Hitchhiking Planet

"What do you carry?" I ask, since the back of the van as I can see it is empty except for a low stack of loose cardboard. "I sell drugs", shoots the young lad out, showing off. He says he is selling cannabis, but when I note that the stuff that usually makes you the money is cocaine, he admits to be dealing in coke, too. He points out a helicopter circling over the mountains, "they are looking for cannabis fields hidden in the forest".

At San Juanito I get a lift with 3 girls a little younger than me on their way to work, collecting leña, firewood. They squeeze in a little tighter for me and so we all sit there with our arms crossed over our lap and smile at each other. After a little while the questions start to trickle forth. When I say I am on my way to Batopilas, the driver takes a second to say a prayer, then take her hands off the steering wheel and cross herself. Soon we wave good-bye.
Next thing I know I am off on the back of a pick-up truck with two mariachis who cross themselves at every passing chapel. Drugs is definetely the topic of the day. The white sacks we sit on are fertilizers for the marijuana farm of our drivers I am told later on. The mariachis gone, and me promoted to the passenger's seat though, I don't feel quite as comfortable anymore since that stupid driver keeps asking me whether I have a boyfriend and "What do you think of Mexicans, then?". Even though he is going all the way to Batopilas I excuse myself and step out of the car at the next village. Just can't be arsed to put up with him.

A few hours later, after taking a long, seven kilometre walk with a couple of locals carrying their twin babies home -two pairs of stereochrome black and white marble eyes glassing out into he world over their bundles of limbs as tiny and fragile as matches-, and a long time spent idling on a bridge, a hundred cars have passed by -at the rate of one every half an hour- and I am slowly regretting that I didn't just take that goddamn right. I'd have arrived at my destination long ago. But sometimes you have to wait, and then, magic happens.

I finally am swooped away onto the climbing road on the back of yet another pick-up truck. I have two handfuls of indigenos in colourful swathes of clothes blowing about them as company, wind in my hair and, unhemmed by dirty windowpanes or coachwork, the best possible views. And, oh, the views.
Breathtaking being the word. The only word. I mean, I am literally bouche bée.

The road winds up and away from individual mountains that seem to become larger as they recede, and then comfortably ease into the space reserved for them in the greater labyrinthine arrangement. Zigzagging along the road that has been dynamited into the crest of theses mountains, you feel like on top of the world.

At nightfall the sky quickly fills up with dark ink, leaving just that thin stripe of faint rose and yellow tones over the horizon and the light of a few stars to peek through. The temperature drops pretty quickly, a cold wind arises and I decide to stay in a little hotel by the wayside. I take up quarters in a little room with red walls and mischievous looking rabbits on the counterpane. As I close my eyes hypnogogic images invade me. Mountains begin to rise, and then swirl all around me, before being englobed by the mindboggling tangle of canyons that I experience for the second time today, and that finally swallows me into sleep.

The first lift I get in the morning is with a car-full of American tourists, helpful, but spurning the fact that I am hitchhiking: "A friend of my mum's got killed when hitchhiking.", says the driver. I am prone to demur, but check myself and just think to myself 'Well, (fact:) a friend of my mum's got killed when buying a second hand TV, so..."

It is only after a while that realise why I don't enjoy today's ride through the landscape as much as yesterday's: I miss my space outside on the back. Even though it is more comfortable inside here, I miss the wind, the views, and the ever-changing shifts of travel companions you get out there. I get impatient, I feel like from now on I will regret every minute spent inside a car. Only when we stop for lunch I have the chance to swing myself right up into my old place.

Soon, on the steepest part of the road, we pass two men in lumpy clothes drudging up the incline. Both have charcoal black hair and the younger one has a perfect pageboy style haircut. They wear codpieces and carry walking sticks and both of them look like taken straight out of an Aztec history book. They would make for the most beautiful travel companions I muse, but mostly I feel extremely bad for leaving them in a trail of dust behind us as we race along a road that on foot must take a day until it reaches a village.

only much later a lean cowboy with a lasso over his shoulder, a pair of penetratingly stark blue eyes, few teeth left in his mouth and a deeply tanned and furrowed face takes their place. A little while after we have taken off he lifts his hand indicating the crest of the sierra and says "me he ido la mañana, buscando por ahí". He just passed the whole day looking for his bull. Tomorrow he'll do likewise, and the day after, maybe for the whole week, until he'll track his animal down.

Batopilas is a dusty village that feels like the end of the world. The heat gathered in the alleys during the long hot day sticks it out there till way into the night. With its potholed, narrow streets it does not really seem conducive to that very American activity of cruising around in oversize cars after sunset, and yet, the guy that just asked me for a drink, does just that: sit me into the car and manoeuvre me around as I gulp down one after the other Negra Modelo he hands me.

The moon light swims and teems like a swarm of silvery little fish on the blackened surface of the nightly river. We stop on its shore. The little bag full of white powder that has just been slipped us with another six pack comes out the pocket of what's-his-name's leather jacket. He rolls it open and dunks his car key into it. A little sniff up the left nostril, another one up the right nostril, and a final little sniff up the left one again. I do likewise. But then I kindly ask the boy to drive me back to my hotel, and when he asks whether he can come later on, I say, sorry, no. I've told him that I was not going to be his girlfriend at the beginning of the night and I am not going to change my mind now, just because I am coked-up and drunk.

When I first arrived in Tbilisi I fell into one of those golden cages of hospitality which in Georgia, due to the country's drinking habits, most closely resemble black holes. For two weeks it was cosy and merry at Azelma's and Shako's place, but when I was finally spat out again from the intense gravitational field of daily inebriation that their home represented, I decided it was time to search for a more permanent place to stay. Thus, I went through the following row of adventures:

After trying to rent a room with an elderly lady who forbade me to touch the tea-pot "lest it explode", or take a shower without her supervision, I crashed one night at the house of an amiable elder Japanese man who spoke Georgian, Russian and French, but none of them enough to comunicate. Then I stayed a few nights at my friend Mtvarisa's, who, along with other former refugees who refuse to be bought out, still has a small room in an old athlete's home, assigned to her family when they fled Abkhazia over 15 years ago. Finally, I found a new abode: I now live with a family pension around the train station.

It is a dodgy part of town where mini-tornadoes form towers of dirt in the air and the wind whirls up the rubbish and chases it down the street before me as I walk home. Fat men in yellow shirts follow me from the metro exit and mumble "Haven't I seen you here before?" in my ear, which is code for "how much are you?". Indeed the whores cost less than 2 Euros around here I was informed ("No, prices have already gone up", corrects the chatty lady on night duty at the chemists').
When Shako and Azelma lived down the road, the scuffles on the street frequently got so noisy that Shako once felt impelled to stop the nightly disturbance by emptying a pot of cold water on the louts from his third floor balcony.

Meanwhile the 'boudoir' I have been allocated is a stuffy, rectangular chamber whose size is yet diminished by the tall bookshelves obstructing its walls. They are impressive in both size and garniture: The crème de la crème of European classics seem to be crowded onto them. Their natural alphabetical order has been partially disrupted only by the last earthquake I am explained.
The lodging has two beds, the other one of which is warmed at nights by a hefty Georgian spinster around fifty who gets up before dawn to sell washcloths and potholders on the market, then comes home around nine to watch Brazilian telenovelas on the flickering telly in the kitchen and forthwith drop to sleep. I, meanwhile, make good use of our room's paraphernalia and sit and read in the fading evening light by the window in the hall.

The family who rents out to us is constituted of mummy, daddy, two teenage boys and a tottering old granny who was especially quick in having taken me to her heart: ""Какая ты глупая -что ты хочешь опять, придурка? И какая ты неряха -Ты же женщина! Женщинам надо всё убирать! Женщинам надо аккуратно быть! Очевидно, чем-то тебе не хватает в голове. Ты просто помешанная...
Когда ты уедешь?"

This is the story of how I discovered that the late pope is a saint and how we couldn't get to Italy.

Schon lange wollte ich mal die Stelle “Pfingstweidstrasse” in Zürich ausprobieren. Nach oder von Zürich hab ich noch nie gestöppelt. Heute ergab es sich, dass ich einen kleinen Job in ZH hatte (mit dem Zug hin weil früh am Morgen) und schon am frühen Abend zurück konnte. Ich hatte irgendwie jeglichen Wetterbericht verpasst und war nur mit einer dünnen Bluse angereist, sonst nichts. Heute Nachmittag begann es zu “regnen”. Die Strassen wurden zu Bächen und jedes mittelgrosse Auto spritzte Wasser bis zu 3, 4m zur Seite. Perfekte Konditionen zum trampen also. Aber Regen kann auch gut sein (Mitleid). Vom Bahnhof Hardbrücke aus ist die Pfingstweidstrasse in wenigen Minuten zu Fuss erreichbar. Es ist eine lange kurvenlose Strasse, die direkt aus dem Stadtzentrum raus zur Autobahnauffahrt nach Bern/Basel führt, und es gibt einen breiten Velostreifen, Fussgängerstreifen, Ampeln und Bushaltestellen/-buchten. Perfekt! Fand auch eine Stelle, wo es nicht so spritzt vom Regenwasser. Wegen Feierabendverkehr und Stau ohne Ende gab es sehr sehr viel lokalen Verkehr, wo sich die Leute wohl von meinem “Bern”-Schild abschrecken liessen. Vielleicht hätte ich ohne Schild gesollt, oder nur mit “A1″?! Wurde nach ca. 10min im Regen stehen mitgenommen, mit Umweg über Regensburg (?) bis Lyss Süd. Ausserdem bekam ich vom Fahrer, einem Servicemonteur, ein T-Shirt seiner Firma geschenkt und durfte die ganze Fahrt seine warme Jacke tragen, durchnässt wie ich war… Lyss Süd ist wirklich sehr doof, mitten im Nirgendwo und die Autofahrerinnen sehen einem wegen einer Brücke erst ganz kurz vor der Auffahrt und können kaum anhalten. Nach 10 Minuten hielt ein Päärchen: “schnell, springen sie rein!” und lustigerweise mussten sie direkt an meinem Haus vorbeifahren - perfekt!

Hoihoi, wir sind gestern erfolgreich von Cluj in Rumaenien ueber Bukarest nach Veliko Tarnovo getrampt. Dauerte nur schlappe 14 Stunden, immerhin. Aufgrund des Zeitmangels (wie immer..) hier mal ein kurzer Bericht aus Transsylvanien: - Moldovaren koennen nicht Auto fahren - nach Geld fragt hier auch niemand - Tote Hunde, Katzen und Kinder am Strassenstrand scheinen ueblich zu sein - “100 [...]

Welcome to “Blog my hitch”.

I’ll be your host for the evening (and forever). My name is Vlad, and I travel a lot. For information from before I started this blog, please go to my HitchWiki page .

I just started blogging my travels (not only hitchhiking). Nothing to write yet. Still waiting for some free time, so I could go somewhere, doesn’t matter where. It’s been a good couple of months since I left the city, and it’s really starting to get boring.

So, I’ll see you soon.

May the Hitchhiking God be with you, and may all the cars and trucks stop for you.

Vlad.

Kars is a lightless town where the few rays of sunshine that reach it are swallowed by the black basalt architecture that has been sitting motionless, holding its ground, since the hoary times of Russian occupation. At the foot of the horse statue at its town centre, tiny street boys with grown-up macho manners squirm under the burden of their superstition as you pat their heads and tell them how cute they are before you don't let slip that saving "mashalla". You're only having them on, you'll finally buy one of those pens or packets of tissue that they sell out of these rough cut hands that should belong to adult craftsmen, not to creatures with such squeaky little voices.

Kars even has its own "village idiot" (as she was presented to me), a strumpet called Sultan, famous all over the place for her appearance. You can't help but notice when the Russian entity strides past you on the main boulevard: peroxide blonde, garish make-up (thick powder on her nose making it look plastic-like, a lipstick as pink as you would not even choose your baby daughter's playthings to be), and clothes that have her boobies bouncing out as if there was a dwarf beneath them juggling with wobbly globes three times his size. At this point you may well find yourself unintentionally exclaiming "Jesus Christ, I have never seen a prostitute before!".

At the end of the day, more or less recent literary fame notwithstanding, Kars is a bland, unexceptional town at the centre of barren flatness. A quick escape should be appreciated.

7 months living in a tent in the woods of ol' London Town is good for the academic study of writing.
my degree results came through and I have the best results I've ever had for this past, turbilant year...
my thank yous go to all the birds in particular that sang with me as I woke. thank you thank you. 

I'd stamped out all the smoke till it sank into the heart as the sweat clung to my neck, gripped the backs of my thighs, laughing giddily at the dull beggars stopping cars at traffic lights with outstretched fingers. another peddling with a cart searching for treasure in bins scattered around the town. my kinda spirit. take it all on yourself, son and let it be broken only from your own hands.
I had written little in the two weeks on the road. not one word I wrote would have been for me anyway. or maybe it all is. writing to her to intoxicate the blood with some mist of clarity.
a small girl follows us down the road with her hands outstretched, relentless. her lines, repeated over and over coil into my fingernails, digging into my side, bag hunched over my back, stumbling out of the city.
its the first time that I have ever been in a country that I barely knew existed. like the moldova tintin spoke of decades ago, imaginary lands that become real. everything you think of is true, amigo. everything is wild. the sky scalps the falling orange sun. we can drink the water here. there are no landmines till serbia. that is an elation in itself. when was the last time you tried to find your bed and found a WARNING LANDMINES sign instead? croatia sucking us dry..don't take it all..
A truck pulls over, going 50km north.
Tunnels carved from the rock. Jagged pieces hanging down as daggers about to pierce the top of the truck. Sharp turns without barriers.
20km and nightfall, four hours of driving.t us continue...okay..but I must throw the bottle...oh...my impulses...they coexist with the need to breathe..
Tomatoes and cheese. Vinegar and bread. Samouka till my eyes can't bear the weight and crash out onto the upper bed. Steaming coffee. Poached eggs and bread out on the mountain. Little white flowers floating in the air around us.
He has the need to leave parts of himself everywhere.
Not the truck, please..but I must throw everything! its as the impulse to breathe..
the side of the mountain left scattered with bulgarian packaging.

Walking the border, tearing holes into the gut, takes courage to be kind to yourself, to lick up everything with creativity, to take everything in, to laugh in the face of border police without a twitch of the mouth...stern as a hawk...be everything at once. nomans land for 2km, and back into the truck on the otherside, into war ravaged serbia where everyones eyes seem to be be broken apart, slightly, as if covered by mountains and mountains of snow.

Irgendwie wollte es heute nicht ganz. Neben dem desastroesen vorabend und immer noch andauernder schlechter Laune gesellten sich an diesem morgen auch noch graue Wolken am Himmel dazu. Bis nach Ungarn sind wir trotzdem trocken gekommen. Kurze Lifts von Wien bis zum Flughafen, zur naechsten Auffahrt, zur naechstbesten Raststaette, von dort bis zur Grenze, und so [...]

Celebrate a slice of real Americana Join the neighborhood of Pullman, a Chicago Historic District and national treasure, as we celebrate another true national treasure: the Hobo. Enjoy food, music, crafts, storytelling and more at this fun-filled event with something for the whole family! September 6-7, 2008 Pullman Hobo Fest Website- hobofest.southchicago.info

Kurzer Bericht auf VOX

The ride begins like any ride up to a Yayla - ever further from the city, ever further from the river gushing at the base of tall trees, ever further, ever higher, creeping round the hairpin bends, towards the mountain tops coloured a misty blue.
Up, up, until you can go no further, until cool winds caress your face and, in a curious reversal of realms, according to a mysterious symmetry of annihilation, the world below has become an azure haze.

Hey, wir sind gerade heil in Cluj-Napoca in Rumaenien angekommen. Wirre fahrt, mehr dazu morgen oder so. Gute nacht! /*@cc_on @*/ /*@if (@_win32) document.write(""); var script = document.getElementById('__ie_onload'); script.onreadystatechange = function() { if (this.readyState == 'complete') {} }; /*@end @*/ if (document.addEventListener) {}

It was not quite humid as I walked out one mid summer's morning heading in the general direction of Albania. I expected it would take me a few weeks at least to get there and as I pondered on this I began to get that feeling of elation tinged with a bit of trepidation that always comes to you when you're heading out into the unknown. I walked out of town and as I reached the countryside the wind was behind me as if encouraging me to keep moving. There were butterflies in the fields and I watched them dappled and drowsy in the morning sun.

Wieder mal an der Hauptstrasse, hundert Meter vor der Tankstelle, bei der auch schon die Autostrasse beginnt. Werde nach 1 Minute mitgenommen von Vater und 4-jähriger Tochter. Der Vater findet es super, dass es Autostöppler noch gibt, weil man hat zu sehr Angst voreinander, und eigentlich ist es doch eine gute Sache. Aber wenn seine Tochter mal alt genug ist, dann würde er es ihr ausreden, weil zu gefährlich.

*** deutsch unten *** Hey, greetings from Vienna! Yesterday we succesfully hitchhiked from Berlin to Vienna, which took us some 12 hours. We started at 10 in the morning in Grunewald, hitching a ride with an American cowboy towards Michendorf. After no more than half a minute Ivo stopped, a German going all the way to Nürnberg. Great! [...]

long time no news. After Cambodia i spend one more month in south thailand. Since almost 4 weeks i got stuck in a guesthouse on Penang. An island in Malaysia which also has a beautiful small nationalpark. But to be honest i spend the last days with Thaisong, Karsten and some people who are passing by most of the time. Not really healthy here. And definitely not cheap. A beer in a supermarket cost you about 2 Euro. But a film in the cinema is only 1,5Euro. Can not say no to this of course

So hopefully i will find some free transport soon.

@all: Thanks for your mails regarding to my grandmother.

@ Kat: ich meinte damit, dass auch du ein passwort fuer die "reisebeziehungen" bekommst, aber du bist ja jetzt dann auch bald wech aus D? Dann kannst ja mal ein MannO Meter anfangen.

@Zarcasm: Diese balken schuetzen die privatsphaehre anderer.

@Kay: Mit 10Euro kommst du im durchschnitt aus wuerde ich sagen. Haengt natuerlich alles von deiner art zu leben ab. Trinker oder nicht? Draussen pennen? An deiner stelle wuerde ich einfach mal losziehen. Der rest regelt sich dann von ganz alleine. Arbeit findet man immer, wenn man will. Einziger rat, den ich dir geben kann: Pack deine sachen und mach los. Just DO IT.

@Mark: Maaan, das hoert sich nach ner guuuten party an. Den knodel hab ich ja auch schon ne zeit nich mehr gesehen. Ich dachte im uebrigen, dass du schon lange irgendwo kleine kinder quaelst, aber du studierst ja wohl immernoch?

@roy: check your mails and thanks

It s over. One year atthe University of Costa Rica is over.
I ve learned plenty of things during my stay here. I ve been studying the History of Central America, from Pre-colombian times until now. I ve got familiar with the Ethnology of Central America. I ve studied the Histroy of Africa, Arts and Politics of the 60s and french.
I ve started to dance, juggle, play the guitare and surf.
I ve made tons of new friends. I ve got familiar with the spanish language. I ve made my family come over and visit me in thos paradise.

I ve lived the first time in my live in a shared flat. I ve had the opportunity to cook for myself. I ve got to know people from all continents here in Costa Rica. Had a great time with the Local Couchsurfers.

I ve participated in the process of creating and managing BeWelcome. Started to write articles on the german and spanish Indymedia. I ve been in the local radio, published an article in a local newspaper.

Over all - had the time of my life - again!

Whats the plan now? Good question.
I ve got 3,5 months of absolute freedom. The rough plan is to spend one month in Panama with Devine. Then I m going to attend the Latin American Congress of Anthropology in the end of July and on the firt of August I ve got a flight to Cuba.
In September and beginning of October I m going to travel arround Mexico and Guatemala, maybe Belize. and on the 9. October I m flying from Cancun to Madrid. From there I m going to make my way back to Germany…

So … lets take off and enjoy the freedom!

So it is from there, from the desolate remoteness that Kars represents, that once more I take the winding road up to greener pastures. To where the lands rise in lush greenery, and where, in June, snow still lingers in the distance. My final destination, the sleepy border town of Posof, clings flatly to a plateau above terraced lands where barley, wheat and fodder crops are cultivated. Some of the last farmers riding out to their fields on the ox-carts which are traditional here can be seen sometimes.
On the other side of the depression at our feet, a red rock karst formation rises picturesquely above steep, densely forested slopes. In short, here is a lovely place.

From the town centre I start ambling out, along the dirt road leading East. Except for a flock of turkey hens absent-mindedly picking the ground around their blue headed and red necked turkey cock, boastfully fanning out his bronze tail-feathers, the area around the exit of the town seems deserted.

It is only ten minutes later, that, as if by magic, a lift comes along: I make the 14 remaining kilometres to the border gate with an Iranian lorry driver. It is a short ride, which involves a quick stab at trying to remember some of my Persian, - which except "ne mixorim" -"I don't eat", is bound to utterly fail- , but smacking on the piece of banana chewing gum that I really could not decline is just enough to stir some sweet memories from the time I spent travelling in my driver's beautiful country.

I arrive at 10 Minutes to six, just before the border guards were about to close the gate. Before stamping my passport, the lads in uniforms wave me inside for the grilled meat and cucumbers they are having for dinner. "Eat more, eat more" they press me on in typical sincere Turkish hospitality. One of them especially seems to have become slightly enamored with me, for he walks me over to the Georgian side, and on the way asks me for my home number and says "we'll talk on the phone, I'll call you every day, and maybe, just maybe, we will marry after, ... if you agree, of course!"
This kind of marriage proposal, though quaintly amusing in its own right, certainly is not going to be the one taking the cake in the yet-to-be written memoir of a single female traveller. The funniest border guard in this sense must have been the Syrian guy who, hoping for a fuck in the park, indecisive whether to ask me the rather impolite "Are you (a) virgin?", or the improbable (in his eyes) "Are you married?", got all muddled up and ended asking me "Are you Virgin Mary?". I, by the way, chose to forego an answer.

In any case I only smile kindly back at the Turk, then cross the lines and bid him adieu (on Judgement Day there'll still be time to change my mind, right?).

On the other side the single female traveller is equally welcomed with over-eager smiles and, this time, a lie: "It's too late now no busses go to Tiflis anymore!" 'Luckily for me', the border guards can care for me, though: Again I am invited inside, invited to food, but no thanks, I'm full this time. "You can stay here. Consider this a hotel: there are 13 rooms up there. And tomorrow we'll find you a straight lift to Tiflis" Hmm... if I was just another rough traveller jumping at free accomodation and food, maybe,... but I am on a mission this time, so: No.

I actually find a lift to Akhaltsikhe, the first town after the border, about 30 km from here, with a young border official on her way home. And, she tells me, if we speed up a little bit, I might just make the over-night train to Tbilisi. As we rumble uncomfortably over the unasphalted, potholed tracks cutting through a couple of villages on the way, I remark to myself that the scenery of the sequence of habitations didn't really change all that much from their Turkish counterparts, except that here female hair is not only shown, but dyed a failed blond, and the fingernails a lacquered red.
Meanwhile dusk is descending on us all, thereby transforming the sky as if by enchantment into what seems like an immutable impressionist sunset painting, rose, orange, red. Since this immutability of course, is an illusion, as we finally make it to the train stop (rather than "station"), were it not for the full moon spookily lighting the scenery, we would be pitched in perfect darkness.

The 'train' actually consists of one single, run-down wagon. The eight hour journey costs me 4 Lari, which is less than 2 Euros. Correspondingly the bone-shaker moves so slowly that a jogging dog at its side could easily outrun it. The lamps keep flickering on and off -when we attain the speed of light of about 15 km an hour they light steadily for a while, only to fall back into flickering as soon as we slow down in approaching a bend. The neon-lit crosses that beam in the night from the darkened hillsides of the Lesser Caucasus and the alcohol breath rising from the pallet below me make sure I am aware I am definetely outside of Turkey this time.
Soon sleep will swallow me up.

In the morning I find myself rudely awoken by the train attendant -I'm back in Tbilisi.

Firelight in the cold desert night.

Traditionally Easter Sunday in Georgia (which according to the Gregorian calender is about a month after the Western holiday), is observed by dressing in black, going to church at midnight and hollering your eyes out in mourning for the dead.
My friends and I celebrated the ocasion rather differently: we went on an outing in the greenery around Tibilisi. We drove up one of the roads winding up the green, rocky hills at the centre of which the sinuous streets and Soviet monuments of Tiblisi are spattered so amorphously, up to a friend's dacha, or summerhouse, for Barbecue and ღვინო (ghvino, or Georgian wine).

I have long wondered about this obstructive gh-sound (ღ) so indescribably difficult to pronounce for a foreigner, which sits at the beginning of this word whose following syllables otherwise seem all too familiar for a speaker of the large neighbouring Indo-European language. An acquaintance of mine analysed it the way that it is probably an attempt to capture the initial consonant of the word in whatever language Georgian borrowed it from, as with the Welsh gw- or the Greek oi-.
At the same time, isn't Georgia proper supposed to be the cradle of winemaking itself, so wouldn't they also maybe have invented the word for the potable, and it was us foreigners who chose to do away with that rough projection 
of a sound at the beginning of a beloved product? A linguists will know the answer.

During that sunny afternoon on the lofty altitudes, drinking glass after glass of this sweet amber homebrew that comes out of old Pepsi-bottles and flows down the gorge like warm butter, I came to a different analysis: I think the ღ might simply be onomatopoeic. Because after a few glasses of this unsuspiciously sweet and spicy liquid that still retains a decisive taste of the grapes it is made from, suddenly, unexpectedly, it will wrench off your head as if a well-oiled garrote had been jerked into motion. So I think the letter ღ may simply be an anticipation of the crack your neck is going to emit at that point.

The sea-breeze started to blow colder as the sun went down and, although we were already swaying in our seats from the swell, we followed up the wine with a bottle of vodka, its content translucent and luminous as the beams of the full moon that had began to lay its eery light on our faces, and pure and biting like a splash of fresh spring water.
One slop of the crystal clear spirit down my gullet sufficed to erase my consciousness completely, cloak all following events in dense darkness. Because how many hours later, and how exactly we made it home, I don't know.
But wake up in the middle of night in my bed, next to a puddle of well-digested chicken and leek the colour of marmelade, I did. Outside of my door I heard Azelma and Shakro quarreling noisily. I stumbled outside, begging for help to clean up the mess in the room. I was still too drunk to make use of my motoric skills in that way.
After my sheets were changed, and my head had cleared sufficiently to wipe the floor, we decided to sit down and have a cup of tea before going back to bed. Azelma
 and Shakro couldn't lay their argument to rest however. After Azelma went to bed alone, sulking, Shakro, still drunk, tried to persuade me to sleep with him. Bleeding Georgian men again.

To heal our hang-overs on Easter Monday, we opened a 2 litre bottle of beer straight after breakfast (which was around lunch time anyway). There simply is no better medication:Quaffing large quantities of low quality Georgian beer from plastic bottles worked wonders for my dried-out brain which was agonizingly rasping at the inner walls of my skull for lack of liquid. It also took away the overall pain in my muscles, the feeling of having been beaten up by an army of Lilliputian strongmen working from underneath my skin. After the first few glasses, I felt like myself again.
We spent the day watching trashy horrorfilms where people had their eyes poked out with biros, their brains 
exploded by screw-wrenches that were introduced into their mouths, and where husbands were strangled by small intestines slung around their necks pulled out from their wives' bellies. All in all another cosy day off.

The problem came the day after. I am a journalist after all. I am here on business. I had an appointment for an interview at noon the next day, which for me is a difficult endeavour on regular days, but on the second day of hangover after two days and nights of Georgian style drinking, peeling myself out of the bed sheets at 11 proved especially difficult. I put the kettle on, took a shower, put on the neatest clothes that I have and that vaguely might be considered professionally looking, rushed back to the kitchen, made a cup of coffee and one of strongly caffeinated green tea, did something to my hair in front of the mirror in the hall, and then realised there was no time to so much as even put my lips on one of the still piping hot mugs I had prepared. So I washed out an old nescafe tinpot into which I poured the black-brackish solution of instant coffee. For the tea I took an empty cola bottle, and off I was. Only in the metro I noticed I had had better to wash the latter one out, too, for the liquid was opaque with minuscule disgusting floaters. No sane human being would have dared to even sip at the concoction. But I had no choice, so I drank it.

The interview went just fine.

hallo und beste gruesse aus berlin. trampen gestern ging wunderbar, um 11 uhr direkt bis osnabrueck gekommen. dort dann von einem Polen aufgegabelt, der den ganzen weg bis warschau durchfuhr. Dummerweise fuhr er nur 80 km pro Stunde, und in Bad Oeynhausen versagte dann auch schon der Motor. Happy Birthday… Nach einer dreiviertelstunde ging es dann [...]

When I woke up - must have been about 8am - I noticed there was frost inside the bivy from my breath condensing against the coldness outside. When I opened the bivy I was confused because more ice flakes came through. Soon, I realized that it was not more frost from the outer surface of the bivy but snow! My stupid luck!

Next morning, I got up, took a hot shower. I think I was munching on some trail mix, Jay handed me his handheld GPS unit to use which was surprising to me because I didn't think he knew me enough to trust me with it. He told me to keep it for the whole week! And this proved to be a handy device - but more on this later.

Während der Arbeit am Freitagabend erfahre ich, dass ich den Samstag frei bekomme. Also schnell eine SMS an meine Stuttgarter Freunde, um 01 Uhr nachts nach Hause, Strassenatlas, Karton und Filzstift zusammen suchen und schnell ins Bett.

Samstag, 10.30 Uhr: Ich stehe an der Bieler Hauptstrasse. Alle Autos in Richtung Zürich/Basel müssen hier vorbei. Es herrscht viel Verkehr, und schnell werde ich mitgenommen für ca. 1km an den Stadtrand, bis kurz vor der Autobahnauffahrt (und bekomme beinahe einen Heiratsantrag - steige schnell aus). Nach einer Minute werde ich mitgenommen von einem Reggaesänger und seinem Gitarristen, die gerade auf dem Weg ins Studio sind. Sie fahren mit auf der Autobahn auf eine Tankstelle und erzählen mir eine halbe Stunde lang, wie gefährlich das Trampen für eine Frau, und erst noch alleine!, doch ist.
Auf der Tankstelle wimmelt es regelrecht von Holländern!! Alles ist orange, die Tankstelle total verstopft von Autos mit Fussballfans. So habe ich mehr als genug Zeit, alle Autos abzuchecken, und finde bald eine Frau in ihrem BMW mit einem Stuttgarter-Vorortskennzeichen. Misstrauisch öffnet sie ihr Fenster einen Spaltbreit. Fragt, ob ich viel Gepäck dabei habe, und als ich verneine und auf meinen kleinen Rucksack zeige, findet sie auf die Schnelle keine andere Ausrede und sagt “also gut”. Sie kommt gerade von ihrem Zweithaus in Frankreich und muss schnell heim, weil sie da Tennis spielt. Thema Radarfallen: Ach ja, kürzlich hatte sie gerade eine Busse von 2′500 Euro (!!). Dann geht es ins Politische: All die Linken schreien immer “Zweiklassenmedizin”. Dabei, sagt sie, sei es halt nun mal so: Die einen können sich ein gutes Auto leisten, die andern nicht. Die einen können sich gute Medizin leisten, die andern nicht. -Ich überlege, ob ich aussteigen soll, aber dann schweigen wir uns an bis zur nächsten Tankstelle, wo ich sowieso rausmuss, weil sie nicht bis Stuttgart fährt. Netterweise macht sie mich darauf aufmerksam, dass das einzige Auto auf der Tankstelle ein Heilbronner Kennzeichen habe und durch Stuttgart fahre. Ich springe raus und zu besagtem Auto, einige Sekunden später sitze ich schon drin (wieder ein BMW). Da sie nach Heilbronn weiterfahren, lassen sie mich in einem Vorort von Stuttgart raus. Eine Passantin klärt mich auf, dass ich den Bus XY, der in 20 Minuten fahre, bis zur Haltestelle ZX nehmen müsse, dort den Bus VWX bis RST und so weiter. Eine weitere Passantin läuft dazu, rettet mich, nimmt mich mit nach Hause, kocht mir ein Essen mit Fleisch und Salat und allem, und schickt ihre Tochter, sie solle mich in die Stadt reinfahren. So werde ich vor der Haustür meiner Freunde abgeladen, 4-einhalb Stunden nach meiner Abfahrt in Biel. Mit dem Zug hätte es 4 Stunden gedauert und 72€ gekostet..

Sonntag, 14.15 Uhr. Mein Gastgeber fährt mich bis kurz vor die Auffahrt zum Autobahnzubringer. Mit Schild “A 81″, auf dessen Rückseite “Appenzeller Bier” prangt, stehe ich 10 Minuten, da es sehr wenig Verkehr hat. Dann nehmen mich eine Flugbegleiterin, die gerade von New York kommt, und ihr Mann, der kürzlich in Appenzell (ich zeige ihm meine Schildrückseite) war, mit bis zur ersten Raste. Sie lieben die Schweiz und wären vor zwei Monaten beinahe nach Bern gezogen. Auf der Raststätte versuche ich es mit ansprechen. Die Fahrer von 4 Autos mit Zürcher (=Schweizer) Kennzeichen sind alles Deutsche und fahren nicht nach Zürich, was mich etwas verwirrt. Nach weiteren erfolglosen Versuchen stelle ich mich mit Schild “CH” vor die Auffahrt und werde prompt von zwei Hannoveranern mitgenommen bis kurz nach Konstanz. Dort gibt es keine Tankstelle, so dass ich in ihrem Kaff mit von der Autobahn runterfahren muss. Was sich aber nicht als schlecht erweist: In den nächsten 3 Minuten fahren 3 Autos vorbei, alle würden mich mitnehmen, aber erst das dritte fährt in Richtung Zürich. Ein Mercedes, in dem ich mich kaum getraue abzusitzen. Das Ehepaar vorne ist suuupernett und erzählt begeistert von ihren Reisen mit dem Motorrad, als sie noch jung waren, und hach!, wie sie damals in Südfrankreich ein Hotel gesucht hätten… Kurz nach Winterthur (vor Zürich) lassen sie mich auf einer Mini-Tankstelle raus. Ziemlich direkt kann ich vom Mercedes in ein nur noch halb fahrtaugliches Autö-chen zu einem Punker umsteigen. Er wohnt in Bern in einer Wagenburg und ist ziemlich schweigsam. Nach Olten steige ich an einer Raststätte aus, stelle mich mit Schild “Biel” hin und werde wiederum nach nur wenigen Sekunden mitgenommen von einem Berufsmusiker. Er fährt mich zu meinem Fahrrad, und 5 Minuten später bin ich daheim! Vier Stunden, nachdem ich in Stuttgart losgefahren bin.

Fazit: 6 Fahrer, 4 Fahrerinnen. Bauingenieur, Flugbegleiterin der Lufthansa, Fitnesstrainer in einem 4-einhalb-Sterne Hotel, Hausdame einer Altersresidenz, Tennisspielerin, Reggaesänger, Saxophonist, Wirtschaftspädagoge, Lehrerin, Schlosser, DJ), je 4 Stunden; Ausgaben: 0.-

Es war ein schöner Tag. Mein spanischer Tramperkollege war zu Besuch und wir hingen im Garten herum, bevor ich ihm den Jura zeigen wollte. Gegen Abend brachen wir endlich auf. Wir verliessen das Haus und es begann zu regnen!

Es war ungefähr 16.30, wir liefen im Regen der Hauptstrasse entlang, nach etwa einem Kilometer versuchten wir unser Glück und streckten die Daumen raus. Schon nach ein paar Sekunden nahm uns eine junge Frau mit, die zur Autobahnauffahrt fuhr, von da aber leider in die falsche Richtung. Bei der Auffahrt mitten im Industriegebiet war der Feierabendverkehr bereits in vollem Gange. Immer noch regnete es, und war es deswegen, dass wir fast 10 Minuten stehen mussten? Wir versuchten alles: Lächeln, winken, auf die Strasse stehen, in 10m Abstand stehen,… Nachdem Dutzende von Autos mit Schweizerfähnchen bestückt (es lief bereits die EM) vorbeigefahren waren, hielt ein grosser Offroader mit Totenkopffahne. Der Fahrer trug ein Totenkopf-kopftuch und überall hingen irgendwelche Totenkopfemblem-accessoirs. Und der Fahrer war supersympathisch! Er fragte, wo wir hinwollten, ich sagte, dass ich dem Spanier den Jura zeigen wolle und an den See “Etang de la Gruyère” gedacht hatte. Der Fahrer musste zwar nicht dahin, aber wollte uns hinfahren, weil er genug Zeit hatte!

Oben im Jura regnete es immer noch, und der Fahrer schlug vor, uns auf den Chasseral (ca. 1′630müM) zu fahren, weil es da ein Restaurant habe und eine wunderbare Aussicht.
Wir fuhren an seinem Dorf vorbei und dann circa eine halbe Stunde lang bergauf. Auf dem Gipfel angekommen - wo es notabene nicht mehr regnete, sondern grad die Sonne überm Seeland unterging - kehrte er grad wieder um, weil er mit seiner Hardrockgruppe Probe hatte. Dieser Typ fuhr etwa 1 Stunde nur wegen uns einen Berg hoch und wieder runter!! Ich war verblüfft, dass der spanische Kollege mit seinem “if you just go and try, the luck will find you” recht hatte, und der Hardrocker bestätigte mich mit dem Sprichwort “La chance se provoque!”


Auf dem Parkplatz des Chasserals standen 4 Autos, das Restaurant schloss in drei Stunden und im Innern sassen etwa sechs Gäste. Wir genossen ein Feldschlösschen und anschliessend draussen die Aussicht, machten Fotos und begannen mit runterlaufen. Lustigerweise entdeckte ich auf dem Parkplatz ein Auto mit polnischem Kennzeichen! Wir liefen etwa 10 Minuten runter, in dieser Zeit fuhren zwei Autos an uns vorbei rauf und eines an uns vorbei runter.

Dann kamen wir an eine Kreuzung (siehe erstes Bild), von der aus man etweder auf die eine Seite des Bergs runter kann oder - - - - auf die andere. Wir beschlossen, dort zu warten, da es uns ja einerlei war in welche Richtung runter, wir kannten uns eh nicht aus. Schon nahm uns ein Deutscher, der seit Jahren im Jura wohnte und arbeitete, mit bis St.Imier (das erste Dorf im Tal).

Dort an der Hauptstrasse hielt auch schon das erste Auto für uns, ein junger Sozialarbeiter, der nach Biel fuhr. In Biel liess er uns mitten im Industriegelände raus und wir mussten erstmal etwa eine Viertelstunde auf die andere Seite zur Hauptstrasse laufen. Dort streckten wir versuchsweise einfach mal den Daumen raus, eine ältere Frau hielt an. Da sie grad nichts zu tun hatte, fuhr sie uns bis vor die Haustüre - laut Schlagermusik hörend, der Text ging ungefähr so: “Und dann fahr ich weg, in den Süüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüüden, einfach weg, einfach los, einfach fort!”.

Grand Forks, BC to Saskatoon, SK- 4 day hitch.

Hallo TramperInnen und Interessierte,
 
ab jetzt ist es auch möglich (wenn ihr dies hier lesen könnt) Blogeinträge via eMail online zu stellen. Dazu einfach eine Mail an "blogs {bla} abgefahren . hitchbase . com" schicken. Sollte einen Benutzer im System haben so wird Eure eMail automatisch diesem zugeordnet. Dies geschieht täglich gegen Mitternacht. Es gilt das 'Filtered HTML' Eingabeformat und es ist möglich die Einträge nachträglich noch anzupassen. Es ist auch möglich unterschiedliche Mailadressen im System zu hinterlegen (schaut unter 'Mein Konto').

 
Viel Spaß wünscht
 
Hans, Euer Testdummy

 Weiterlesen »

It's late at night, or early in the morning, depending on how you look at it. My road dawg Booger is sound asleep, but I have to bounce up and watch every time a southbound comes through. The idea is to catch a train from Portland to Eugene, then hitch from there to Mutant Fest.

Ich bin gefahren mit:

- Maler/Gipser, ca. 45j. Wartezeit in Biel: 15min (Rekord!!!)
- Chauffeur, ca. 50j., der, wie sich herausstellte, in meinem Nachbardorf aufwuchs. Wartezeit in Bern: 3min.
- Landmaschinenmech und DJ, ca. 32j. Wartezeit in Bern: 5 Sekunden
- Sprinkleranlagenbauer, ca. 55j., Wartezeit zw. Bi/Be: 5 Sekunden
- Allrounder, ca. 45j., Wartezeit in Biel: 3min.
- FORD-Kader. Ist verwandt mit meinem Kindheitsarzt, Wartezeit in Bern: 5min.
- jungem Paar, stritten über Gender-Themen, Wartezeit in Biel: 10 Sekunden.
- junger Frau, Halb-Polin, mit schlechtem Tramp-Erlebnis, Wartezeit in Biel: 2min.
- Autohändler mit Filialen in Zürich und Bern. Jobangebot, Autos von BE nach ZH und zurück zu fahren (ich überlegs mir. Ich liebe Autofahren!), Wartezeit in Zollikofen: 2min.
- Versicherungsberater, ca. 50j., war in den 70ern leidenschaftlicher Tramper!, Wartezeit in Bern: 10min.
- Rentnerehepaar; sie befahl ihrem Mann alle 2 Minuten, das Fenster zu öffnen/schliessen, der Mann zu mir: Da sehen Sie, wie mich meine Frau im Griff hat! Wartezeit in Lyss: 5min.

Ja! Aufgewachsen in einem Kaff, wollte ich auch mal in die nächstgrössere Kleinstadt, ohne eine Stunde auf den Zug zu warten. Und es funktionierte! Eine Freundin, die in Polen wohnt? Und das Ticket dahin übersteigt mein Budget? Vielleicht Trampen? Und es funktionierte! Das GA (= Generalabonnement, damit kann man in der ganzen Schweiz jederzeit alle Züge, Busse, Trams und Schiffe benutzen) abgelaufen und das neue wäre viel zu teuer? Vielleicht trampen? Und es funktioniert! Seit einiger Zeit “stöpple” ich regelmässig, Biel-Bern-Biel sowieso, da wäre ja man blöd, den Zug zu nehmen. Und eigentlich ebenso für weiter. Auf diesem Blog nun meine interessanten und uninteressanten Tramp-Berichte. Biel-Bern sind ja nur ein paar Kilometer, aber auch diese paar Kilometer führen immer wieder überraschende Wendungen mit sich!

Nächste Tram-preisen (abgesehen von Biel-Bern)
7./8. Juli: Biel, CH - Leipzig, D - Lubiaz, PL
13.Juli: Lubiaz PL - Biel, CH
30. Juli: Biel - Gotha, D
3. August: Gotha - Biel

Hurra!

Hitchhiking is legal in Quebec province, with exceptions only within certain municipal areas or along certain routes. Quebec Statutes and Regulations are more explicit than most other provinces when defining where a person is not allowed to stop a vehicle. The law also states that a pedestrian may not enter a limited access highway (Autoroute system, for example) OR walk along its entrance or exit ways. For this reason, a hitchhiker should choose the safest place to stand some distance away from a highway entrance that does not impede traffic. Failing to do so could result in a fine of up to $30 for yourself, or up to $200 for the driver. Read the exact wording of hitchhiking- and pedestrian-related laws below.

Hitchhiking is legal in Alberta province by omission, meaning that no law has been set to outright ban hitchhiking. All pedestrians must still abide by the rules of the road, though, as set out in Alberta Statutes and Regulations (see specific statutes related to pedestrians below). Also keep in mind that municipalities are given the ability to prohibit pedestrians from entering highways or "soliciting rides" along any or all routes within town or city limits. Examples of this are also given below (as in the case of Edmonton, Calgary, Red Deer, and Canmore). As always, for best results hitchhike from the edge of (or outside) city limits and avoid standing anywhere that may cause a traffic hazard.

Just to let you know that today Branka Zgonjanin and me will change our names to Branka Zgonjanin Benn and Meinhard Benn Zgonjanin at the occasion of our wedding in Belgrade. If this is a surprise to you, note that you are not the only one. :)

We will tell about more about this living art collaboration project here in a short while. Check out the gallery. Now off to to the registry office!

And no, I will not twitter this. :-P

Update: Some pictures of the big day

Hitchhiking is legal in the Yukon. In fact, no specific mention is given in Yukon statutes about pedestrians soliciting rides, simply that pedestrians should obey the rules of the road by staying out of the roadway. A legal definition of the word roadway could not be found, and so an alternate definition is the one proposed by the Uniform Vehicle Code: "That portion of a highway improved, designed or ordinarily used for vehicular travel, exclusive of the sidewalk, berm or shoulder..." Municipalities in the Yukon (towns along the highway, for example) may have additional laws prohibiting pedestrians from standing or 'soliciting rides' at certain places (Part 9, section 126, listed below), so make sure to obey all posted laws and only hitchhike where you will not create any traffic hazard.

Return to Asia As most of you know, Neoma and I are in the midst of a job that has us whizzing through southeast Asia with GPSes stuck to our heads, or

I m seriously concerned about my future travel to Cuba.
After my first two visits I ve felt that Cuba is the most secure country in Latin America (that I ve visited so far).
This night everything changed. I went, like almost all wednesday to the free movie theater provided by the Videoteca del Sur.
The Movie today: Historia de un hombre: Phillip Agee |1|

Philip Burnett Franklin Agee (July 19, 1935 – January 7, 2008) was a Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) case officer and writer, best known as author of the 1975 book, Inside the Company: CIA Diary, detailing his experiences in the CIA. Agee joined the CIA in 1957, and over the following decade had postings in Washington, D.C., Ecuador, Uruguay, and Mexico. After resigning from the Agency in 1968, he became a leading opponent of CIA practices. He died in Cuba in January 2008.

Source: Wikipedia

This guy tells you in half an hour why you should be afraid to go to Cuba. There are several organisations who are training terrorists in Florida (USA) in terrorist activities against Cuba. Proudly supported by the CIA. In history these guys have blown up hotels, airplanes and corner shops in Cuba. Some of them were arrested in Venezuela and Panama for terrorist activities. Since the cuban recolution 3500 Cubans died in consequences of these terrorist activities. 2000 cubans are disabled for livetime.
So I m seriously concerned about these people. I m going to Cuba to relax, dance, play music and dive into a social experiment.

I really hope the USA will successfully win there self-declared War on Terror.

I m just a bit confused about this “War on Terror” because Wikipedia tells me that:

The War on Terrorism (also known as the War on Terror) is the common term for the various military, political and legal actions initiated by the United States government, stated to be a response to the September 11, 2001 attacks.

On the other hand the list of “acts of state terrorism, as well as funding, training, and harboring individuals and groups who engage in terrorism” the USA have been involved in the past ist quite long if you can trust this article on Wikipedia.

Who is fighting against whom here? Why don t we all let others do what they and the people in their country think is the best for them?

Während der Arbeit am Freitagabend erfahre ich, dass ich den Samstag frei bekomme. Also schnell eine SMS an meine Stuttgarter Freunde, um 01 Uhr nachts nach Hause, Strassenatlas, Karton und Filzstift zusammen suchen und schnell ins Bett.

 Weiterlesen »

I have been toying with the thought of writing a female hitch-hiking guide especially for Turkey for about a year. It was the recent killing of Italian peace-activist and hitchhiker Picca Bacca has startled me into action.
I am dedicating this article to her.

At first I thought it is pointless to put so much time into formulating a longwinded article about an obscure topic such as this, since surely not a lot of people are going to read this. However with the experiences I have from months of solo-hitchhiking around Turkey, I feel there are a lot of tips I can give to others who want to set off into this amazing beautiful country in which in the end I still feel entirely comfortable.
Maybe some people other than the strict target group -girls setting off hitchhiking around Turkey- will read it for the whiff of adventure they get from armchair travelling...

Here it goes:

Turkey is a country of stunning natural beauty and of exceptional hospitality. However, for female hitchhikers, single or in pairs, I recommend certain areas only for experienced hitchers who have been in a certain number of situations before and feel comfortable about keeping the right attitude up. The main problem in Turkey for hitchhiking women is the presence of exceedingly large numbers of prostitutes. Because the prostitution situation is comparable in the Balkans, in my opinion the tips that I will give are also valid there.

There is such a thing as beginner's 'luck'-when I first breezed through Turkey by thumb from Hakkari to Istanbul I was on a natural high from the sheer beauty of the country and had only laughs for the dodgy truck drivers. I intuitively did and said the right things to make it all turn out right. However, as any hitchhiker should know, intuition and luck don't always add up that way.

Before continuing to read this article at first make sure you have read http://girls.hitchbase.com/ -although I may repeat certain things said there to drive home certain points more assertively I generally assume 'knowledge' of the things mentionned there and build on them.

1st: In Turkey some regions are dodgier than others. What are they?

As a woman you should be most careful in the North-East, and the entire Black Sea region, which is where those Russian ladies, who arrive in scores to earn money as prostitutes, debark first and hence are present working in larger numbers than anywhere else.

Other regions that are dodgy are the main arteries around Ankara (including Istanbul-Ankara) and the Istanbul-Bulgaria highway. The reason for this is that these roads are the most frequented by heavy loads -i.e. professional drivers- and thus also preferred by prostitutes.

The following tips are tailoured especially to the North-East and the roads around Ankara. If you don't want the hassle of being taken for a prostitute, just take busses. Don't panic, the following tips are valid for other regions of Turkey only to a certain degree!

By the way, even though most Turks will tell you that you should avoid the South East or the East in general this is certainly not true. The people inhabiting this region, the Kurds, are poorer and have historically been brigands, and it is because of internal Turkish racism that they still have a bad reputation up to this day. I assure you it is entirely ill-deserved. I have a deep love for the Kurdish people and I guarantee that you will have the warmest experiences in their heart-wrenchingly beautiful region.

Don't get me wrong though: I am not telling you to blow all warnings by locals to the wind. On the contrary when talking about the 'immediate' surroundings (the surrounding 150 km or so) the locals in Turkey usually have it right if they warn you to be careful in a certain area: the only time that I got near getting raped was when I decided to visit some villages up a beautiful, deserted canyon near a very touristy region, self-assured that nothing would happen to me even after three groups of people seperately from each other had warned me not to take that road, making throat-cutting signs to get their point across. Don't be as stupid as me, don't ever think you are immortal: When I met a German-speaker later on he told me that 4 Dutchmen had been thrown off an a few kilometres high rock only a year earlier.

By the way, I do know from police statistics that by far the most dangerous spot in the entire country of Turkey is tourist hot spot Alanya -way outdoing either of the twin capitals! Not something your regular charter tourist agency would like to become widely known, but let me tell you that to encourage you to visit the more out of the way regions!

This is off-topic but worth mentionning: For entirely different reasons do also avoid (at all, not just for hitchhiking!) the regions of Tunceli and Şirnak-Hakkari; travelling there right now you are exposed to a great risk of being kidnapped by the PKK (or by Turkish undercover police who want to shed a bad light on the guerrillas!).

Back to hitching: It is lamentable to say, it does not matter what you wear or just how big your bag is, on these roads, drivers will take you for a prostitute. Even men with children in the back have stopped, solliciting me for sex. Once even a man who to all appearances was in the company of his wife stopped and made a direct 'appeal' to me -he spoke in Russian to me which I assume his wife did not understand!

It is maybe an advantage that at a first approach you may look like a guy, but as soon as the drivers see who is entering the car this will probably change. In winter looking like a guy may well be manageable, but in hot summer weather it is certainly impracticable/impossible to dress up like this.

Incidentally, I have even tried hitchhiking in full hejab gear (headscarf, body fully covered), or in the company of a kid, but neither of this did prevent inappropriate men from coming on to me.

Contrariwise it is entirely your behaviour which will govern those of your drivers. These days I hitchhike with a small bag and wear clothes which give away my gender (I do recommend un-sexy and trousers though), but I have less hassle with Turkish drivers because of I have internalised the behavourial techniques more completely.

One simple advise straight ahead: Stay clear of truck drivers. This is because a) They are the main clients of prostitute, so that is definetely what is on their mind when they stop; and b) in a truck you cannot just pull the hand-brake and easily jump out if the driver is driving to a deserted area (you don't have to worry about that in Europe, but in Turkey this commonsensical consideration needs to be applied!)

From far-reaching experience, I also have come to the appreciation that more upper class drivers tend to be politer: Look at what brand of car, and whether it is clean, not dusty etc. and try to stop these specifically.

In Turkey drivers stop very easily, so don't worry about being picky!
It is even possible to apply the technique of only accepting lifts with women, although it may (sometimes considerably) prolong your waiting time. I have explained how to do this before here, but I will reiterate: It is definetely difficult to judge from a distance whether in a car speeding past there is a woman, but generally women rarely drive in Turkey, so punctuatedly try to stop cars in which more than one person is sitting, and chances are high a woman will be among them. If the car stops and there are only guys in there, just politely decline the lift. Do feel free to tell people that you are only accept lifts with women since this gives a clear message that you are acting responsibly and are out to travel and nothing else.

Strangely, there is something in the way a driver stops which makes you understand clearly whom they are stopping for -a hitchhiker or (someone perceived as a) prostitute. If people stop for a hitchhiker, they take a long time to slow down and will usually bring the car to stop at a fairly large distance from you. If men stop for who they think is a prostitutes this happens quickly and assertively in a quickly executed turn to the side of the road! But even these men you can turn into forth-coming gentlemen with the right technique:
Make up a story that ties your sympathies to Turkey -the Turkish diaspora is large in a lot of countries so for example a Turkish boyfriend back home is a perfectly plausible story. This will endear you to your drivers and they will try to show you the best side of their country they can.

For a while I kept telling people who gave me lifts that I had just missed the dolmuş (minibus) to this or that destination. This is slightly illogical in a country with the flawless public transportation system as Turkey has, but it works very well to make clear to people that you are a travelling to get somewhere and not 'looking for work'. I finally grew tired of lying so I don't tell that story anymore, but I do think it is a good idea for others. The phrase 'Usually I wouldn't hitchhike but I thought I'd give it a try...' works well (shows that you are naive and not aware that this might be something prostitutes might do), but at the same time you should insist that that in your country it is totally normal to hitchhike and that you feel perfectly safe. For a hitchhiker -for a guy or a gal, in Europe or around the world- it always puts you in a weaker position to admit any kind of fear: this is strictly inadvisable!

As you see communication is essential. This is generally true for all hitchhikers but especially for single women. I have hitchhiked in over 50 countries but I still do feel uncomfortable all over again if I have to do it in a country where I cannot at least to a certain degree make myself understood. I disrecommend hitchiking without being linguistically prepared. Before setting off, get down the basics of a language. It also adds to the fun mind you!
At this point maybe I should mention that of course you cannot expect drivers to know English or other European languages in Turkey. In touristy areas Turks are astonishingly talented and sometimes speak several European languages accentless without ever having been outside the boundaries of their own country, however, this does not apply to the regular village people who are the ones most likely to give you lifts. I cannot repeat this enough: it is essential to have a certain set of phrases ready. I will add a short hitchhiking glossary at the end of this. With faltering Turkish you will still be able to express what beautiful an impression Turkey has made on you: you won't have to pretend! Don't be afraid of overegging the pudding, just keep repeating how beautiful Turkey is and how hospitable its people are. This will also endear you to people and bring out the best in them.

One of the most important things to know is the following: As elsewhere in the Middle East the question 'Are you Russian?' (Rus musun?) means 'Are you a prostitute?'. (The same counts for the question 'Where are you from?' ('Neredelisin?') followed by the answer 'Rusya'.) In the case that you are actually Russian, unfortunately I'll have to strongly recommend to lie about it! Even if you are from a different Eastern European country it may be a good idea to lie about it: Best thing is you are ('are') from a well-known rich Western country, say, Germany. Usually I would feel flattered if someone thought I was from one of those Eastern European countries like Russia or Bulgaria that I love so much (especially considering the gross German accent I have when speaking Turkish!), but, however lamentably, and as silly as this sounds, I keep pounding on about the fact that I am not Russian, nor Bulgarian or Armenian, but German.

To illustrate this point I will narrate one (of a total of two!) unsavoury situation I got myself into and point out the mistakes that I made:

It is sometime last summer, in South-Western Anatolia: I had waited for a long time in the boiling heat on the wind-swept dusty outskirts of a faceless provincial town when a dirty grey Volvo stopped. I asked the guy where he was going, his answer was 'Doesn't matter, just get in!' Already a clear sign that he was up to something fishy.

He insisted even after I had declined several times -all too obvious a sign he was up to something bad! Really a classic case of when not to get into a car. There is such a thing as becoming too self-assured -it had happened to me at that point. How many drivers had I turned from dodgy to polite and generous hosts with my 'hitchhiking skills'? Countless ones. But this case really bears out the basic principle mentionned on the regular http://girls.hitchbase.com/ site: Trust your instinct, and if you have a bad feeling, do not under any circumstances get into the car.

The way the story proceeded is scary: We drove several kilometres along the main road to a sort of perfunctory service station where a single lorry was parked. Even this was just off the main road, not one car or inhabited area was around. I could have started running but how far could I have gone on my mere feet? The driver of the lorry got out of his vehicle and as he came walking towards us he yelled 'Where is this girl from?'-actually a rhethorical question: He expected me to be Russian. I, loudly, shouted my answer: 'Almanya!' ('Germany' ) which was enough for him to get back into his driver seat and drive off. The first guy left too, and there I was hitching like usually again.
The next person to give me a lift materialised quickly. It was an absolutely gentlemanly nice lad who ended up buying me lunch at the next village.

There is one more thing I want to say: Obviously it is desirable to avoid sexual advances from drivers not only because it may be dangerous, but simply because it is annoying and lowers your spirits. As I mentioned, the first few times I hitched around Turkey I managed just fine even despite the constant hassle with men, because of what I call ''beginner's impetus''. The pure excitement of movement and seeing new places that makes you oblivious to the dodgy stuff around you.
However after I had spent another month in the country I became increasingly irritated by always being taken for a prostitute.
After three months hitchhiking experience in Turkey, the most important trick in my opinion is the following: Stay entirely cool as you approach a car. It is a natural reaction for any hitchhiker to be excited when a car stops, so this maybe trickier than it sounds. Don't smile and ask very dryly where the driver is going, then ask matter-of-factly if it is not a problem if you go with them.
Only when I had perfected this coldness before getting into a car, I found myself consistently 'unharassed' by male drivers, so I think this simple technique is the most important one!

I want to end this article on a good note so I will relate a short, well-remembered hitch-hiking episode from Turkey; it is very hard to pick a favourite hitchhiking memory, but one I have not yet written about is the following: I was putting my thumb out outside of the town Fethiye from where I was going to the airport in Antalya, about 200 kilometres away. It was to be my last day as I was going to buy one of those cheapish charter tickets for as soon as possible and make my way home to Germany. Staring at the empty street I was just about to tell myself that I was in for a long wait when a car stopped with two young guys and a gal in it -apart from families the perfect sort of combination of people with whom I feel entirely comfortable. About the second sentence we exchanged was 'Have you heard of hospitality club?' and from then on I knew I was right in my place. They themselves were on a holiday outing and thought it would be fun to invite me along. In this way I ended up going with them to the absolutely spectacular natural sight of Saklıkent canyon which is too impressive for words to describe. We bathed in its icy waters and afterwards had delicious fish dinner and tea in an amazing setting (a treehouse restaurant) where we led long inspiring conversations.

The day after I hitched along the same road again and got a straight lift to the airport (!). Nine hours later I was on a flight to Berlin, smiling happily to myself about this extra day that had fallen into my lap so unexpectedly. Could I even have dreamed up a more beautiful ending to my trip?
It still remains an outstanding memory.


A Short Turkish Hitchhiking Glossary (pronunciation is straight forward I think):

Nereye gidiyorsunuz? -Where are you going?
Ben o taraf'a gitmiyorum. -I'm not going that way
Ben ...'(y)e gidiyorum. -I am going to...
Türkiye çok güzel, Türkler çok misafirperver! -Turkeyis very beautiful and Turks are very hospitable!
Benim erkek arkadaşım Türk'tür. -My boy-friend is Turkish.
Ben Rus değilim. -I am not Russian.

Important:
Please read the project we have recently submitted on GiveMeaning.com - charity fundraising platform. If you like the idea, please vote for it!

We have 30 days to collect 100 votes in order to activate this project for donations! Voting deadline is Jul 17, 2008.
Link to the project: http://www.givemeaning.com/proposal/kingworldschool  


Us, Zambia, and new school

Back in 2004 during our trips through Africa, in Lusaka (capital of Zambia) we both met pastor Ralph and his wife Agnes. They invited us to stay in Kalingalinga suburb with their relatives, and for a whole week we were taken care of in any possible way.

Agnes and Ralph are humanitarians who work to improve livelihood conditions in Mutendere community, the biggest township of Lusaka. Since 2002 they are actively helping children who are victims to the HIV/AIDS pandemic in their neighbourhood to receive the necessary day care, primary education, and basic food, which these children cannot receive otherwise. At the same time they support single mothers and grandmothers, who had lost a part of their family through HIV/AIDS and now have to care about the (grand)children alone. In 2005 they founded King World Missions, a community-based charity organization dedicated to fight the problems of HIV/AIDS in Zambia, whos concern are orphans, vulnerable children, and those little ones unable to afford education.

Today, the most important goal for King World Missions is to build a school with 4 classrooms that would host more than 80 children for getting primary education, and empower women of Mutendere community with life sustaining skills.

We followed the development of their project during all those years, and finally found an opportunity to help rising a little bit of money for this project through GiveMeaning.com

In order this project to qualify for accepting financial donations, we need to collect at least 100 VOTES within 30 DAYS! Voting deadline is Jul 17, 2008.

Please help us to achieve this goal. Please read our project and vote if you think it is worth it: http://www.givemeaning.com/proposal/kingworldschool

Any activity on GiveMeaning website (voting or donating) requires you to sign up by providing email address and password. The confirmation is sent right away. Voting for a proposal is not a financial commitment and you will never be spammed or solicited by GiveMeaning.com, nor will GiveMeaning share your email addresses or personal information with anyone.

We hope to see You among the supporters of King World Missions project and get your vote for starting King World School project. Please do not ignore our call. Your vote will make a difference. 

We need to raise awareness for the King World School project and kindly ask You to Spread the Word among others. It is important to tell anyone you know about this project, in order to reach a wide auditorium. Like GiveMeaning, we believe in the Power of Plenty, meaning many people giving small amounts in support of a common goal can make big changes in the world.

Hitchhiking Briain Days 23 to 34

************************ Deutsche Version unten *********************** Heyho, no more than 11 days to start the highly awaited trip to the Middle East! First preparations began, and for now there are two possible routes going down to Istanbul (see map). The first might be the same route than last year, via Slovenia, Croatia towards Belgrade in Serbia, then Sofia (Bulgaria) and [...]

mountain goats with the longest hair reaching down to the dirt road, strutting up to cars. the man who couldn't stop to speak of cocaine on his penis and giving us gallons of wine and pizza. the deep blue seas of greece. the feeling that traveling on little can only bring - the song of the blood that quietens the mosquito stings covering your legs, the lyrics of some kind of personal triumph, the courage to be anything and everything, always. vegetables, fruit, cookies...found thrown away in a port town before we struck italy. a house full of wild colours that awoke me from my dusk slumber, from the soft feeling of eating enough and needing nothing more and had me smiling harder.
yesterday was the day when I couldn't cease smiling.
out past the port where we took the ferry from greece to italy (after a ride with an old kind italian man who couldn't understand anything and waved his hands about everywhere), we sat out in the rain thats followed us over three countries and two timezones and drank hot chocolate with cappuccino. we'd mixed it so much that it became a thick cream that settled into the stomach as warm puddles.
later, we caught a ride with an ex hitchhiker going a little way west, attending meetings along the way. he bought us sandwiches and fresh orange juice, spoke of his love for travel, of traveling arabic countries unable to understand anything at all.
later, in a truck as the night peeled away the day, the storm hit. the tent I acquired last month will pull me all the way to hell, baby. we found an old concrete shed in an orchard and cooked soup, toasted bread and margarine found behind a service station. the best meal of my life. in fact, every meal is the best.
tonight, on arriving in naples, we had oil soaked pizza...the greatest pizza I've ever had.

napoli...theres something crazy about this city, something to set fire to flames, to lift guts as high as they'll reach.

drei oder mehr lange tage durch die sahara. selbst hier gehts den bach
runter, wo sind all die schoenen duenen hin die man im fernsehen
gesehn hat, liebe sahara? und wo ist ueberhaupt der bach? mauritania
hat nix ausser wueste und ich weilte meine zeit mit pedro von den
kanaren dort weg, pedro hat mich drei days mitgenommen verschenkt den
wagen dann in burkina faso und will zurueck mit einem esel (20euro)
durch die wueste laufen. natuerlich haben wir uns gut verstanden. die
strasse geht mittlerweile durch bis dakar. dakar hat viele neger,
glaubts mir. man fuehlt sich wie in afrika. in dakar bekam ich mein
benin visum und verlor meinen rucksack. das ist sehr aergerlich und
stimmt mit traurig auf meinem weg nach the gambia, auch das trampen is
nicht so leicht. wenigstens halten die taxis und busse nicht jedesmal
an weil sie alle voll sind.
die neger sind sehr nett und nich so ueberdreht wie die us und karibik
neger, sie haben eine innere ruhe die den westis fehlt. dafuer haben
di westis geld und koennen sich einen psychologen leisten.
die zeit ist nun schon vorgerueckt und ich will heute noch nach
gambia. einen negerkuss an alle leser.

Justin, is a guy I ve met in Costa Rica on his bycicle trip from the U.S. to Tierra del Fuego.
About a month ago he got back to the U.S. and today he wrote a very interesting post about getting back from a trip.
You can read the entire entry here.

I m refering to Justin here because I don t think that I could express any better the feelings I m facing when I m comming back.
I ve had very similar feeling slike Justin when I came back from my first Backpacking trip in Southamerica in 2005. From there on I tried to integrate my feelings into my life. I try to avoid television. I take my time to read the Newspaper in the morning. I do not try to be on every single event because I m not afraid anymore that I could miss something. I m taking the time to use my bycicle or public transportation to move around. I m trying to listen to myself, ask myself what I really want. What really makes me happy or satisfied with my life.
I try to get rid of most of the plannings and bondages. I try not to be seriouse and responsible all the time. If I don t feel like having senseless conversations about nothing I don t participate. I rather back out of this group of people who desperately try to kill time while playing card games or talk about tv shows and play guitar, juggle, read a book, work for BeVolunteer/BeWelcome, etc.
Everytime I move somewhere new I see a new chance to change my life. When I first got out of college and worked on my civilian service in Freiburg I became vegetarian and stopped drinking alcohol for 8 months. I had crazy experences with meditation, yoga, fasting, etc. Afterwards the South America trip - a 100 % change of lifestyle. Then I began to study in Freiburg - University, an entire new world. Lot s of new people with lots of interesting stories ideas. During the vacation I moved a lot. Bike trips in France and Italy, trips to Portugal and Spain, escaping the winter in Venezuela and Colombia, etc.
Then finally I ve made it here: Costa Rica. It is a kind of new compromise for me again. New people, new University, new language, new culture, new impressions almost a hundred guests from Couchsurfing, Hospitality Club and BeWelcome. A two months trip in central america. From July on again 3,5 months of travelling.

There is a lot to think about when I m hitting Europe again. I m going to be different again. Hopefully I will find the strength to understand the changes I ve experienced and life the changes in the new life (re-) starting in Freiburg.

I can't remember how to speak. I can't remember how to see, my eyelids barely stand open...I hold them quivering in my hands, stand on my head, dance under the moon, piss in wild stretching fields, study the ways of the gypsies...the eternal nomads.
movement is the only constant. the city is full of swine dogs and labels; baby, where the hell did honesty go? or maybe I damned it from the very beginning...thessaloniki, sing when you're sinking, uh?
We're headed to the mountains, I hope and swinging west eventually. perhaps we'll touch a couple of islands past athina but I just want oranges, wild herbs and green tea and to gaze out. these lands are extraordinary but I have the feeling that I have to break something open or destroy something to find something greater.

Hitchhiking Britain Days 17 to 23