can’t be me he is looking at…

“Hello my friend! What are you doing in my country?” he said through his broad grin.

Great i thought. Three hours in and im about to be abused by a crazy guy on the street. Why DID i come here anyway?

“Ahhh… Thought i’d come check it out…” i mumbled back to him, unable to come up with something more elaborate. Simply because that was actually as good a reason as i had.

“Does not everyone from your country think we are all terrorists? and that we  want to blow up your families?” he said, still smiling.

“yeah, i guess they do” You could have shown me a naked picture of the queen and i would have been less shocked then i was by his question. No better way to the truth then a direct question. As I was unable to form even the shadow of a pseudo lie he got the truth.

“Well, when you go home, you tell everyone we are good people and we have families just like you.” He said, trailing of with a belly full of laughter.

Mohammad, as was his name and from what i can see is the name of almost every male in this country, proceeded to invite me back to his family home for the evening. Glad to be relieved of my conrete matress I obliged him. In the end i stayed with him for the better part of a week in Tabriz, having him and his families small Iranian style car as my personal tour guide. What ever these cars are named i cannot remember, but they do bring a whole new level of …something to the word car. Fun times.

At the the end of my memorable stay at the family abode of young Mohammad, (not sure why im calling him young, as he was certainly at least my equal in age) as i walked out their front gate dragging a small child that had attatched themself to my leg in a vain attempt at extending my visit, Mr Mohammad stopped me.

“Andrew, if your going to the City of Esphahan you should visit my freinds who i studied with. they own a carpet store in the main bazzar” he told me as he wrote down the details on the back cover of my diary. Unseemingly this was the beggining of my motorcycle escapades around the ancient Persian empire.

Esphahan is located on the central plains of the Iranian pleautu, warmer then the north although still not a balmy location at this time of the year. Upon finally reaching this city with many more adventures along the way (stay tuned)  I quickly found a hostel to stay in for the night. The next day i wandered into the city with the intent on finding the friends of Mr Mohammad. Little trouble did i have. Walking through the bazaar i noticed a group of young guys lazing around playing a board game sipping on the ever present Iranian tea (Chay as the Iranians spell it). I entered the room, introduced myself and quickly found myself lounging on a carpet chatting away and chugging down on a Chay.

One central realization i have had over the years is that no matter where you roam east, north, south or west young people are all generally the same. Before 5 minutes i felt like i was in Australia with a group of my best mates and not in Iran with a bunch of strangers. During the conversation i mentioned that i was interested in percuring a motorcycle to tour the country on. The topic was differed till later when one of the guys took me to another carpet shop in the same bazaar.

Never have i seen eyes more pirceing then those set in the sockets of the propieter of this store. I barely listened as introductions were made mezmarized by his eyes. After some idle banter and the non-rigours of Ta’aarf i was able to glean that the man was from the tribal region in the south east of Afghanistan and Iran. If you have ever seen the famous photograph entitled “Afghan Girl” by the nat geo photographer Steve McCurry, these are the eyes. We spent the next hour or so discussing everything from life in Australia to the ever present Isreal / Palestien conflict. Eventually i deftly steered the conversation on to the topic of my motorcycle ambitions. Having won the friendship of this man over many more cups of chay, he informed me that it was illigal for a forigner to own a motorcycle with Iranian registration… although he could probably “arrange” it.  Also an interesting note is the lack of motorcycels larger then 150cc. During the Islamic revolution of 1979 the governemnt banned all motorcycles over the 150cc class as many assasinations were carried out on high powered bikes, making for quick escapes.

A young boy who worked at his store had recently needed to sell his motorcycle to pay for tuition fees for some of his education ( this i found strange as the boy was only around 17). I came back the next day and within half an hour or so the young lad turned up on the bike and we began the negotation process. Any such dealings in Iran are seemingly an excuse to consume more chay and talk philosophy. Even so we reached the respectable price of 300 euros… And after some dodgey paperwork (involving forged licences and various other documents), visits to various official ..err places the process was complete and she was mine!

If your wondering why i only paid 300 euros for the bike you have to remember that its only 150cc and also there is the fact that it was a genuine Imitation Chinese Honda! haha.

I often travel on motorcycles, and no matter how many times i sit on them it still feels like the first time, some of you know the feeling. Big bubbles of excitement were floating through my body as i rode back to the hostel, i could ramble about it for hours but all i will say is there is NOTHING like traveling on a motorcycle.

Freedom in its purest form.

Images from Iran

If your interested in reading the well formed ramblings of a close friend of my’n head on over to his travel blog. Growing up in the same small town we hail from the same social group that is intensely addicted to life on the road. As memory serves me right… Chris has been to every continent on this little planet of ours. Also as a side note he is pretty handy with a camera and not to bad at scribbling a word or two about his numerous journies. Stay tuned.

Also read the technical rantings my friend writes here on his Technology Blog

Some sugar cane about to be squeezed into delicious fresh juice.

Deep in a Romanian forest, near an old soviet ear ruin, early autumn morning.

An old soviet ear car covered in snow.