Albanian Adventure!

Mirupafshim Shqiperi

noreply@blogger.com (Cjallo) — Tue, 03 Aug 2010 21:37:00 +0000

I admit I never wanted to come to eastern Europe.

After turning down a position in (subsuharan) Africa our recruiter said she could nominate us for an Eastern European country, but if we said no we shouldn't expect another offer. My heart sank. Europe? That's the last thing I wanted for my peace corps experience. I signed up to go live somewhere totally new and interesting, out in a lush tropical jungle or in the barren desert steps.

The peace corps website groups Eastern Europe and the Caucus region together; is she hinting that we would be in the Balkans, or would the Stans be included?

Chris and I went to the Phoenix public library and pulled out all of the country books they might send us to: Moldova,Macedonia, Georgia, Bulgaria, Romania, Albania, Kazakhstan, Kyrgistan, Ukraine, and Tajikistan. Kyrigistan boasts incredible beauty and isolated villages up in the mountains where the snow hovers 365 days per year (eek! send me to the jungle!). Georgia sounds quite interesting, though apparently a vigorous drinking culture which might be a little offputting. Ukraine was considerethe breadbasket of the communist block, that could be nice. However the one country that stood out as the most untouched and perhaps unpolluted by foreigners was Albania, the tiny once-communist outpost lodged between Italy and Greece. If we have to go anywhere in the region we hoped it would be there.

I remember landing at Tirane's tiny airport, approaching its green valley on a cold March day. The entire group of volunteers, 37 strangers I didn't know I would grow love, was bused to Elbasan and quickly herded into a large hotel at the city's edge (ahh Universe. You will forever hold a place in my heart.) I will never forget (and in case I do thank goodness I have this blog) taking a walk around town on that freezing, rainy day, hopelessly disappointed in my new foreign home. I could have been any run down American suburban neighborhood, perhaps in New Jersey- the buildings looked like normal concrete blocks, the fast food shops advertised pizza, there were portly white people wrapped in jeans and long winter coats bustling through the streets.

So much for indigenous shamans and birthing rituals.

Albania is very much a Balkan state, full of hot headed little Napoleans and women whose fashion sense is that of a prostitute. During the communist regime religious ideology was banned (unless your were worshipping the cult hero Enver Hoxha) and many of the ancient Byzantine churches and ottoman mosques were destroyed. While some buildings survived and a few have been restored, the real heart of people's faith has been thoroughly erradicated.

For a Muslim country it's a little odd that pork is practically the national dish. My host family was baffled when I asked them if they follow the five pillars of Islam, they had never heard of it. Being Muslim inside Albania means little more than perhaps what region you are from, or explains one's family name, which was surely changed during the Ottoman occupation. Albanians outside Albania (namely Kosovars and Macedonians) are far more devout Muslims; the women are more often covered and their mosques provide these Albanians a sense of community.

So two and a half years have passed since Chris and I moved to Albania. I've gained an incredible wealth of knowledge about this region's history, politics, culture, and modern life. I picked up the language (sounds very nonshalant but it was a lot of work!). I saw corruption. I still see corruption, and it's easier to pick it out everywhere, which makes me feel kind of jaded. I learned to eat and cook (and enjoy) new and previously off-limits foods (like plain yogurt and oily pastries). I even began to enjoy monotanous circle dancing!!

Ok so it's not what I expected, but I had an incredible experience in Shqiperia, and changed my opinion of Eastern Europe and the Balkans entirely. Along the way I found dozens of lifelong friends; leaving them is probably the most depressing part of finishing service.

And the people? I'm a believer that there are good and bad people everywhere. From a hitch hiker's viewpoint Albanians are the kindest and most generous people- eager to pick up a foreigner and even likely to take them for a coffee! Like many Peace Corps volunteers I too found a circle of amazing friends and neighbors, I think that's just how life works out. It's pretty hard to stay long in a small, close community without eventually finding people to love and care about. I was just lucky enough to find them in the Land of the Eagle.

Pema e Thate and Plazhi Monastir

noreply@blogger.com (Cjallo) — Sun, 04 Jul 2010 10:18:00 +0000

I hope to never forget the incredible beaches surrounding Ksamil, only a stone’s throw away from the Greek island of Corfu.

Corfu is so near, but our beaches are just as nice...

For 4th of July Chris and I made our way once again to the coast – how could we not?—to spend some days in the sun and join other volunteers and friends for a bbq.

Also in town were a handful of PCVs from Romania and Ukraine, as well as our Finnish friends, Mia and Ville. Chris and I met Ville 2 years ago in Laos, and through the blessings of Facebook they were able to find and stay with us a few nights in Gjirokaster. They introduced us to the beloved Finnish pepper candy, Tyrkisk Peber, which consists of ammonium chloride, sugar, licorice, and salt. It’s… an acquired taste. Anyway, they were wonderful guests, cooked us delicious Indian food, and shared stories about living up the Land of the Saami (Reindeer People). I’m even more encouraged to go there and experience 23 hours of daylight, soak in a proper sauna with birch whipping, and see the Aurora Borealis!

With 'the Fins' Ville and Mia while watching futbol at an outdoor cafe

For now, I’ll take sea & sun.

Monastery Beach is one of my favorites. It’s a semi-private cove that no one except locals knows of. There is no transportation to the beach so after swimming and lunch, then falling into a comatose state for a few hours, we walked back to town. This allowed a great opportunity to admire the view of Lake Butrint in the east and the setting sun in the west…

Me at Monastery Beach

Some men playing dominoes by the seaside

Lake Butrint is actually an estuary, where mussels are harvested (see on the right?)

The next day we walked (my first time) over the hills to Pema e Thate (Dry Tree) Beach. This area is probably the closest in proximity and likeness to Corfu Island, and although a café and beach chairs have appeared in a few of the coves, it still feels like a private oasis. I almost hesitate to write and post photos for fear of aiding the inevitable oncoming rush of tourism...

Road to Pema a Thate

Over the hills we go...

So worth the walk

In the evening we attended a bbq with the larger group. Our goal was typical American food, including burgers, potato salad, chips with guacamole (!!!), and good ol’ apple pie (thank you to whoever’s parent who shipped that Krustex mix). We stuffed ourselves silly and watched a little World Cup, played some darts, and generally made muhabet.

4th of July fun at Tani's bar

It is so not fair that we live near such awesome beaches. I know, I know, what kind of Peace Corps is this? Our friends visiting from Ukraine and Romania could not get over our luck. I am so grateful to have been placed here in Shqiperia—for many, many reasons— and not least of all for the chance to live in Mediterranean paradise...

Sun setting as we approach Ksamil. Those rings are the fish pens.

Totally bizarre juxtaposition of village life meets tourist resorts

Maiden Voyage

noreply@blogger.com (Cjallo) — Tue, 29 Jun 2010 09:26:00 +0000

Destination: Tepelene, city of Ali Pasha
Distance: 32 KM x 2= 64 km round trip
Time: 3.5 hours
Terrain: semi-mountainous, patchy road

Last weekend I took my first long ride on the bike!

First, the scene:
A few dozen volunteers --mostly those in the group that recently arrived, as virtually all of the G11ers have left the country-- gathered just outside of Gjirokaster for a critical mass tubing excursion down the river.

Chris has been organizing tubing trips since last summer, usually starting at the bridge in Kardhiq (head of tributary and near an air-pump station) and getting out where the river collides with waters from Permet. They assure me the water is fine, but I have my doubts. I know for a fact the hospitals dump their waste into the rivers, and the idea of swimming with aborted fetuses and syringes makes my skin crawl... Not to mention the garbage from every village and town upstream...
But the others are brave!

While the group embarked on their floating adventure, I slipped into my new jersey and padded shorts, then packed my klean kanteen, a camera, towel, and spare clothes into my side pannier. Mp3 player? Check. Helmet? Check.

Totally legit with helmet and all!

Ahhh… freedom! The experience of biking versus riding in a bus or car is absolutely incomparable. I was able to stop and explore many times-- near an old bridge I always notice, in a village with a pretty church, at the fish tank stand with the lonely seller... Without the restrictions of glass windows the view of Albania’s landscape is even more majestic.

Sa bukur!

Fresh fish anyone? Raised right here in the mountains!

There were some mediocre hills to climb, which weren’t so hard, however, it was midday so the on-coming winds were mighty strong. Even on the downhill I was forced to pedal. Near Tepelene is a place called Ujё Fhtotё (Cold Water)—one of many roadside springs in Albania—where people sell snacks, local honey, and mountain tea in the shade next to a few restaurants and cafes. I happened to meet people from one of the dozens of “I Love Çamёria” buses also stopped. From Elbasan, a lady explained to me, on their way with hundreds of others for a Cham festival in Sarandё.

At Ujё Ftohtё, where people stop for fresh spring water and to buy mountain tea and honey

Chams are an ethnic group from Chameria (Çamёria), in the northern Greek Epirus region, who were expelled to Albania after WWII. They have their own unique clothing and music, and are fairly active in minority rights activism around here. Family origin still runs deep.

Dozens of Cham buses decked out with banners passed me on their way to the festival

So, after filling my canteen with fresh water, I finished the last hill up to the city of Tepelene to wait for the tubing crew, resting again in the cool shade overlooking the valley.

View of the valley below from Tepelene's castle

Somehow I beat them—the tired, worn out, and sun burnt group meandered up towards our friend Alana’s house where we then had a bbq party in her front garden. Not only is her garden beautifully manicured (by her adoptive gjyshja), but her house sits on a street inside the city’s ancient castle walls. How cool is that?

Some of the survivors!

Alana's front yard/ garden is shume e bukur~~

With tubes doubling as chairs, we feasted on grilled summer vegetables and chicken, potato salad, watermelon, and Albanian spice cake. Before the vodka-spiked watermelon made the rounds, I set off for my journey home to Gjirokastёr. The trip back was so much easier, as the wind came from behind me, and it was cooler out. Chris and a small group caught a ride back to town, passing by me with cheers, and only one dog came chasing after me from the fields. All in all—success!

Relaxing on the tubes while food is cooking

My ecstatic anticipation for our upcoming bike journey is good compensation for having to leave Albania. :)

MMmmm mmm Kos!!

noreply@blogger.com (Cjallo) — Mon, 28 Jun 2010 10:24:00 +0000

For anyone who has ever met me, you’d know that food is an important part of my life. Especially in the PC, we tend to talk a lot about foods— some kind of coping mechanism or something, who knows? I think for a traveler food is also one of the most interesting and pleasurable cultural experiences; a comparable set of snacks, dishes, and flavors based (mostly) on indigenous ingredients that visibly shift across regions. Sometimes the food can make or break a country’s like-factor; for example, Laos. Beautiful landscapes, people, and traditions, but sheesh! Raw minced meat salads? And buffalo fat stews? Not my cup of tea…

Albania has AMAZING food. OK I’m stretching my opinion a bit. Albania has amazing ingredients. Traditional foods in the south are pretty similar to Greek foods we all know: spanikopita (is called byrek here), pastiçio (cheese and macaroni casserole), dolma (stuffed grape leaves), musaka (layered casserole of potatoes, eggplant, meat), etc. I get pretty sick of Albanian foods though. There are 2 types of restaurants in this country: Pizza/pasta and default Albanian, which rarely strays from an unwritten menu of qofte (lamb meatballs), fries, thick yogurt, and 'Greek' salad.

Some selections from Kujtim's, a restaurant in the Old Town

But I want to talk about my food. Over the last two years, I’ve found a plethora of delicious fruits and veggies to experiment with. Albania also produces lentils, beans, bulgur/ wheat, and an assortment of dairy conditions. I say ‘conditions’ because it starts with milk but can turn into butter, white (feta) or yellow (kaqkavallё) cheeses, ice cream, gjiz (which is something like cottage cheese, but really not the same), dhallё (salty yogurt drink), sour cream, yogurt, etc., all depending on simple variations of temperature and time.

Elbasani couple selling their home made cheeses, Kaqkavallё on the left, Djathe i Barthё on the right

But do you know how amazing yogurt is? Its variations start with fermented kos from cow, sheep, or goat milk, and they do taste very different. Sheep milk is very thick and creamy (much fattier) and usually hard to come by, goat milk is smoother (less fatty) and almost impossible to find, and cow's milk (sold in stores and typically made at home) is kind of sour compared to the others. It can be thickened to make salce kosi, and then (!) can be turned into urli once it sours. Dairy has evidently been a lifeline in this country for centuries and Albanians have mastered ways to consume it!

Near the top of Mt. Gjallice, this gyshja and her family live off of the bi-products from their cow and sheep milk. They kindly invited us for a lunch of yogurt bowls...

I appreciate the way villagers recycle water and soda bottles to sell milk. Just don't forget to boil it!!

So anyway, back to yogurt. One of my proudest achievements in the last two years (please don’t judge me) has been mastering the art of yogurt making. I have created dozens of batches of spoiled milk along the way, sheepishly returning to my landlady and komshi [neighbor friends] to ask politely for another gotё of starter kos. I have also boiled more than my fair share of milk clouds over the stove. They say a watched pot never boils, but I swear as soon as I turn my head the milk inevitably foams up, exploding all over my kitchen! I’ve got it down now though. And it is sooooo worth it. I swear natural yogurt must have some addictive substance in it, because after you try it the taste of store bought yogurt simply isn’t worth the calories.

This is a milk cloud just before it explodes all over my stove

Absolutely the best breakfast post-run: homemade goat yogurt+ homemade granola+ village cherries~~~ Yummm!

I’ve been inspired to share my love-hate relationship with yogurt making because I recently read Julie&Julia while hiding out on Ksamil’s beaches. Such a funny writer! I won’t recommend the movie though, because I’m pretty sure the producers had to censor Julie’s sarcastic foul mouth rants and sexually explicit friends, and really that’s what makes the book. But if you’ve seen it let me know, I could be swayed.

Vetem Vajza (Girls Only)

noreply@blogger.com (Cjallo) — Fri, 25 Jun 2010 19:54:00 +0000

Recently I spent the weekend with my friend Meghan, on a girls-only vacation.
Well, we didn't necessarily mean to exclude our sitemates, but we happen to be girls and we wanted to do things that the boys simply don't enjoy doing. Such as eating a batch of chocolate chip cookies for dinner and watching a Glee marathon. (FYI: I just got a copy of Glee season one and I'm hooked! I know its stupid, but the characters are so over the top that I can't help but laugh. My favorite is the cheerleading coach. Yours too, right?)

Thai noodle picnic (with Leslie, but she took the picture)

Anyway, Meghan lives in Ksamil, a tiny village south of Sarande, near the big archaeological park of Butrint. The beaches here are absolutely PRIS-teen, and not too overdeveloped with restaurants. Local specialty is mussels, grown right there in Lake Butrint. Yes, dining on greek salad, white wine, and mussels in red sauce while overlooking the sparkling water or a blazing purple and pink ocean sunset is the epidomy of posh-corps. Also, since Meghan is the village's first and only English teacher (so funny to walk around and constantly be assalted with children shouting HELLO teacher! Howarr youuuu?) she has free and unlimited access to beach chairs and top service at the lokales. So that was our plan: beach by day, movies/ World Cup by night. We also took some secret trips to some secret islands, but I won't talk about that here now... you'll have to email me if you want details.

Absolutely the ugliest picture of us. But you can see the beach is beautiful!

Unfortunately, this tiny village once known for its aromatic orange groves has been razed and replaced with a smattering of big ugly cement hotel-homes. Meaning that, while comatose in the winter, the place explodes in the summer when people return from Greece and rent their empty rooms to Kosovar and Albanian families. Specifically, in August. During that month electricity dwindles (last year Meghan didn't get enough surge to keep her mini refrigerator running, or heat the oven--although really who wants to cook in August?-- and her one bare bulb light flickered with barely enough juice to read by). Ksamil also trucks in water. Yes. Evidently no springs nearby, so when all those families come for their pushim and want to take nice long hot showers, well, there simply isn't enough. So poor Meghan doesn't get to flush her toilet for a month. That's ok though, because maybe the mosquitos will stay in the toilet bowl instead of galavanting out on a blood sucking mission...?

The Gjiro guys came for awhile, trying get in on the fun. They went home promptly when we threatened an evening of Glee...!

I'm getting off topic. I want to talk about the political mahem that has shaken Ksamil. Some months back the government in Tirane decided it was high time to start punishing people who built illegal buildings. Something or other... Tirane has jurisdiction over Ksamil... blah blah and they happen to be Democrat.. Ksamil happens to be Socialist... So they posted notices with lists of illegal homes that were to be demolished. And indeed they were-- bulldozed, toppled over, blow up with dynamite.

The doll out front is supposed to protect the house from evil.

Most of them appear to be unfinished, typically families away in Greece who use their earnings abroad to bit-by-bit build their homes. Some of them were totally finished with families inside. Entire life savings that were poured into their homes-- wiped out in an instant. While I do wish the government would step up and protect cities/villages from this form of rampant 'development', its deplorable that they ignore it for so long and then step in so late in the game. Especially since these 250 chunks of rubble are now an even bigger eyesore, left behind like a post-war apocalypse.

This is the village's only school. What a school yard! Who's up for some hopscotch or b-ball?

Along the dirt road to Meghan's house...

Please don't get me wrong, I love visiting Ksamil. Full of lovely people that
have been good to Meghan. But its such an iconic example of how government functions here.

A neighbor. They probably live in Greece.

This post is entirely my opinion, thoughts from my head with absolutely no political bias or real emotional ties. Please don't take offense if your view differs. I welcome readers comments, but am not interested in a debate. My intention is only to illustrate to friends and family a snippet of life around here.

View from Meghan's shpie. See all those buildings?

Goodbyes, Hellos, and a Pagan Festival

noreply@blogger.com (Cjallo) — Mon, 31 May 2010 10:29:00 +0000

Chris and I headed up to Tiranё again, for a farewell dinner with our friend Patricia. This month the G11ers are dropping like flies, each week it seems 2 or 3 complete their service, boarding flights back to America. Some weeks back I went to Delvine to see Monica off, and Alexi left shortly after. It’s very surreal.

We didn’t cry at our COS conference; the fact that my life as a PCV Albania volunteer is coming to an end hasn’t really hit me yet. I’ve really enjoyed the last two years here, the people I’ve grown close to, and the position I’m in. Yes there are frustrations, and I sometimes wake in the middle of the night suddenly anxious to be back at home with my family, but overall I love it here. I’m sure I’ll be back in Shqiperia someday, but it won’t be the same. I’ll be a tourist, not a banore. I won’t have my network of 70+ friends scattered around the country to drop in on. Someone else will be renting ‘my’ house, sleeping in ‘my’ bed…

Beautiful landscapes of Shqiperia, I will miss it

On Thursday, Chris, Stephanie, Becca, Alexi, and I met with Patricia, Karen, and their guys from Puke for a dinner in the Bloku. FYI: That’s the fancy-shmancy area of Tiranё, where the Albanian glitterati and expats go for late night drinking. We ate Mexican food at Serendipity, where they serve quesadillas and chimichangas, margaritas and daiquiris. There may have been a few farewell shots of Tequila. Afterward we rolled over to a quiet bar to meet with a few more people and to drag out our time together. Patricia would be leaving on a 3 am taxi to the airport, so falling asleep was out of the question.

Goodbye Gezuar! for Patricia at Serendipity

Food Porn, introduced to me by Patricia and Monica: Quesadilla entry

Food porn: Chris' chimichanga

Stephani, Paricia, Karen, and me at Moma Bar (in the Bloku)

'Gezuar'-ing at Moma Bar

The next day Chris met with some COD volunteers to give some of their program staff gifts. He contributed a beautiful pen and ink drawing, inspired by Gjirokastёr, on faux parchment (ie. tracing paper “aged” with coffee). It began raining as we left the PC office; we hurriedly crossed the entire length of the city and squeezed into a Vlore-bound furgon, headed for the coast. I have mentioned this is prime beach season, yes?

At the top of the Llogara Pass

Many of the remaining PCVs convened there for a final Dhermi camping trip, on our favorite beach, Drymades (which was warm and sunny). Still relatively untouched (though each month more enormous hotels and cafes pop up), we like to cross under the rock arch to an isolated cove, where we can swim out to a large rock perfect for jumping.

Hanging out on the sand, enjoying our Mediterranean paradise

We camped with a bunch of recently sworn-in G13 volunteers, their first weekend of freedom after PST. I like the group; new faces full of ambition, eager to learn about life in Albania, and still wearing impressively unsoiled clothing, not yet ravaged by months of handwashing and dirty furgons. That will change, as will their figures. We unanimously agree that guys lose about 15 pounds while girls gain at least that.

PCVs from groups 11, 12, and 13

In the morning the group dispersed, some up to Lezhe for Bethany’s birthday bash, others down the coast for “work” at various festivals. Meghan was obliged to help out at an olive oil festival in Butrint that evening, while I needed to get back to accompany some Intrepid Travelers to the annual Pagan Festival in Antigonea. Once again, Chris and I hitched rides from town to town, meeting with interesting drivers and stopping for various coffees. Love the beach, but love my own bed and good rest just as well.

Final coffee with Amy (at least while in Shqiperia)

Sunday morning I woke to a cloudy, drizzly day. So bizarre! I slipped on my raincoat (buried back in the closet in hopes of never needing it again) and took my new bike to the lake for an early run.

A few weeks back we met a tour guide in Gjirokastёr accompanying a group of tourist from Intrepid Travel, a company that dedicates itself to responsible travel with respect to the local people, their culture, and the environment. She was interested in arranging future groups to visit a village, an idea I had frivolously brainstormed with my neighbor, Athina, months back. Perfect! After some back and forth emails and phone calls, we were gati.

At 10 am I met the group of travelers outside Hotel Cajupi and, squeezed tightly into a furgon (we took on some extra çuna), our group took off toward the villages across the valley. Athina’s village is called Tranoshishte, it’s the 3rd of 4 on the road out from Asim Zaneli (village where Seth used to live). Her fshat is utterly charming; not more than 15 houses comprised of 4 or so families, a natural spring, a restored church, an abandoned school room. The “center” of the village is an enormous shady tree that has a spring built into its hollow center. Athina’s mom’s cousin takes care of bees; everyone pitches in to care for the cows, sheep, and goats, which supply them with enough milk to make cheese, yogurt, and butter. Fruit and nut trees are scattered throughout, so each household is stocked well with figs, walnuts, persimmons, grapes (raki and wine), cherries…

First we went to the annual Pagan Festival in Antigonea. That’s an unexcavated archaeological park up in the hills, dating back to circa 300 BC. During our initial site visit 2 years before Chris, Greg, Tara, and I hiked to the festival with staff from the GCDO-- it’s all coming full circle!

Awaiting the official start of the Pagan Festival

Having fun with costumes and grass huts...

Pushim in between performances

This year's fest was not as well organized, pretty underwhelming actually. Not nearly enough costumes, singing, and dancing like I expected. After walking around the park, admiring the views of the surrounding Drino Valley, we drove back to Tranoshishte and sat for lunch with Athina’s family. More than lunch, a feast! Her mom cooked various Albanian specialties, including qofte (meatballs), byrek (flaky pie), fresh salads from the garden, handmade dolma**, fresh cheese, urli (kind of dairy product), gjize (another dairy), kulaq (sweet bread), walnut cake… plus endless gezuars of raki, wine, and beer!

Athina loads up the plates with delicious foods

**side note: despite the melding of Greek words and culture in the southern region, they use the term sarma, which is actually Turkish for “wrapping”.

Athina's babai used to play the flute while tending his flock!

After our bellies were about to explode (or just before they exploded, rather), we took the group on a tour of the village, to meet the neighbors, see the bee boxes, and relax for a coffee in the front garden. The morning had been overcast and dreary, but by this point the sky had cleared for a beautiful, cool afternoon. Eventually we made our way back to the city and dropped them back at the hotel. I’m so glad it worked out! Everyone seemed pleased with the arrangement, so I hope Athina and IT continue to work together...

Drying nenexhik (mint) for tea

Krosi Masiv

noreply@blogger.com (Cjallo) — Mon, 10 May 2010 10:01:00 +0000

A surprising twist of events led us to organize Gjirokastёr’s second-annual Kros Masiv last month. Last years’ election gave way to new parties in ministry positions, which in Albania means that whichever offices switched over would now fire all the former employees and hire friends and family members from their party. By that, I mean all the way down the line to teachers, nurses, everyone with a state job. It’s a convoluted, corrupt, and unproductive part of Albania’s democracy, but I imagine this sort of thing happens around the world. Very frustrating.

Gjithёsesi! Several directors around the city switched over, including the Director of Education, who was formerly a gym teacher. He had a vision to recreate last year’s ‘fun run’ we organized (in which no one showed up) and wanted help from Greg, our friend and co-organizer Hajri, and me. Luckily all the work was done, with some minor photoshop tweaking of dates, we reprinted the posters and began promoting, forced to sit through another interview on local television. I’m nervous to speak in Shqip in front of people, especially recorded on television for my whole city! This was the third time Greg and I gave a public speech together (in Shqip). We tried to pretend we weren’t nervous as hell.

Organizers! Chris, Greg, Hajri, edhe une

The actual run was a smashing success! Every school was closed for the day so that the kids could participate, and some schools were even bused in from the villages. Runners started out along the national road followed the main road to the center of town, around the big Christmas tree. Outside the pharmacies a stage was set up with performers; circle-dancing ensued around the roundabout. I’ve never seen so many people out in the center at once, it was so fun!

Circle dancing in center of town.

Dancing on stage

I’m really happy to see this minor shift of public awareness embracing physical fitness. Usually exercising, especially in public, is viewed as turp, or shameful. In general, people don’t like to do anything strenuous, and only really fat people would logically need to. My first summer here I trained for the marathon and am still known throughout the south as the girl who runs, it’s so bizarre. This winter I started hiking from the lower stadium all the way up to the top of the mountain, which is similar to an elliptical machine, for 25-30 minutes. People used to gape at me open-mouthed, crazy girl! She’s sweating! Surely she’ll catch a cold and die! (My landlady absolutely throws a fit when I come home sweaty, insisting that I jump immediately into the shower before infection sets in)

Sponsored by the Olympic Committee

Top runners

However, I’ve noticed more and more groups of people out walking through the fields, hiking to the top of the mountain, and even running around the lake! Probably this has nothing to do with me, I just happened to live here while some wider awareness occurs. I’m simply the town’s cheerleader for physical activities. But in any case, it’s been fun to be part of the change.

View from the cafe perballe

To Delvine… By Foot!

noreply@blogger.com (Cjallo) — Mon, 03 May 2010 10:02:00 +0000

Uuaaa? Oh bo bo! [shake or slap head]

That’s the reaction I’ve gotten all day after telling Albanian friends and colleagues that Chris, Greg, and I hiked up over the mountains all the way to Delvine. It’s quite a trek—5 hours uphill (stopping once for a pushim i vogel, or ‘little break’), 2.5 hours across the peaks (plus our 40 minute lunch break) toward the radio towers, and 3 daunting hours downhill (by this time my legs were wobbly and wanted to stop!).

Finally at the top, destination: radio towers

We set off around 7:30 from our house on Sunday morning, heading up into the neighborhood of Dunovat, which is actually above the castle. The houses blend quite nicely into shepherd shacks with animals running around, hard to tell quite where the city ends. We followed a trail into the forests, an abruptly steep slope (steeper than Gjiro’s city streets? Ironic, I know) until finally the forest ended and we found ourselves in a daisy covered field, our first clear glimpse of the valley below.

Don't we look so happy and strong before setting off?

We continued on this path, a narrow trail probably worn away by decades or even centuries of çoban (shepherds) leading their flocks of sheep and goats. I love coming across shepherds in the mountains, or even throughout the city streets and villages, especially the ones who still dawn the traditional heavy woolen black coat. Çoban are almost always thrilled to chat with us, a strange day indeed that a foreigner would know their language, their smiles from ear to ear revealing gummy mouths with a few remaining black stumps of teeth. However, we saw not a soul on today’s journey, and luckily no wolves either.

Stone piles help guide cobanat to the next peak

One of the toughest parts of the hike was up near the snow, not because it was cold but just the sheer endurance needed to continue up the 75 degree slant for so long, it seemed every peak we finally arrived at revealed another, larger hill to climb. Chris let off some steam by sliding down some snowy banks; when we get it uploaded to YouTube I'll post a link!

Snowy patches

Eventually, (finally!!) we reached the top, which leveled out onto a somewhat horizontal road, I’m told this was originally a military road but I doubt a vehicle could ever have really traversed it. The three of us stopped for a picnic and rest on a ‘tender’ strip of grass, along a peak overlooking both the Lunxhёria valley behind us and the Ionian coast in front, with the Greek island of Corfu visible in the distance. We ate and relaxed for a good 40 minutes, Greg and I not entirely too eager to move past the moment of triumph. But push on we did, mostly sticking to the road, always with the towers as our goal.

Picnic time!

Sleepy boys take a pushim

Some hours later we reached the road descending from the towers into the town of Delvinё below, full of switchbacks. Walking downhill after such an already long journey can be more difficult. My quads grew tired and shaky by the very end, after 3 hours and 20 minutes supporting my body against each step. We passed through some unexpectedly, amazingly picturesque villages, with lush green gumdrop mountains always present in the background. These weren’t the menacing, intimidating mountains we usually face (and that we just climbed), but fuzzy-looking friendly hills, just for decoration.

Lunxheria mountain range down on the left, Corfu (not pictured) to the right

Two good friends of ours live in Delvinё, Monica and Alexi. Only Alexi was in town that night, and our now-foursome went out for pizza together. The guys and I were pretty pooped, so after some cards and conversation at Alexi’s apartment, we caught the 9:30 bus heading back toward Gjiro, arriving at 11 pm and making one last uphill journey back to our homes before falling into a deep and lengthy slumber…

Dita e Tokёs [Earth Day 2010]

noreply@blogger.com (Cjallo) — Mon, 03 May 2010 10:00:00 +0000

After returning from Spain we jumped right into spring projects, including several activities to promote Earth Day.

Edlira (the nurse I work with from the Directory of Public Health), Aida (leader of Gjirokastёr’s Red Cross, who also opened the Qender Sociale), and I gave environmental lessons in all the elementary schools, a feat that is more difficult than it sounds. In order to give lessons in schools we must first get a permission letter from the Director of Health, followed by a meeting with the Director of Education. From there, each school must be visited sometime in the morning between 8:30-10 am in order to catch the school’s director and ask for permission. Sometimes directors are hard to catch, as they are usually out drinking coffee. Once we get the go-ahead from them, we talk with the teachers to see which classes we can meet with and when to come. And then of course we have to come back to actually do the lessons, which sometimes get bumped or cancelled anyway. It’s something of a long process…

So anyway, our trio managed to get in to each school and do an activity with younger children. We played a game called the “Web of Life”, which teaches children about how elements of nature are connected and why we need to protect them in order to live. The kids form a circle, each representing an element of nature (river, animals, flowers, etc.), then pass a ball of yearn to other elements they are connected to (air to trees to birds to insects, etc.), eventually forming a web. I’m really proud of the women I work with because I can see them getting better, more confident and more professional each time.

Edlira with kids from Cajupi Elementary school

Throwing yarn balls for the Web of Life lesson at Urani Rrumbo

For older students, we presented my plastic bag power point and held discussion groups. Plastic bags are the bane of my existence, and, like in many newly developing countries, they are everywhere! During communism bags were not produced or imported to Albania, everyone used cloth bags. Once the gates opened up Albanians embraced qese plastike wholeheartedly, viewing them as very modern and efficient.

Aida and Edlira talking about plastic at Kota Hoxhi school

Unfortunately, waste management is scanty, and thus bags clog the rivers, roadsides, float across fields, and generally pollute every space imaginable. I’ve spent many hours here researching the effects of plastic on the environment and the efforts governments are making to combat this destruction. I can’t be sure, but it sounds like people are starting to wake up to the problem, and that it has become somewhat mainstream for Americans to bring their own bags to the grocery store. (I hope!!)

Aida presenting to a crowd of students at Urani Rrumbo

Chris did another set of Earth Day activities with Eva’s class, planting flowers in a nearby pocket park that has been long ignored. They also planted some of the flowers around the school. We went the day beforehand to talk to the kids about protecting the environment and made drawings of examples of simple ways they can help (planting flowers and trees, riding bikes instead of cars, and throwing trash into the can came up a lot).

Chris with kids from Eva's class, planting a flower garden

Planting a flower bed outside of Kota Hoxhi school

Other projects for the month include the Red Cross blood drive at the University. We went room to room to talk with students about the importance of donating blood and the possibility to save lives. Especially in central Albania, where there are extremely high numbers of people with Thalassemia, a genetic blood disorder requiring the infected person to get regular blood transfusions (very common in the Mediterranean). We got 36 students to donate, record numbers!

Giving blood is fun!

So yeah. Kemi pune. :)

Marrakesh with Amber and Sean

noreply@blogger.com (Cjallo) — Mon, 03 May 2010 09:55:00 +0000

Chris and I caught a 9 hour overnight bus to Marrakesh where we met up with Amber and Sean, friends from ASU. They are serving as PCVs in a village outside Ouarzazat, both health volunteers. Upon learning that they were invited to Morocco I think Chris and I were a little green with envy (we lobbied hard to go there), and though in many ways I’m much more taken with Morocco’s rich and vibrant culture, this trip allowed me to be genuinely happy for our friends while accepting that things worked out wonderfully for us all.

Couscous tagines and fresh yogurt are standard Friday afternoon fare

With Amber, posing outside an ancient tomb

One of many tombs among the city

I like how Morocco is noticeably “different” from the western world, with few European imports, holidays and religious festivals I’m unaccustomed to, inverted city structures wherein long buildings encompass luscious private courtyards, and an extreme desert climate has molded the rhythms of daily life. So Peace Corps, totally unlike anything back home. However, my experience in Albania has pleased me in many unexpected ways that are still hard to articulate. I’ve learned an incredible amount about Balkan life and history, an area of the world I had never given a single thought to. And we happened to be sandwiched in between Italian cuisine and Greek islands, both of which spill over the borders. Probably best of all are the unequivably gorgeous landscapes and mountains, prime hiking turf, coupled with paradisiacal Mediterranean beaches. Work challenges and cultural adjustments aside, who could complain?

Rosewater, lotions, henna, perfumes... they have it all

Formerly the slave selling market, now clothing and dried animal parts are on offer

One of many bread bakers, producing hundreds of fresh loaves each day

So anyway, we found ourselves in Kesh, wandering the central square if Djemaa el-Fna until Amber and Sean arrived. Together we checked into a super inexpensive hotel they knew of, accordingly at the end of a long twisting lane of other hotels. Sometimes I think PC should serve as a travel agent, make some cash on the side and fill in the gaps caused by endless budget cuts… Seriously. Dey gots da hook up.

Beautiful inner courtyard of Amber and Sean's hotel

Kesh is pretty much just a big plaza, relatively empty during the day, surrounded by pricey cafes, and full of tourists. At night all hell breaks loose; out come the fortune tellers, henna artists, endless rows of food stalls, snake charmers, monkeys on leashes, potion and trinket sellers, and various entertainers (some men belly dancing in drag for example)…

Vendors getting ready for the nightly rush

Charming snakes

Water seller of the desert, now a tourist icon

Women decorate themselves with beautiful henna designs

People play funny carnival-like games in the square

Endless rows of food stalls serve dinner every night

We spent the days wandering Kesh’s various suuqs that branch out from the main square, winding down streets and through various decorative arches. I’d call it the City of Arches (and thus Fes would have been the City of Doors). Is this a sign I’ve become Albanian? After all, I come from the City of Stone (Gjiro) which is sandwiched between the City of Steps (Sarande) and the City of Windows (Berat)….

strolling through a covered souk

Streets are broken up by old arches

Olives of many varieties and colors for sale in the souk

It feels weird to step out of my Peace Corps role and become a simple tourist, snapping pictures, posing in front of foreign signs and buildings, sampling various “strange” foods (like snail soup). Luckily, Amber and Sean wowed people with their Tashlheit language skills, instantly transforming them from disinterested workers to the friendly and generous people they actually are. Most tourists are assumed to speak French so Moroccans are delighted beyond belief to meet someone speaking their own Berber dialect. That’s one of the most rewarding things about serving as a PC volunteer- crossing behind the cultural curtain and communicating with locals on an entirely different level.

Kids wait near the entrance to Ben Youssef Medrassa

Walking the narrow alleys with Amber and Sean

As expected, Moroccan food is downright delicious. In the mornings we ordered fresh squeezed orange juice (DH 3) from one of the dozens of stalls in the square, at lunch Amber and Sean haggled for our tagines of couscous and vegetables/chicken (DH 15), at night we ate bowls of harira (DH10), a tomato based garbanzo bean soup. Another delicacy A&S introduced us to is “fat bread”. Yes, that’s a flour tortilla cooked with onions, spices, and lard in the dough! Easy to spot because of the reddish color, an alternative to the normal riifa (pancake/crepe) smothered in honey. Sadly, we missed out on the pastille, a savory pie usually made of pigeon. Next time, perhaps.

Moroccan escarole soup

So gross we had to try it...!

Snail seller, cup-o-soup DH 3

Stall #49 is serves the best OJ

We learned that the best place to spend a hot afternoon is over at the nearby Cyber Park, where packs of teenagers come to hang out and take turns using the free internet kiosks set around. There are plenty of shady areas to sit for a picnic, as well as a fountain in the center, near an indoor cyber café.

Dried herbs and skins at the Animal Souk

Amber and Sean left early in the morning of our final day, so Chris and I wandered out to a few more tourist sites on our own. We hit up the Saadian Tombs and a few mosques, bought some dates and couscous to bring home and share with our Albanian friends who have never tried them, and wandered to the upper deck of a crowded cafe to take in the view, before settling in shoulder-to-shoulder with Moroccan families for a dinner at the stalls. Our stall served plates of fried fish/calamari, frites (have yet to visit a country that doesn’t serve fried potatoes…), and a smooth dip of grilled eggplant.

Bab Agnaou (Gate of the Gnaoua) is home for enormous storks!

Inside the Saadian tombs, resting place for about 60 corpses of the 15th century Saadi Dynasty

Chaos of the square, seen from Balcony Cafe (clever name huh?)

Midnight egg vendors after my own heart!

Dates and dries fruits are readily available... so tempting!

Our flight left Marrakesh mid morning, heading to Malaga, Spain. We arranged to couchsurf there with a German/Canary Islander, an art student studying in the nearby university. Our hostess, Katarina, was extremely welcoming, though we didn’t get to hang out much beyond the nighttime at her apartment since she was in school all day. She taught us a lot about life and living in the Canary Islands, and shared books of her artwork.

Malaga is a surprisingly pleasant port city, with many lush parks and palm-lined streets, lively shopping boulevards, and a beautiful castle on the hill overlooking the city. We hiked the switchbacks up to the castle and adjacent parador, pausing for a sunset view of the city’s port, bullfighting arena, parks and boulevards, before descending down the backside along with a few couples on mountain bikes.

View of Malaga city from the castle

Unfortunately, we arrived at the airport the next day to learn that our flights home had been changed to an earlier departure, and we had missed it. The counter attendants weren’t rude, but gave us the ‘that sucks’ shrug, and shooed us away.

After an hour of panicked phone calls to the United call center, who told us they couldn’t help and that we’d need to buy new tickets, mixed with several bouts of pleading at the SpanAir counter, they finally took mercy on us and rebooked our seats for the next day. Not wanting to show up again at Katarina’s door after such a nice goodbye, we decided to sleep in the airport.

Probably one of the Top 10 most uncomfortable airport sleeps I’ve ever had—no chairs or benches, so we sprawled out on the cold tile, under blaring lights and with warnings belting out every 3 minutes on the loudspeakers. Dawn finally came, so we washed up in the bathrooms, boarded our 10 am flight to Madrid, grabbed our box from the locked luggage deposit, and continued through Munich back to Tiranё. Home at last! Almost. Our plane landed at 1:30 am, so we had the pleasure of another airport sleep, though the Rinas airport has plush chairs to lie across. Take that western Europe! Another disheveled awakening, and soon enough we were on the bus back to Skanderbeg Square, followed by the 6.5 hour ride down to Gjirokastёr… I think running the Athens marathon was less exhausting.

Fès 101

noreply@blogger.com (Cjallo) — Mon, 03 May 2010 09:50:00 +0000

From Spain Chris and I caught a Ryan Air flight across the channel to Morocco, for a whopping 5 euros each! Upon landing, we immediately caught a bus to the train station, then shared a taxi to the Medina. I detest taxis. What a waste of gas! They’ve monopolized the transportation system here in Fès, an army of tiny red cars, but at least the majority of the drivers aren’t trying to rip off tourists.

Bab Bou Jeloud, the main entrance into the Medina

We found ourselves at the gates of Fès’ Medina, properly called Fès el-Bali, in the height of the dinner rush, pushing past the bustling street stalls and restaurants, each packed with patio diners. With the slightly unwelcomed “help” from a young boy, Muhammad, we found a cheap hotel just along one of the walled city’s two main roads, up a winding staircase and in the back of a narrow strip of rooms. Oddly enough, our double room was set back behind a single room, meaning that we could lock our door, but the person in the front room could also lock us out. On the plus side, our room had a window.

Chris outside one of many decorative doorways

Families hang around city fountains, a cool place to rest and rehydrate

We spent our days in Fès wandering the labyrinth of winding alleyways, peeking into forbidden mosques, admiring the once-grandiose city block sized palaces, and recreating the cultural and architectural history of the country. Patjeter, Chris filled his sketchbook while I distractedly snapped photos, anxiously attempting to discretely capture people.

Men and women can often be seen wearing the traditional djellaba

Admiring the restored splendor of the Mokri Palace

Of course, we made routine trips through the markets, ogling wooden stalls piled high with fresh fruits and vegetables, sacks of dried grains/ macaronis/ couscous, and a plethora of various dates. For whatever reason, the word for date in Shqip is Arabian persimmon, don’t ask me why. I sampled, haggled for, and savored a tiny baggie of dates each day. We also splurged on strawberries and avocados, something we do not have access to in Shqiperia, and found they go surprisingly well together in between layers of a fresh, hot pita.

Bountiful green beans piled high in the markets

Fresh guava for sale! We dyed our teeth and mouths a scarlet red while munching away on them...

Loaves of pita bread are sold just about every 10 feet

Fowl run wild in the meat markets

One of the prominent palaces we stopped by is Palais Mnebhi, an early 20th century residence of the King’s defense minister. Now fully restored as a café/restaurant, tourists typically stop in for a drink and to admire the opulent décor. We milked our sweet mint teas as long as possible while trying to absorb the kaleidoscope of colored tiles covering every square inch of space from floor to ceiling.

Dizzying interior, but nice place to pretend you are royalty

Super sweet mint tea-- not for the die-hard tea connoisseurs, but if you have a sweet tooth its a good fix

Beautiful tilework, similar to what we saw in Spain

Fès’ high-walled, narrow streets inside the Medina are mainly filled with shops, mostly for tourists. Its outer rings are packed full of workshops, crowded and busy rooms where locals construct the merchandise; metal smiths pattering away at lanterns, inlaid mirrors, and kitchenware, etc., leatherworkers cutting and sewing the popular slippers, and woodworkers carving intricate lattices and doors. Of course there were cheap Chinese imports mixed in, but a refreshingly high percentage of goods were being made right there, by real people, in full view.

Men would never be caught sewing in Shqiperia!

Goods are transported through the narrow alleyways via donkey or horse

And the rugs! Can’t forget to mention the enormous rug shops, mostly former palaces, that are now dripping with elaborately designed Berber and Moroccan carpets. At every street corner there are men and boys insisting that you come in “only to look, not to buy”. Chris and I conceded to enter a few of them, mainly to get to the rooftop view of the city, but made it very clear we would not be leaving rug-in-toe. Except once, when we wanted the schmoozing, tea-drinking experience, and almost accidentally dropped 150 euros on a Berber-motif fire-proof cactus carpet. Ouch!

Fireproof carpets would make for an excellent hookah lounge...

Alleys dripping with carpets

One of the unique things about Morocco is that non-Muslims are strictly forbidden from entering the mosques. Perhaps that’s a common rule across the Middle East, I’ve simply never encountered it before. My experiences with Islamic countries have been limited to Turkey, Malaysia, Kenya, and certain parts of the US, all of which have welcomed me inside to observe and sometimes take part in the rituals. It’s a compromise—they tolerate my presence as long as I cover my head and momentarily pretend to not be Kafir.

Rushing for the call to prayer at Kairaouine Mosque

C’est la vie! Moroccan mosques will remain a mystery to us. While a little insulted for being banned based on my Anglo origins, I respect them for preserving the masjid as sacred spaces. The way the ancient Medina is set up doesn’t allow for open park space, so the inner sanctions of the mosques also serve as a relaxing family place, free from hassles. I’m cool with that.

This should be the cover for the next Morocco Lonely Planet

Fès has many souks scattered throughout the Medina. These clusters of stalls, shops, or sometimes funduqs (former caravansaries) can specialize in almost anything. In the mood for some henna, powders, and perfumes? Make your way to the Henna Souk. Or do you fancy smen (rancid butter), khlia (preserved meat) and honey? We found plenty at Funduq Kaat Smen.

Shopping inside Derb Fez El-Jdid, one of the many souks

Women buying powders in the Henna Souk

Former caravansaries are now spaces to store supplies

Chicks for sale! Red, blue, pink anyone?

Another iconic spot in Fès is the Chouwara Tannery. Men are constantly rushing through the alleys with armloads of sheep skins, en route to be dyed, or taken post-bath to the shoe makers. Compelled by our mini guidebook, we decided to at least take a peek. What is all the fuss over? We wandered down a long string of alleys, trying our best to lose the young men who insisted on "leading" us down the street, however, upon arrival I could hardly bear the smell more than a few nauseating moments. We ducked inside the tannery compound, I took a quick photo of the dying vats, then hurriedly about-faced in a rush to get away.

Dyeing vats inside the odoriferous Chouwara Tannery

The leather eventually becomes lovely slippers

Somewhere in the mess of souks and workshops sits Seffarine Square, a large open courtyard crowded with coppersmiths and their shops. We sat on the edge, watching endless streams of passersby and listening to the constant clunk clunk clunk of the men pounding away at their metal bowls. For awhile I convinced myself that the harmonized tappings were all a show, but then after a long time finalized kettles and pots emerged, and, without skipping a beat, the men continued on with the next bowl.

Small break from tedious work in the coppersmiths' courtyard

Nearby the coppersmiths is Nejjarine Square. At the edge sits one of the city’s many beautifully tiled fountains, where locals come to draw water and wash before entering the mosques. The square’s main building is the Nejjarine Wood Museum, an 18th century funduk that has been restored to display the history and culture of woodworking in Morocco. Chris and I wandered the 3 floors, in and out of the exhibition rooms full of wood products, then took a look out at the city from the rooftop terrace.

Somewhat Escher-like interiors of the Nejjarine Wood Museum

Venturing outside the Medina, we visited the Dar Batha Museum. Once a summer palace for Sultan Abdelaziz, it consists of two buildings connected by a lengthy Andalusian garden and courtyard, with a riyad (inn) for housing and entertaining important guests. The gardens are lush with plants from around the world, a bonafied melting pot of fit for a King (and it was). I suppose the museum rooms full of artifacts are the main attraction, but Chris and I were more taken by the cool garden oasis.

Strolling around the gardens of the Dar Batha Museum

Chris and I ended up couchsurfing for our last nights, staying in a spacious apartment with a Math teacher from North Carolina. Our host, Ethan, engaged with us in long conversations about life as an expat in Morocco (not entirely unlike life as an expat in Albania as far as work frustrations and concepts of time). He also taught us quite a bit about the country’s historical/political situation involving the Western Sahara, which had only recently come to my attention with the activist Aminatou Haidar’s hunger strike. Ethan introduced us to some traditional tajines,typically consisting of couscous and vegetables, and tipped us off on the 3 dirham avocado milkshake stand. If I was on Twitter I would definitely spam my followers with endless messages like I *heart* CSing and Flight: 55 Dh, Avo shake: 3 Dh, Conversation and insight from a local: priceless!

Next stop: Marrakesh!

Toledo!

noreply@blogger.com (Cjallo) — Mon, 03 May 2010 09:20:00 +0000

Early Easter morning we packed up the car once again and headed back north, one last night, this time Toledo. Tom and Arlene had a room booked in the Hilton and Chris and I deviously snuck in. The hotel was outrageously decadent: extra beds and couch (why? For others to sneak in of course), the bathroom’s shower, bathtub, and toilet all separated by sliding frosted-glass doors, the downstairs lobby easily suitable for both a fancy wedding reception and royal ballroom…

We spent the afternoon wandering Toledo’s narrow, winding streets, which are encapsulated behind lofty, ancient walls. At the city’s front gate, Puerta Bisagra, sits the tower and megalithic bridge with a proper moat still flowing underneath. I wonder about the evolution of city planning; so many centuries focused on methods to defend and isolate against merciless invaders, now resolved to modern issues like waste management, business districts, and green spaces, etc.

Puerta Bisagra, entrance to Toledo's Old City

Tom and Arlene savoring the views and the sunshine...

Marzipan, one of Toledo’s culinary traditions, is produced in mass and sold throughout the city (and duty free, in case you missed your many chances). Some shop windows even displayed large almond-goo cathedrals, while others exhibited miniature nuns baking breads and sweets (part of a nun-run café). Chris and I sampled various goodies with Arlene-- glad someone else shares my sweet tooth! However, I must admit, once again Mexican cuisine tops its predecessor, as I remember sampling fruit-shaped marzipan in the Yucatan with Chris that were far superior.

Creepy nun dolls slave away, baking sweets and bread...

Yes that's a giant almond-sugar tribute to the Cathedral, complete with Inquisition marchers!

Team Hassler went inside the city’s giant cathedral, an enormous gothic structure replacing a 16th cathedral that replaced a 6th century mosque that replaced a 1st century cathedral… I meandered around the nearby tangle of streets, hunting for good photos. Eventually, we regrouped and trotted around awhile before deciding on a restaurant serving paella, charging an outrageous $15 per plate. Who spends 15 bucks on rice? Hungry tourists I guess. Luckily, the overpriced entrees in Spain are usually offset by free tapas with drink purchase, so we discovered later that the best way to dine is to really just order a beer or whatever and happily accept the free sandwich it comes with.

Our one and only paella experience-- it was tasty!

Team Hassler in front of Toledo's Gothic Cathedral

Chris and I woke early the next morning to take advantage of the fitness center (gotta work off all that paella, right?) then hit the town to explore once again. Amazing how “fun” a sterile gym and BBC news (TV in English?!) can be after 2 years… Our schedule left a few hours to return to the bridge, lose ourselves among the city labyrinth, and grab a quick lunch before zipping off for the airport. Arlene and I ate at an outdoor café, savoring delicious mushroom-asparagus-fava omelet and one final bowl of gazpacho.

Stopping for our final meal before hitting the road

Once again we strategically packed our bags and boxes, playing the reshuffling game so that each box weighed less than the allotted 22 kilos, and what else can Tom and Arlene cram in to their carry-ons? Oh and Tom can you wear Chris’ jacket over the 2 you’ve already brought?

Chris and Tom trailing behind us through Toledo's narrow streets

After a tense highway drive to the aeropuerto, Tom and Arlene dropped us at RyanAir’s terminal so that we could hurriedly check in for our flight to Morocco. Yeah Morocco! We locked a box of bike supplies in a nearby storage unit, said our goodbyes, and boarded the teensy weensy jetliner. Somehow Chris scored our tickets for 5 euros each, how could we not take advantage? Kizmet I tell you, but they would say Inshallah…

Holy Week, Cordoba

noreply@blogger.com (Cjallo) — Fri, 30 Apr 2010 10:33:00 +0000

Arlene and her Spanish counterpart, Paqi, booked us rooms in the Hotel Boston, where the Hassler family stayed several years ago. This time Tom and Arlene would have the front room, overlooking the central plaza, where the parade routes converge and the city hot-shots sit to watch. The square was almost constantly full people, tourists and locals, drinking cappuccinos and people-watching; at night a few more thousand folks flooded in, perhaps because the rest of the parade route was already overflowing with families.

Morning cappuccinos in the square

An astonishing number of mothers with prams were present, which caught my attention because of the absurdity of bringing such a large and cumbersome device to an event this crowded (seriously? Would you walk around a football stadium with a hoola hoop around your waist? Freaking annoying). Also, I thought new parents switched to the baby backpack thing, which frees your hands and eliminates sidewalk hassles? I guess not. Prams: they’re back, make note of it.

Who wants to drag a stroller through this crowd??

Only room for Jesus on these streets

On the topic of Holy Week processions, I was kind of indifferent to seeing it. I thought, well ok it’s so famous it might be fun to see, but then they wear these KKK costumes and I absolutely abhor Catholicism, so…. However I kept myself happily entertained the entire time, taking photos and practicing with my new lens. [Yeah new lens! Sigma 70-200 Macro Zoom!!] It seems like local people are dedicated to keeping this tradition, but that in general there are fewer devotees rushing to the floats and prostrating/kissing the icons like they did even a few years ago. Also, most of the balconies were empty, a shame because they really have the best views.

Imagining the Inquisition....

Float bearers sizing each other up

Cordoba has several famous buildings, including the Alcazar and the Mezquita/Cathedral, both grandiose Moorish structures. Outside the Alcazar is a simple park packed full of palm trees, giving the allusion of an oasis, where one of the parade route starts and horse-drawn carriages await tourist to fork out 40 euro for a city loop.

Children collect balls of wax outside the Alcazar

Behind the Alcazar there are immaculately landscaped gardens, fountains and pools, where men snap pictures of their wives and children and families rest under the shade of nearby trees. By this point in the trip I had fallen in love with Moroccan/Spanish elegance—the tiles, flower-filled courtyards, paradisiacal gardens…

View of gardens from the Alcazar tower

That's me in the gardens!

I think I can appreciate Mexican architecture a bit more (certainly their food! Where’s the spice??), but I’d like to see more of the cultural chain upwind, to learn about what influenced Morocco (must trace back to the Umayyad Caliphate at least). Maybe we’ll swing through Damascus on our soon-to-depart bike voyage…?

Typical Spanish courtyard, I hope to someday return for the Cordoba Patios Festival when the courtyards become a public artwalk...!

By far the funniest picture of Team Hassler (inside the Alcazar)

About to tuck in to some delicious Andalusian soups, gazpacho (cold tomato) and ajoblanco (white almond), but enjoying mugs of sangria for now...

The enormous and uniquely designed Mezquita/Cathedral remains in the heart of the city, surrounded by a maze of narrow alleyways, restaurants and trinket-filled shops. Inside the Mezquita (The Great Mosque) is full of dizzying rows of red and white stripped arches, an entirely unique décor from the Islamic world.

Time-worn arches...

Juxtaposing Islamic and Christian decor

After the Umayyads fell from power in and around Cordoba (circa 11 century), the mosque was converted to a cathedral, so that both faiths can be seen to juxtapose against one another at every turn. Oddly enough, we arrived late in the afternoon and were barred entrance because of a “leetel problem” (as told by one of several police officers arriving suddenly); the next day we learned that a large group of Muslims organized a massive prayer group inside the mosque, but I don’t think they got to see it through.

The Mezquita/Cathedral is enormous... and apparently heavily guarded

One of the inspirations to visit Spain was to meet up with Arlene’s good friends, Enrique and Paqi, and their daughter, Maria. They have been friends for many years, but it’s been years since the Hasslers have gone to visit (maybe even since the last time they took the boys to celebrate Holy Week). They welcomed us to their home and served us delicious homemade Spanish foods like tortillas (actually a potato omelet) and sangria (sold in bottles, like Coke and Fanta!).

I'm amazed Americans can fit through Spanish doorways

Easter picnic with Enrique, Paqi, Maria, and Raul

We met them for several meals, including a picnic, dinner near the Alcazar, a seafood lunch, and for a trip to the archeological park outside of Cordoba, palace of the once-thriving Umayyad Caliphate. The remains are only ruins, but the museum is full of interactive digital TVs that illustrate maps of the history of the Islamic Empire in Spain, how the palace was built, and recreations of what it looked like centuries ago.

Once the setting for the Umayyad Caliphate of Cordoba, Medina Azahara

Tom and Chris among the moorish ruins of Medina Azahara, outside Corboda

Each night leading up to Easter Cordoba’s streets flood with people; families, tourists, float-bearers, band members, costumed marchers from the parish, etc. Maria’s boyfriend, Raul, told us that each neighborhood’s church is assigned a time slot where they can parade their float through the crowd, all ending up at the central square. Chris and I spent the evenings wandering, photographing and sketching, and sometimes indulging in mint chocolate ice cream cones while drinking in the scenes.

Night time view from Tom and Arlene's room

Viaje a España!

noreply@blogger.com (Cjallo) — Thu, 29 Apr 2010 10:56:00 +0000

After 6 hours of sporadic bits of sleep, our bus rolled in to Sheshi Skanderbej at 4 in the morning, before the sun and people crept out of their slumber. Chris and I sat with our backpacks and boxes in a nearby café, nursing overpriced tea, to keep warm and try to pass the time before our 11 am departure flight. As I stood later in the Rines Airport I realized that the first and last time I had been inside there was when we landed in Albania, almost exactly 2 years to the day before. How much my view has changed! Albania is my home now, so comfortable and well-known to me; it strikes an emotion I could never have imagined as an incoming volunteer…

Our tiny jet plane touched down for a few hours layover in Munich which, awesomely, is well stocked with free tea and coffee kiosks alongside English newspapers. Thank you Lufthansa! To pass the time Chris indulged in a hearty German beer, braut, and salty pretzel— a mere sampling of staples from a country we could only see through the window.

Next time you're in Munich... look for these!

Take my picture so I can drink already!

Next stop—Madrid! Arlene and Tom were waiting, camera in tow, to meet us in the arrivals terminal late that night. Tom and Chris methodically stuffed our boxes into the rental car and took off for a 2 hour drive to Segovia, arriving at the dead of night, and checked into a hotel overlooking the ancient and enormous Roman aqueduct.

Midnight arrival= distinct atmosphere

We had swerved off the highway for a minor detour in La Mancha (memorialized in Don Quixote), where a row of now-motionless windmills hover silently on a hill, jutting out of a wide valley plane. There’s a castle nearby, but it paled in comparison to the giant white structures and the harvest moon rising above the horizon…

Don Quixote windmills of La Mancha

Windsurfing, literally

Moonrise over La Mancha

In the hotel, Tom and Arlene managed to score the honeymoon suite, and generously shared their complementary fruit platter (skewered in refined wooden sticks, packed on styrofoam, and wrapped in cellophane… ack! excuse the cynicism, I will try to refrain… ) as we excitedly chattered about our flights and caught up on the last few months of each other’s lives.

View from Arlene and Tom's hotelroom

Segovia's Roman Aqueduct, over 2000 years later and it still works!

In the morning we drew back our curtains for a front row view of the aqueduct over the plaza, already teeming with people. We spent the day exploring the town, mostly wandering the Old Quarter roads that lead up to the castle. Supposedly, Segovia’s castle is the inspiration for Disney’s Cinderella castle. It looks so much like the cartoon version that it’s almost comical to me; I subconsciously expected fairy dust to start sprinkling from the sky any moment…

Segovia's Disney castle

Looking back at Segovia from the castle towers

Thank goodness Arlene speaks Spanish. Tom, Chris, and I were handicapped as a bunch of foreign shmucks almost completely at the mercy of the intermittent server with whom we could relay our questions or desires. Arlene patiently translated every menu and conversation for us. After the castle excursion, we stopped for lunch at a popular restaurant offering special cuisine from the once-thriving Jewish community. Our first official Spanish meal practically punched us in the face with the truth of tapas portions and gourmet ingredients. Also that when you order suckling piglet (cochinillo asado), as Chris did, you will actually be served a baby pig chopped in half and roasted. I got lucky with the stuffed eggplant. :)

Team Hassler in front of the Aqueduct

That evening we moved to Jaen, a somewhat off-the-radar city in a good location between Granada and Cordoba. Next morning we drove to Granada, a bustling tourist destination and home of Al-Hambra, the famous palace of the Moorish royalty. The palace grounds are full of elaborately decorated buildings and gardens to wander, amazingly carved and tiled walls, fountains and pools.

Patio de los Arrayanes inside Al-Hambra

El Partal

After a full day of exploring, digitally capturing everything I possibly could, and occasionally basking in the sunshine, we piled into the car and headed back to Jaen for a midnight dinner at a bustling seafood restaurant, well known for their giant steamed shrimp (or were they miniature lobsters?). We would see a lot of seafood in Spain.

Al-Hambra's decor, teeming with intricate carvings and colorful tilework

Gardens inside the Palacio de Generalife, summer palace of the Emirate of Granada

After a morning stop at Jaen’s castle and drinks in the elaborately restored parador café, our troupe crossed Spain’s southern half to Cordoba, through an endless expanse of olive groves-- did you know more than 10% of the world’s olive oil is produced in Spain?? It’s a pretty remarkable landscape, however impossible to really capture from a moving car window. :)

Morning fuel at the parador

Inside Jaen's parador (state hotel)

Out on a ledge, peeking at Jaen and endless olive groves...

Fest i Vogel in Thane, and COS

noreply@blogger.com (Cjallo) — Mon, 01 Mar 2010 12:48:00 +0000

On our way to COS, Chris and I stopped in Cerrik for a few nights with our host family, the Cepa’s. The timing happened to fall near Chris’ birthday, so they planned a little dinner party and once again we got treated to a delicious feast and endless “Gezuars!” with our gjyshja and babi. And our gjyshja’s sister too!

Cepa's + 2. We fit right in.

The first night was actually quite slow; we sat around with everyone except for Babi, who was on a late night trip back from korce, where he drives a furgon each day. He didn’t come home until 2:30 am. The only excitement came when our aunt and uncle rushed their son to the hospital, worried because he began throwing up. He had been hit in the stomach by a football earlier in the day, so they figured perhaps he ruptured an organ or something. Turns out he had gotten food poisoning from a hamburger. But that sudden fright spoiled the mood of the night, we decided to celebrate Chris’ b-day the following night, and ate a quiet dinner with Mami, the girls, and Serxhio.

Chris and I took a walk to our nearby training town of Cerrik the next day, literally strolling down Memory Lane. It’s still a muddy journey to a crumbling town, a little depressing to be honest. Although I think that had to do with the gloomy weather. Chris got a shave at his favorite barber, then we sat for a coffee at Friends and watched the townsfolk pass by. We tried in vain to find our old friend’s house, but his neighbors didn’t know who we were searching for. I think he took off for Greece…

Mami also re-taught me how to roll out the paper-thin layers of dough necessary to bake byrek. I’d judge her byrek as by far the best in Albania, but I’m probably a little biased. It’s quite labor-intensive (thank goodness we can simply *buy* phyllo dough!) and can range from pak vaj to very oily! My favorite is byrek with egg and tomato, or the tried-and-true spinach. (Think: spanikopita)

Learning from the best. Expect lots of byrek from me at future pot-lucks....!

So in the evening we stuffed ourselves with fshatar specialties, followed by a truly Albanian style birthday cake. I think this picture sums up the event:

Gezuar Ditelinja per Ti!

When we say Dig in! We really do mean it....

That's our gjyshja, Gezuar-ing to Chris with a glass of homemade raki

Next morning we packed up our bags and headed out toward the “highway”. We got stuck for awhile in the pouring rain and hail, eventually catching a north-bound bus to COS.

*C O S*

That’s Close of Service, our last Peace Corps sponsored conference for Albania’s G11 volunteers. The conference was held in Plepa, a small seaside town outside the larger city of Durres, and inside a hotel resort modeled after Club Med. High walls and low-key guards surround the compound, with manicured lawns full of creepy metal playground equipment, an enormous pool and gazebo, a nearby stretch of beach… February is not the time of year to be there—icy wind tossed the waves into an army of whiteheads—but it was a kind gesture on the part of PC staff to give us a pleasing and comfortable location.

Birthday boy! Can't say he's not loved...!

Unlike many volunteers, I really enjoy conferences—a chance to get together with friends I haven’t seen in months, free communal meals, comfortably warm rooms and showers—but this one was probably the best. The sessions were short and fun, mostly focusing on PC check-out logistics and sharing plans for what people will do once they leave. Lots of reminiscing: a slideshow of photos from throughout the service, a photo contest (I didn’t submit and was kicking myself afterward), one cribs video (from Becca in Peshkopi, link on her blog site), a comedic How-to-Readjust video from a former volunteer, and a debut of a Thanksgiving horror film we made in November. We’re very media-friendly.

Some volunteers also helped arranged fun activities, like the COS Olypic Games. Contests included Raki-Tasting, Fshatar Salad Assembling, Xhiro (as well as best Onlooking-Cuni Impersonators), Seed Spitting, Lighting-a-Candle-in-the-Dark Race, and Blind Texting.

Those with strong stomachs sampled various flavors of raki...

Amy showing off her refined salad-making skills

I failed miserably at Blind Texting...

Struggling to find AND light the candles.. while blindfolded

Chris competed in the Seed Spitting Competition

A crowd of rowdy onlookers waits for groups of xhiro-ing girls

It felt pretty surreal to say goodbye when we still have a few months of service left. Chris and I are staying through the end of July, so we can hardly think about leaving now, but some people take off as soon as mid May. I’m not looking forward to this silent emptying of volunteers. We’ll have a few more parties before then (birthdays, beach camping, perhaps even a train ride) but I know eventually my friends will one by one disappear from their sites, their phones no longer sending and receiving texts.

Sa bukur jemi! Two years in Shqiperi, look at us now!

I was having separation anxiety a few months ago—already nostalgic for life in Albania and missing some of the truly fabulous people I have met here. We’re like family! One night I dreamt that I was in a ginormous American grocery store and I felt compelled to make a persimmon pie, but couldn’t find fresh fruit anywhere. I suddenly, desperately needed to find a market—my market—but something was prohibiting me from returning to Albania. I kept yelling I want to go home! I have to go home! and someone was explaining that I could never go back. I woke up completely depressed and anxious.

I’ve since gotten over that.

It comes in waves—some days I’m totally nostalgic, trying to soak up as much as possible the commonplace scenes, oddities, people, and lifestyle of Shqiperia. Other times, I look at a situation and think, well whatever, I’m leaving this behind. I think I’ve jumped a wall where I no longer feel the need to acclimate and consciously accept things; I just do. That’s the way it is. I guess that’s how life as a PCV is…

Our final group dinner goodbye, pizza and wine at a beach-side restaurant. Gezuar G11!

GM Cleanse anyone?

noreply@blogger.com (Cjallo) — Fri, 26 Feb 2010 22:12:00 +0000

The week, following doctor’s orders not to move, stretch, exercise, or sweat, lest the stitches will rip or infection could set in, Monica and I decided to try out the GM cleanse one of the MAC PCVs raved about. Supposedly, (pause, nod) supposedly GM commissioned the FDA in the 1970’s to research a diet to recommend to their employees in order to improve their quality of life and performance. Supposedly it’s based on some long-used Indian ideology. [That’s what I’m told, but it must be a lie because days 5 and 6 of the cleanse you are instructed to eat nothing but hamburgers and tomatoes, something I bet they would never dream up in India.]

I’ve never done a cleanse, or fasted before, though have heard from numerous people how good it is to clear out your body and start fresh, so I’m intrigued. I don’t think real fasting (or any of these wack lemon-juice-with-cayenne-pepper binges) would work with me—I get super grumpy when I’m hungry. But a cleanse that allows as many fruits and vegetables as I want doesn’t seem hard. And it wasn’t! The first few days are fruits or vegetables, or both, which I really enjoyed and wasn’t hungry. The only downside is that for the moment, our winter supply is limited, so the only fruits available are mandarins, oranges, kiwis, and hit-or-miss mealy apples. Which don’t really satiate. It got a little tough by days 5 and 6 (a vegetarian version of the fast calls for 1 cup rice with tomatoes, hardly the equivalent of 5 quarter-pounders), though I was really getting clever at baking fruits and broiling vegetables. [Try it! Pop some salted spinach or leeks into the oven on high and they are almost like chips!]

Meghan and Alexi just after the candles

The last days were especially rough because I went to Delvine for the weekend to celebrate Alexi and Meghan’s birthdays. Monica threw a proper party, cooking up delicious cheese enchiladas, Alexi made a chocolate rocky road cake, Lauren baked cookies, and afterward Mon made a cheesecake. Torture! We couldn’t have anything but some of the rice and beans, and everything looked and smelled so enticing. We still had a great time, though the rainy weather crashed our plans to play games outdoors and smash a piñata. We mostly sat around talking, then walked around town [not far-- “town” in Albania means perhaps 3 streets] and watched some movies. Alexi performed minor surgery on Monica’s back by removing her stitches, but couldn’t take mine out because as it turned out the skin had grown over them. :) Alexi is really our jack-of-all trades. She studied graphic arts but surprises me all the time with her random medical knowledge and wide range of skills.

Group walk in the park--- working off all that chocolate cake!

Allan and I headed back over the mountain pass to Gjirokastёr on Sunday afternoon, caught off guard by the overnight snowfall. Up in the mountains it’s understandable, but I was startled when the snowing didn’t let up, even as we pulled into the lower city. I hiked up the slippery streets as medium-sized chunks of ice drifted down overhead, and hurried indoors to find Chris working next to the heater. We spent the afternoon there together, Valentine’s Day!, reading and writing, just staying cozy. In the evening we decided to bear the cold for a night out to dinner, our favorite pizza place just down the hill. Actually, we shared this ‘romantic’ evening with our sitemate, Greg, followed by a failed attempt to find dessert (the entire town and all the shops it seemed were closed, undoubtedly people were taking cover at home) after which we instead found ourselves at a quiet café.

Group shot 'downtown Delvine'
Left to right: Courtney, Meghan, Monica, Allan, Alexi, Lauren, and Ben

So all in all, a funny and unconventional week. Oh yes I forgot to mention that we had two separate couchsurfers come stay with us—one biker from France and Greek university student from Corfu. They had to put up with our silly, cold house and my insistence on this strange cleanse. I did learn two productive things from the GM experience though; one, that after a week of super fibrous foods and little to no fat, refined carbs, dairy, or protein, my body didn’t feel any “cleaner”, more like “weaker”. And two, I feel really crappy when I don’t eat protein, without energy and depressed. As a vegetarian I am skilled at creating protein-rich meals, with vegetables as an essential ingredient, so I’ll stick with that, thank you.

Medevac to Macedonia

noreply@blogger.com (Cjallo) — Thu, 25 Feb 2010 21:51:00 +0000

Two weeks ago I hopped on a furgon heading up to Elbasan, glad to escape my chilly, dreary town. OK, now I love Gjirokastёr—such a charming, historic place with erratic cobblestoned streets, aging stone houses (hoping to be restored, but alas so many have crumbled from neglect and harsh winters already), and steep hills offering majestic views of the valley below. And of course the castle! Ours is the second largest in the Balkans, built sometime in the 14th and 15th centuries (on top of more ancient foundations) and expanded by the local oligarch, Ali Pasha, in the 1800’s. It serves as a towering backdrop to the city, all at once overbearing and yet sometimes I’m surprised that it can become invisible to me. Well, in the summer of course the town is flourishing; grape vines dripping globules of black sugar across front yards and side streets, tourists meandering the Pazar and museums of the Old Town, sporadic folk concerts blaring through the night…

However, in the winter, frigid wind and pouring rain (and snow! Valentine’s Day brought large chunks of falling ice!) dominate every moment of my thoughts. My house is like a refrigerator, I spend torturous moments crawling into frosty clothes and waiting for my body to adjust to the inner temperature of my sleeping bag. Work is also very slow in the midst of such weather. No one (including me) really wants to get out and tackle projects, and anyways on very cold or rainy days the schools close early due to lack of heating, so our lessons seem forever postponed. My coworkers and I huddle near the heaters, our minds numb, and count down the minutes until they can rush home to their wooden stoves and I trudge wearily home. For several days a week I began going to my neighbor (Athina)’s house under the pretense that I would help her daughter practice English. 95% of the time we simply sit around talking in Shqip, always with a feast of fruits and figs and walnuts (our favorite, dubbed “Viagra” because they give you energy) laid out, and I often bring a book or work on my computer.

In this lull, I took the opportunity to schedule a doctor’s appointment in Skopje, to get a mole removed from my back. I’ve had it years, without any problems so far, but I know some day I will have to get it removed. [I’ll preface this with an apology for exploiting the government health care I’m covered under, stressing the system with my petty procedure.] I’d seen a dermatologist in Tiranё about it, but apparently there are no surgeons qualified to take it off, thus PC sent me to Macedonia’s nearby capital.

Actually, I didn’t go alone. Two volunteers joined me for the journey, just 3 nights there with 2 days traveling on each end. Monica and I traveled up through Elbasan because the Gjiro-Korce road was blocked by snow, so we stayed in Librazhe, with Amanda and my former semi-sitemate, Seth. He recently relocated sites and is missed dearly in the south, so it was nice to see his new pad. The next morning, Mon and I took a furgon to the border, the road winding up in the mountains and vastness of white blankets sparkling like a winter wonderland. Snow piled 2 feet high; we giddily and very carefully waddled our way between ‘no man’s land’ sections to get our passports stamped. From there, a taxi to Struga, the Albanian town some kilometers away, then the national bus up to Skopje.

Crossing the Qafe Thane border

Eventually our bus pulled in to Skopje, unexpectedly warm and sunny. We found our hotel and headed to the Macedonian Peace Corps office to meet their staff and to check in with the plans they had arranged. It’s so interesting to compare and contrast offices, the life and ‘home base’ we could have had if the dice rolled astray. Their staff is also incredibly friendly, maybe it’s a Balkan thing? From there we met with Will, our third operatee, and some MAC PCVs that arranged a large group dinner with us at a local Chinese restaurant. [I detest Chinese food from the States, and from China and Asia for that matter, but somehow LOVE it Balkan style, weird.]

Eating Chinese food with MAC PCVs

I’d visited Skopje last summer, with Chris, but didn’t really appreciate it. I felt it was an ugly capital city with only shopping in mind (there are dozens and dozens of malls) and a sadly discarded Turkish Quarter. However, this trip the city grew on me. Will, Monica, and I explored the fortress, perused the Turkish Quarter, and hit it off with a man restoring archaeological pieces displayed in the han. Next door at the National Ethnographic Museum we were wowed by an impressively curated series of displays, very well preserved and organized. The similarities between Albanian and Macedonian ways of life and culture are not surprisingly alike, both having originated in pastoral societies with comparable climates. My favorite thing about the museum was the large black and white photographic prints, depicting life through the early 20th century. Having lived in Albania two years now, and visited some still-traditional villages, I can imagine their lives so clearly.

Will and me outside Skpoje's fortress entrance

We also took in the Mother Teresa memorial building. [there is a small placard in the middle of the central square denoting where her house once stood; the neighborhood was later razed to make way for the malls] MT was “Albanian by blood, but a citizen of the world”, though she was born in Macedonia. Both countries want to claim her, and while I am conditioned to believe people are of the nation they were born/raised in, I’ve learned that family blood is stronger than invisible and shifting borders in this region, so I guess I will accept her Albanian-ness. Despite the fact that she never stepped foot inside Albania.

Mon and me with Mother T!

Hanging inside the Mother Teresa House. "I have always kept close to my heart the Albanian people..."

The actual procedure at the doctor’s office went fairly smooth. Monica went before me, with assurances that it was quick and painless. It was indeed painless; they numbed my back and I couldn’t feel any real sting. But despite my best efforts to stop from visualizing the doctor slicing and cutting away at me, my inner wimp took over and I couldn’t help it. And then when the stitches began I tried so hard to NOT envision myself as a ragdoll, en par with Coraline, and with waves of nausea I became dangerously close to throwing up all over the table. I’m no good with medical stuff, fare!

The next day we took off, back across the border. It was a bit tricky because we wanted to take the Korce-Gjiro road, allowing us to stay with a friend in Erseke, a small town tucked away in the mountains. She’s pretty isolated there, especially with the roads closed and very few nearby PCVs to visit, so we took the chance that we’d get lucky and the bus would run. Arriving very late in the night (we had to pay a kid from town to put chains on his tires and take us out there, but what choice do we have at that point?) our friend, Marie, or MAH-ree a la Françoise, welcomed us with homemade onion soup and freshly baked sugar cookies. We snuggled up to her wooden stove and caught up on the latest, then all passed out early in her living room.

In the morning Monica and I, very adventurously I must admit, braved the long, isolated journey into the high mountains toward home. It’s a long, tiring journey. Absolutely breathtaking in the spring and summer, but I think a little frightening at this time, with dead and barren landscapes. We did eventually make it home safely; I hiked up the hill to my house and spent the evening with Chris, curled up on the floor next to the kalorifer.

All good things come to an end....

noreply@blogger.com (Cjallo) — Mon, 11 Jan 2010 10:32:00 +0000

This was it, our final day. I don’t wanna go back! How can we savor our final moments? Well, without any money our options were limited. We’ll have to come back to the museums in the summer, which is probably better because we’ll want to escape from the heat.

Another walk through Istikal Street, a crowded pedestrian street lined with shops and restaurants and bars. During the day its not so grand, but at night it lights up with thousands of people doing their own Turkish xhiro, meeting friends for drinks (or backgammon, equally as popular here), and shopping. Istikal comes to an end where Galata begins; the main difference being that the road slopes steeply downward and the shops become a bit grungier. Near the bottom sits the Galata Tower, offering a panoramic view of the Golden Horn. There is a hostel and cheap eateries along that road, too.

Galata Tower

Trinkets along Istikal Street

I completely neglected to mention that one of our goals while in the city was to search for bicycles to use on our trip after service. I had read online of a few recommended shops and we were really hopeful to find touring bikes, anything that might suffice. However, as it turns out the shops are really parts-shops, and I doubt we could find all the right parts to build our own bikes. The only possible shop, a Trek importer near the Galata Tower, well, it was a Trek importer. They had two bikes that may have been rideable, but were extremely low quality and overpriced. So… well you’ll see my bike rant soon.

The day passed quickly, and soon enough we were waiting for our 8 pm shuttle at the Metro station. Another chilly, groggy adventure at the border (everyone gets woken at 3 am to stand in a long line out in the freezing cold). When we woke up again the sun was peeking above the horizon, welcoming us back to Greece. With considerable more difficulty than in Turkey, we hitched our way back across the north of Greece to Ioannina, and from there bought the final scheduled bus tickets to the border. Its possible to hitch all the way home but we were dead tired and sick of standing roadside. Oh and as luck would have it, one of the guys that had picked us up runs an organic farm outside Thessaloniki. He looked more like an Oregon hippie to me than a Greek, and gave us a bottle of cherry raki that his mother made—it was actually delicious! (I hate raki, this was something on another level) He also tossed us some of the most mouth-watering tomatoes I’ve ever had. We’ll have to swing by the farm on our route for sure.

So now were back. It took several days for us to get back on schedule with work and friends. I’m still making the rounds, wishing people happy new years and scheduling coffee dates to catch up.

Except for the frequent downpours, I am convinced spring is just around the corner. Did I say that? Its only January. But a girl’s gotta hope right? Before I know it the sun will be shining brightly, we’ll be passing the days beachside, and I will no longer be wearing 3 thermal layers to bed… It’s the final stretch.

This year will be full of so much change for me. Not only will I be saying goodbye to the town and people and life that I have spent two years+ getting accustomed to, but Chris and I will embark on a new journey through some difficult territory. And by the end of it all, perhaps by the next Christmas season, I will be back in the States. I can’t even imagine what I will do. For now, I can’t think of that. I think I’ll go walk to our castle instead.

Unbeatable sunset over the Bosphorous, see you again in the summer!

New Years at the Farm or Güle Güle 2009

noreply@blogger.com (Cjallo) — Mon, 11 Jan 2010 10:29:00 +0000

We decided to take up our new friends (Marcus and Ferit)’s offer to join them in Edremit for New Years, so once again Chris and I went searching for a bus company to buy tickets to the coast. These are the guys we couchsurfed with in Konya; Ferit, we were so excited to learn, inherited an olive grove on the western coast, and is in the process of converting and certifying it to an organic farm. They were throwing a New Year’s party out on the farm with 2 dozen other Erasmus students from around Europe. The drive to the farm took pretty much all day (4 hours longer than expected), so when we arrived in the town we were starving! No food from 6am-4 pm except the stale bit of cake-bread the bus usher handed out, horrible. We promptly found a small shop serving chicken and beans to tuck into, yummy.

Our instructions from Ferit lead us to a small shop, where we met his cousin, a Turkish man who lives in DC. Turns out he is a lead economist for the IMF, which allowed us many interesting conversations about his life and work and opinions about the current global crisis. Another of Ferit’s cousins present is the owner of a nearby citrus farm, also interested in converting it to organic. He explained to us that one of the biggest obstacles is that the government sprays crops annually to keep the number of mosquitoes and other pests down, so even if he could somehow get his property omitted from the toxic downpour the bugs would swarm and destroy his trees… There are a large number of organic farms throughout Turkey, so there must be a way of getting around this, I have a feeling when he sees Ferit’s success he will take the leap.

So anyways, eventually Ferit came to pick us up, we stocked up on loaves of bread, vegetables, and spices, and then we drove into the mountains. The farm is pretty well set up with a large house, gardens, hand built terraces, and some grafted trees. (We learned a great deal about the benefits of wild, old growth roots combined with tasty, edible fruit trees) I am so excited to come back in the summer when everything is blooming!

This is Ferit's farmhouse

By the time we arrived the house was full of the Erasmus students—we spent hours introducing ourselves and telling our story over and over about what we are doing in Albania and such... I must admit that I am super intimidated by Europeans. I’ve suspected for awhile but this really cemented it in for me. I always feel nervous around them because they tend to know so many languages--- at least English on top of their native tongue, and I feel like Europeans know so much more about my culture, politics, and history than I could ever know of theirs.

Midnight bonfire countdown!

A big meal was cooked to feed the 20+ people, in hilariously industrial-sized pots of soup with salad and bread. We ate in shifts around the table while others mingled by the fireplace or out on the front porch smoking cigarettes. I don’t know who DJed the music, but someone (Santa??) granted me some fast happy ska beats, so I danced the night away! Just before midnight we all rushed outside to a big bonfire and counted down the stroke of midnight, then began rounds of cheers and hugs and cheek kisses (oh those Europeans!). Eventually we learned it was someone’s birthday so we took turns singing happy birthday in various languages, which I really enjoyed, although I do wish there were more traditional variations from the tune Americans sing. Only the Polish girls sang something completely unique, but surely each culture has an original song, right?

Ferit and Mr. Curry, his pet donkey

The next day we lounged around the house, exploring the gardens and hanging out. Ferit gave Chris and me a tour of the farm, explaining how and when things were built and what plans he has for the future. I’m so impressed and jealous—I wish I could inherit a big beautiful chunk of über-fertile land! Clearly it will be difficult, but I think the fruits of his labor (literally!) will be well rewarded.

Overlooking the olives and pines

In the afternoon Ferit took us on a walk up into the mountains, where we picked wild mushrooms for the night’s dinner. We walked up to a ridge overlooking the beginning of a vast expanse of mountains that stretch for hundreds of miles to the country’s interior. Turkey is so beautiful! Despite the beach homes and general development, it still seems ruled by nature. I fear for Albania because the people are desperate to have what their European neighbors have, and have had for the last 50 years, and they are destroying the country along the way. More hotels! More apartments! More imports! More roads! Nevermind that there is nowhere for the garbage to go but the rivers, and that the pristine coastline is exponentially disappearing…. Grr…

Returning as the sun set, we spent one more night at the farm. In the morning Chris and I woke early and began our long journey back to Istanbul, this time playing our cards by hitchhiking. It turned out to be easier than we could have imagined, with several friendly and generous people happy to pick us up. In fact, twice our benevolent drivers insisted on taking us out for a meal, so we were extra lucky to save both bus fare and get food. (Which was especially good because I lost all of my money on our last day in Istanbul. I was completely broke, relying on my sugar-daddy who was also quickly running low…)

By the end of the day were back in Istanbul. Like a second home!

Back to Istanbul!

noreply@blogger.com (Cjallo) — Mon, 11 Jan 2010 10:18:00 +0000

Once again we pulled into the Otogar, after a long night of inclined sleep. It’s possible to snooze on comfortable buses, but not as restful as a bed for sure; inevitably you are the walking dead the next day. From the Otogar we hitched a lift on a shuttle to Kadikoy’s station, and from there hopped a city bus on a loop around the Asian side of town before exiting outside the Anadolu İmam Hatip Lisesi School.

We would be spending the next few days with a woman I contacted through couchsurfing, Neshe. Chris and I agreed to meet her here and to spend some time with her English students. Little did we know what was in store for us! When we showed up, we were shuffled up winding stairwells, through a sea of girls cloaked in burgundy headscarves, to the teacher’s lounge on the top floor. While waiting a few minutes for our hostess we snuck off to the bathrooms to freshen up a bit—we did just roll off an all-night bus with frazzled hair and eye goop after all. Neshe turned out to be an amazing and super friendly woman, and her students welcomed us with a party! We spent two hours eating a spread of various homemade Turkish foods and answering questions about our lives and things that we like. Some of the girls played songs on the ney (of Persian origin, an end-blown flute) for us, and at the end they begged to take photos and get our facebook names. The funniest thing was the way they took to Chris— as Neshe warned us, they don’t interact with men much, let alone older foreign men, so for Chris to speak openly with them (and dazzle them with drawings on the chalkboard) makes the girls kind of giddy… :) As far as school conditions go, I couldn’t help but notice how well kept the classes and halls were—no broken window panes, the bathrooms had toilets and soap and running water, and there was a general lack of kids just hanging out in the halls causing trouble. Amazing!

For three days we stayed with Neshe, in her apartment near the Uskadar ferry station, on the Asian coast. We would ride across the Marmara in the morning and walk around SultanAhmet, exploring as many mosques, alleys, bazaars, and baklava shops as we could squeeze in each day. Chris generally had his favorite ‘chicken man’ joint, and I carried dried figs and cranberries in my camera bag to nibble on. SultanAhmet is a large neighborhood with most of Istanbul’s best tourist attractions.

Gotta wash up before entering...

Crowded streets some vendors find opportunities selling simit, a popular breakfast snack

View of Blue Mosque from across at Aya Sophia

"Book Street" near the Grand Pazar, full of Qurans, novels, texts, and artwork

Stalls inside the Grand Pazar

Near the ferry dock is the first of 3 gargantuan mosques—the New Mosque. Nearby is the covered Spice Bazaar, where treasures and treats from the limits of the Silk Road were brought, one of the earliest products of globalization. We spent most of our time wandering, peeping into dozens of once-essential hans (caravansaries), which are now worn down and mostly converted to shops or storage spaces; de-shoeing and ducking into plenty of small and large mosques to admire the inner calligraphy and tilework; taking photos, trying hard not to let people see me capture them as subjects of the Turkish Life and Times. Most of my photos are of markets and mosques, which pretty much describes the whole city. Everywhere you turn there is a shopfront exploding with sacks of nuts and dried fruits, hanging peppers, bags of colorful spices, rows of tempting and elaborate desserts…

Galata Bridge is packed day and night with fishermen, who sell to the restaurants below deck and to the many nearby stalls serving fresh grilled fish sandwiches

Seedsellers keep birds well fed outside the New Mosque

Delicious goodies inside the Grand Pazar

Antiques abound outside the Grand Pazar

Stalls brimming with goods

Cafes and endless shops with trinkets, carpets, jewelry, etc. in the Grand Pazar

Two of the other famous mosques in SultanAhmet are the Aya Sophia (formerly the Hagia Sophia) and the Blue Mosque. Both are enormous structures with extravagant features and fascinating histories; the Aya Sophia was originally built as a Byzantine Church in the 6th century, and later converted to a mosque when the Ottomans stormed the city to conquer Istanbul in 1453. The enormous dome is mesmerizing from the outside (they say the statue of liberty can fit inside without her torch), but we didn’t get the opportunity to venture inside on this trip. The Blue Mosque is remarkable in its design—the only mosque in the world with 6 minarets. It is architecturally impressive on both the outside as well as in. Chris and I enjoyed part of two beautiful afternoons outside these camiis, taking in the views and watching other tourists and locals as they went about their day. As always, Chris busily sketched while I wrote in my little journal.

Baklava break at the Blue Mosque!

Aya Sophia and Hamam

Sketching in the mosques

Gargantuan Blue Mosque-- tourists line up to squeeze inside between calls to prayer

As the sun set we returned to Neshe’s apartment and would spend the evenings with her, usually she cooked us a fabulous dinner of Turkish foods and we’d talk about our days’ adventures. Neshe taught us a lot about the city and Turkish culture. I love couchsurfing so much because I finally have someone to answer all my silly questions, and Neshe was great because she’s very open-minded and I was able to glimpse through the eyes of a conservative Muslim woman. I also really admire her self-confidence and sense of adventure. Contrary to her culture, she’s traveled to many countries (alone even), and is receptive to opening her home to foreign strangers through CS. Actually, she has made many wonderful friends through couchsurfing and consequently opened opportunities to visit many of them throughout Europe and even host other members of their families who visit Istanbul. She really inspired me to take more advantage of CSing and to do better to keep ties with terrific people that I meet.

Two other awesome things that came about due to our meeting Neshe are: 1) she took us to the Sakirin Mosque, which is the first mosque designed by a woman. I had read an article about this a few months beforehand, but never would have found it on my own. It was only a few bus stops from her house, so we went there one evening before meeting her friends out for some tea.

Beautiful, elegant, modern Sakirin Mosque

And, 2) she took us to a whirling lesson! Neshe is learning Sufism, otherwise called Mystical Islam, which was made popular by the epic poet Rumi Mevlani, whose mosque and tomb we went to in Konya. Our very own dervish! She took us to her whirling class one night, where we spent hours practicing to spin on one foot, trying hard to not fall over, and watching the other students (all females, hoping to be the first order of female dervishes) as they twirled round and round to the music… It is much more difficult (and painful) than it looks!

Whirling Dervish apprentices (look at that concentration!)

Christmas in Cappadocia!

noreply@blogger.com (Cjallo) — Mon, 11 Jan 2010 10:14:00 +0000

That’s [Kap—ah--dōk—eeyah]. I mentally debated for quite some time whether we should risk spending Christmas trapped in a frigid, snowy outpost. Two years ago we were sipping pineapple smoothies along the river in Luang Prabang. Before that we were picnicking on an ancient temple in southern Mexico, savoring avocado tacos and Corona. And I’m such an Arizonan wuss! I swear I’m just not built to withstand temperatures below 60 degrees… so frankly I was not expecting to have a merry Christmas. But I desperately wanted to visit the fairy chimneys I’d heard so much about, to explore the valleys of bizarre landscapes, and see the so-called cave hotels.

Welcome to Cappadocia!

As it turned out we had a streak of WARM sunny days! No snow or rain in sight, we spent 4 days walking through the valleys, which have been carved into outlandish rock formations (a special combination of soft volcanic rock layered with a stronger one causing uneven erosion). For centuries, early Christians carved homes into the rocks, hiding from persecutors, and even dug entire underground cities. Many of the caves are intact, with easily discernible features such as the pigeon homes (looks like shelves built into the walls), wine stomping basins, storage areas, etc. They say the Christians kept homing pigeons to send messages back and forth, which have now become extinct.

We spied a hot air balloon in the Open Air Museum

Explaining the built-in pigeon homes and wine storage

In front of Pigeon Valley (or Penis Chimney Valley)

Rorschach test: what are these?

Most of the nights we stayed in Göreme, one of the main towns with various hotels built into the rocks. There are also several restaurants, cafes, and antique & handicraft shops, but it’s very much a town developed completely around tourism. This time of year there were very few tourists, so we easily got beds in a cheap but pretty hostel, called the Nomad Cave. Run by a friendly Turkish woman, and providing a comfortable sitting area and free internet, we happily crashed in the communal cave room, though I must say a room full of breathing bodies and dirty clothes combined with the natural stench of a dark cave emitted an even more potent funk…

Our hostel room at the Nomad Cave

Rooms really are built into the caves!

Peering at the town from inside a cave

For Christmas day we splurged on a hotel in a nearby village, more money than we have ever paid for a bed, but so extravagantly luxurious we had to take the plunge. The hotel, the Village Cave, is built into the rocks where the owner was born and raised. Until the 1950’s people still lived in the cave houses, but now are abandoned and crumbling.

These caves, facing our hotel, were lived in until the 1950's

Wanting to make the most of our hotel stay, we spent the afternoon in our room, enjoying Christmas treats I had packed away, reading our Christmas cards, and even did a session of yoga! Our room was beautiful, kept warm with a radiator, and had a hot steamy shower with pressure... What could be better?

Pull-ups with the pigeon homes!

Super comfy, sinfully luxurious

Also in the hotel were a young American couple and their Canadian friend, currently teachers in Doha (Qatar). They talked a great deal about the life and culture of their city, and despite the people’s excessive wealth there are still endless social and environmental problems (not too far off from Albania). In the late evening they took off for a bar in town; meanwhile, we stayed with our new Spanish friend (he’s hitchhiking to India, sleeping in the caves) by the crackling fire, sipping hot chocolate and beer.

Hallway to our room, lined with water-eroded ridges

Village Cave lobby, we sipped drinks fireside on Christmas night with our new Spanish friend

We tried to stay as long as possible in the hotel the next day, but around noon the owner kindly asked us to vacate our room for the next guest. We reluctantly packed our backpacks and said goodbyes, then walked the 2km back to Göreme. (Stopped along the way upon invitation for tea, as well as a backgammon lesson from the elderly shop owner)

Enjoying tea by the Samovar, we didn't want to leave....

Back in Göreme, and again at the Nomad Cave Hostel. We dropped our bags (again in the cave) and set off for another town to explore an underground city. Several underground cities have been discovered, with layers going 14, 19 + levels under the surface. Tourists are allowed to dart around 4 -5 levels or so, getting lost within passageways, popping heads into multiple rooms at once, ducking and crawling through odd shaped corridors. After a thorough exploration we set off back for town, since the sun was setting and we hitching. We had missed the last bus to Göreme, but that gave us time to stop into a store for a baklava break (by this point I was really refining my baklava selection-- happy to discover the Albanian style is still my favorite).

Brief pause during our excursion in the Underground City

Good thing we're not claustrophobic!

Eventually we made it back to the Nomad, with plenty of time to relax in the lounge area and chat with the handful of Korean and Japanese backpackers also traveling through.

Final day was full of sunshine and gave us a chance to walk through Love Valley, full of giant fairy chimneys and rock formations. Plenty of abandoned cave homes built up into the rock faces, some isolated towers that I imagine once housed large farming families. I can picture them clearly—old Turkish man in his knitted skull cap, picking grapes; his wife in her flowery headscarf tending the fire and baking bread, their 8 children running mischievously around the valley, perhaps the older ones grazing the family’s goats… I have lots of fantasies when I travel!

What lies yonder in the Love Valley?

Them chimneys is huuuuge!

So a few hours later we arrived in another village, one with a complex of cave homes (now deteriorated and abandoned) and even a cave “castle”! Actually, the castle is a large hill that has been hollowed out with a maze of passageways and caves, probably never having housed a royal family of sorts, but still impressive. From the top we enjoyed a 360° view of the surrounding gorges, wishing we had more time to stay and explore…

The "castle" of Uçisar

Shops selling trinkets outside near Uçisar's castle

Our stay in Cappadocia was simply peaceful, surprisingly beautiful weather and a feast for the eyes. I’m just going to have to stick a bunch of pictures down here to give something of an idea, but I doubt it will do the area justice. :)

Peering down at other caves, can you imagine them inhabited?

Not exactly the pot trees we have in Lazarat...

Turqia!

noreply@blogger.com (Cjallo) — Mon, 11 Jan 2010 09:43:00 +0000

Chris and I {*escaped*} for the holidays this year--- to Turkey! I’ve been waiting years to feast my eyes on the delights of said country, an appeal growing from endless stories of culture and intrigue that oozed out of the once-great Ottoman Empire. Our hometown of Gjirokastёr was built out of the Ottoman reign—Turkish style houses, pashas and mosques, hamams and hans and teccas... Albania’s history has been drastically shaped by the Turks who ruled from afar, janissaries that controlled the masses, Byzantine churches desecrated and family names changed to Muslim ones. Even our local oligarch, Ali Pasha of Tepelene (now immortalized on every bottle of Tepelene Water), whose son was given control of Gjirokastёr’s kalaja, was in cahoots with the Turkish sultans. And the epic hero Skanderbag (or Turkish Skanderbej) who rose in the ranks of the Ottoman military, eventually turned his back and fought to liberate Albania, stopping the Ottomans from spreading power further into Italy…

Anyway, Chris and I emptied and tidied our house, stuffed our bags, and hopped on a furgon to the Greek border. Once on the other side (freedom! vacation officially begins!) we stuck out our thumbs and stitched our way across the northern mountains to Thessaloniki, Greece’s second largest city. Greece feels like eye candy to me— endless rows of baklava shops, windows brimming with mystery pastries, over-the-top cafes with flashy signs and incomprehensible letters. I’m both excited and disappointed by the “advanced” level of development, overwhelmed by the cost of goods on the European market, disgusted by the inevitability of Albania’s growth pattern…

Chris samples skanikopita but I'm only interested in that beautiful baklava behind him....

Thessaloniki is full of Christmas cheer in December, lots of twinkling light and santas, even a life size nativity scene! We bought our bus tickets for Istanbul—overnight 10 hours—and briskly walked circles around town to keep warm. We were lucky enough to stumble upon some outdoor party (grand opening of something I think) where they gave out free hot drinks and cookies; we tried hard to look anonymous as we hovered near the heaters...

Street party? =free food, drinks, music, and heat!

Nativity scenes and festive streets in Thessaloniki

Arriving in Istanbul (not Constantinople) in the early hours, totally disoriented, hungry, and cold, we sought refuge in the nearest breakfast börek shop for a cup of tea. The restaurant, a chain that rivals store counts with Starbucks, also housed an internet café several flights up, so we were able to skype our friend and hostess. We planned to stay a few nights with Besana, an Albanian friend from Gjirokastёr, who is getting her master’s degree there.

Early morning chill at Taksim! (Fresh off the bus)

Findikli Molla Celebi camii, in Bektas, overlooking the bridge and Golden Horn

Besana put us up in her tiny apartment (small but super convenient location in Taksim, the central square) and spent 3 days guiding us around town, drinking samovars full of Turkish tea** at a café overlooking the Bosporus; wandering past the Aya Sophia, New Mosque, and Blue Mosque; riding the ferry over to the Anatolian side of town, sampling the city’s best baklava shops and food stalls (including kumpir, a popular meal consisting of a giant baked potato stuffed with cheese and topped with a vast array of veggies and fixins’); smoking nargile at a madresa-turned-café spot...

Wandering the streets near Bektas

Ordering kumpir, a filling vegetarian lunch

Men washing their feet outside the New Mosque

Ferry ride across the Borphorous

One of our many, many baklava stops

Smoking nargile at the madresa

**what we learned about Turkish tea: Samovars (introduced by Russia) are commonly used to boil water in a pot on the bottom and then pour into a second pot (filled with black tea grown in Eastern Turkey, near the Black Sea) that sits above it. A small amount of concentrated brew from the top pot is poured into a small tulip-shaped glass, then hot water is added from the bottom pot, and served with one or two sugar cubes (not packets, but yes sometimes individually wrapped cubes). To order an “open” cup is to have less tea and more water.

Proper Turkish tea party, inside Gulhane Park

Sultan Ahmet caddesi tram road, lined with restaurants and shops

Blue Mosque lit up at night

We booked another overnight bus to Konya to visit the Mevlani mecca, hometown of Sufism’s founder Mevlani Rumi. I had contacted a couchsurfer to host us; and from that stay we met also a French couple who are on a year’s journey, walking from Paris to Israel. From the Otogar (bus station) Chris and I rode the tram away from town, toward his apartment by the university. Our host, Marcus, is an Austrian exchange student studying organic agriculture, and is part of Europe’s Erasmus program. His roommate, Ferit, is half Turkish, half Austrian, also studying organic agriculture, and recently inherited his family’s olive grove on the Marmara coast. We totally hit it off with the guys, and were invited to visit the farm for New Year’s for a party. Since we originally wanted to come volunteer on a farm (through TaTuTa.org) and were turned away because lack of availability, this was a stroke of good luck!

Linear tram connecting the city to the University, 40 km away

We stayed 2 nights in Konya, wandering the modest size town, 45 minutes away by tram. Apparently the outer city has grown into completely reckless sprawl, clusters of enormous concrete apartment buildings lining the tram. Staring out the windows as the developments flew by, our mouths gaping in horror, we discussed the somewhat orderly organization with spaces for future parks and potential trees. For now it lays barren, nothing but skyscrapers and mosques. No shops, no amenities…just apartments.

View of the bizarre city sprawl from Marcus and Ferit's balcony

Inside the actual town Chris and I visited the Mevlani mosque, and several others, seeking shelter from the late afternoon chill. We typically sat in the back, me hiding underneath my hijab, quietly reading or writing in my journal while Chris filled his book with sketches. We toured the enormous indoor fruit & veggie pazar, sampling white stringy cheese that resembles hair, dried mulberries and apples, and conversing with the cheery shop owners. Turkish people strike me as incredibly friendly (even more than Albanians?), always asking where we come from and happy to hand out a small morsel of their goods. Several people invited us in for a cup of tea, and chuckled happily when we spoke the few Turkish words and phrases we had learned.

Konya's gorgeous and almost overwhelming fruit n veggie pazar

Mevlani camii (no pictures were allowed inside, a shame because it was exquisitely decorated, I promise)

An elaborately decorated mihrab inside one of Konya's many cammis

Inside Konya's tile museum, full of beautiful pottery and tiles

Shops throughout Turkey are absolutely spilling with barrels of dried fruits, nuts, spices, bulgar, etc.

And then a trip to the Hamam! Although this is now a touristy thing to do, local people traditionally (some still do) congregated at the neighborhood bathhouse for a wash and scrub, truly an invigorating experience. This hamam sees few tourists, so I was led by a woman through a maze of steamy rooms, as she instructed me (by pointing and demanding, but no English spoken) to Wash here! Lay down! Turn over! I anticipated being embarrassed to strip down in a public space, but as it turned out the few other women sharing the fountains in the bath were not intimidating, and barely noticed my presence. And truthfully, these women were so rotund, with strata of fat rolls they sat meticulously washing, like an ancient Greek painting, it was kind of comforting to have them around. As my lady scrubbed my skin with her special mitt, layers of grey goop dripped off, akin to eraser rubbings. Admittedly, at this point I hadn’t showered in almost a week, causing a transition to cleanliness so drastic I felt like I transformed into a human again. Who knows what I was before… (stinky hippie!)

From Konya we bought bus tickets (the buses are pricier than Albania but really comfortable) to Cappadocia… more to come!

Sufi headstones outside the Mevlani Mosque-- they have sufi hats!

Turkish man takes a break in the pazar, another good use of an oil canister

Street salep-seller, a hot drink made from ground orchid roots

Art Projects with Eva's Class

noreply@blogger.com (Cjallo) — Mon, 23 Nov 2009 09:17:00 +0000

Chris has been doing weekly art projects with some 2nd grade students in Kota Hoxhi School. Eva, one of the teachers we have gotten to know and work with frequently, is super open to all kinds of new ideas and creative ways to teach her kids (an unfortunately rare quality here), and opens her doors to us every chance possible. I've done a few health activities with the kids (for Global Handwashing Day we simulated germs on our hands using coffee grounds and Vaseline) as well as environmental games (the ever-popular Web of Life simulates biodiversity and allows a discussion for how and why we should protect our environment), so we are familiar with some of the kids and they all know us.
Here's some pics from the first meeting-- Eva explained to the children how unique our fingerprints are from one another, and then we made thumb prints and transformed them into characters. This was one of my favorite things to do when I was young-- thanks to The Great Thumbprint Book, by Ed Emberly. The kids loved it!

Chris drew samples on the board for the kids to try themselves

Kids busily printing their thumb characters

The following week Chris carved pumpkins and drew a Happy Halloween (Gezuar Halloween!) page for the kids to color in. Eva explained to them about this American holiday and what we do; something similar to the Greek version of Carnival they celebrate in February. Although for kicks we had them come trick-or-treat for bits of candy on their way out, something of course they enjoyed.

Check out them jack-o-lanterns!

Grab bag! American candy courtesy Arlene~~

Gezuar Halloween! a young vajza shows off her masterpiece

The next week Chris had the students draw fruits and fruit characters, unfortunately I was in Mal i Zi (with the camera) and thus we have no pics from that day. But we will continue! Perhaps thanksgiving this week, and then begin with Christmas festivities.

Festivale Folkloric Kombetare 2009

noreply@blogger.com (Cjallo) — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 08:46:00 +0000

The long-awaited qui-annual (our best guess at every-four-years) national folk festival took place up in Gjirokastёr’s castle over the last weekend of September. During communism this gala was organized every four years, whereby groups from around the country and surrounding regions would come to show off their traditional music and costumes. It was a big deal, we’re talking shume rendesi. Well, it was scheduled to occur in 2008, but from what we were told they delayed it until this fall because 2008 was the 100th year anniversary of [the dictator] Enver Hoxha’s birthday.

Unfortunately, the festival is nowhere near as big and elaborate as it used be. National pride, state support for training and costumes, ambitions to be part of a vibrant community, etc. are severely lacking throughout the country, but there is just enough life to keep the festival going and draw a modest crowd of visitors from around the country. I presume its especially good business for Gjirokastёr-- people need to pay for hotels and food right? Though I heard afterward that the municipality demanded the hotels to put up the performers gratis, which seems unfair and self-depreciating for the local economy. So typical here!

I wasn’t supposed to be here for the festival. I had planned to visit Sarajevo with a friend, but our plans failed when she had to rearrange her travel dates. Thus, disappointingly, no half-marathon. I had trained for a few months—needed something easier than a full 26 miles, but still a bit of a challenge and a nudge to get out of bed in the early morning for a treacherous jog through dog-country. I don’t consider this a total loss, because really the training was what I wanted. And an opportunity to visit Bosnia’s capital—which I will, perhaps in November.

Most of the work during the folk fest was done by the Gjirokastёr Conservation Development Organization, the office where Allan is assigned. They are located at the obelisk which overlooks the city, castle, and valley, in a reconstructed former school. In my opinion their office (which is funded by the Packard Institute—ie Hewlett Packard-- and, who also run the Butrint Foundation) does most of the projects in the Old Town. [**Although I'm not saying they are free of corruption and inefficiency.] GCDO installed bilingual panels throughout the castle with maps that explain the layout and factoids, as well as brand new solar panels to illuminate the corridors. Ironically, the government collects castle entrance fees, which then get sent up to Tirane and into the pockets of the Ministry; so while America sends money in for local efforts, the Albanian government gets to pocket it. Gjirokastёr residents benefited: zero.

Anyway, GCDO is in the process of opening an ‘artisan incubator’ project, through which they are restoring the rooms above their Tourist Information Center, located in the center of the Pazar. In this space, they will hold workshops to train locals in artisan crafts such as woodworking and stone carving. For the first two days of the festival GCDO organized artisans from all over the country to come and sell/showcase their products in the streets of the Pazar, which brought a revitalizing sense of life to the upper city. I was placed on a panel of judges to evaluate the crafts and choose winners, which sounds easy but somehow carried on to an all-day affair. Que será, it’s nice to feel needed. The real difficulty was comparing apples to oranges— who can say whether wood carving is better or worse than the traditional costumes, or embroidery, or pottery, or woven rugs? And what can we judge these on—most marketable to tourists? Best preservation of traditional crafts (even if they are something no one would desire to purchase)? My fellow judges chose to follow UNESCO guidelines—concepts like innovation, craftsmanship, and sustainability were discussed. We eventually chose some beautiful stones that are painted with replications of the mosaics discovered in the archaeological park Butrint, woodcarvings from Shkoder, and a woman’s painstakingly embroidered traditional costumes from Tiranё. Regional, varied, categorical… voila!

OK so back to the festival. Each night we hiked our way up to the castle along with several hundred Albanians, a gaggle of PCVs, and the occasional foreign tourist. Chris and I housed a dozen or so volunteers each night, camped out on our floor, with Allan’s, Greg’s, and Seth’s houses also packed tight. On the first night Chris and I organized a bake sale with kids from the Red Cross to raise money for the youth center—we set up a table, some posters, donation boxes, and successfully sold batches of chocolate chip and sugar biskotat to passers-by. Of course a lot of people dismissed us as kot [worthless], or stingily shouted “I don’t eat cookies!” when we beckoned them, but overall I was surprised at how many people pitched in to the boxes and happily walked on. After the money was counted we decided it was a wildly successful venture, and are planning to do something similar at the schools. This was all Chris’ initiative and hard work, kudos burri!

Some nights we were able to climb up to the top of the castle wall and peer down on the festivities from above in our own private alcove. Others we piled in the back along the walls, or (once) I sat up front in the chairs with Patricia to take some photos. My pics are sorely lacking because I don’t have a zoom lens, but I hope to remedy that soon, and for purposes of displaying great art I’ll attach some of Patricia’s amazing shots.

(Courtesy Patricia Hong)

(Dancing Vajzat; courtesy of Patricia)

PCVs overlooking the fest (C. of Patricia)

Polyphonic choir (C. of Patricia)

By the 5th night of the festival I grew serenely used to the routine of “castle-time”; but ya know when you see too many temples in one trip and they all start to look alike? I definitely had that feeling for the costumes and music and general gaiety. I’m glad I was able to see the community pull together, even if for only a glimpse, and also to witness an authentically non-exploited festivity before it becomes something of global stature. That’s Chris and my dream— to peak into a piece of the world before the strings of ragged backpackers make a routine of it, before the organized tours are developed, before it gets listed in the Lonely Planet Top 100 Destinations. I hear endless stories of friends and relatives who traveled through Morocco, Egypt, Thailand, Vietnam, Afghanistan… 20 years ago, when they were still traditional backwaters, off-the-beaten-path, the cheap places totally unaccustomed to foreigners wandering their streets, markets, and ancient sites. I swear I was born 20 years too late. But at least I have that now. Shqiperia is still so closed off and neglected by the rest of the world. But they will come, I know it. In fact, there’s no avoiding it, so I’m just trying to soak it up while I can. I’ll say, Yeah I used to live there. Back when they didn’t have electricity or water 24 hours/day. When people spoke in Old Leke. When the middle coast was nothing but empty stretches of white sand and turquoise water. And strangers would beckon you into their homes for a cup of strong Turkish coffee, just because you smiled as you passed by… Yeah, I lived there.

Mid service and Maqedonije

noreply@blogger.com (Cjallo) — Mon, 14 Sep 2009 08:15:00 +0000

We’re pushing 17 months in Albania! In August G12 gathered in Korce, an eastern city sometimes referred to as the “Paris of Albania”, to recap our first year of service and create a plan of attack for the next one, as well as several sessions dealing with post-service plans. The conference was mostly run by our own volunteers; some official how-to CV and resume info, grad school Q&A, discussions with a panel of expats working within various foreign organizations (consular officer, USAID, private sector, UN)… There were also MSC University “classes” where volunteers organized skill-sharing topics. Chris and I were part of the environmental hour—Chris taught Composting 101 and I showed how to recycle household waste into useful objects, like plastic-fabric. [ I can tell you a thousand ways to reduce, reuse, and virtually eliminate all of your plastic bags, that is if I haven’t already shamed you into refusing them at the store to begin with! ]

Some of the perks of our MSC were: 1) Peace Corps worked out a sweet deal to put us up in the super fancy Hotel Grand-- which had Wi-Fi and served delicious meals, and 2) the conference was *conveniently* scheduled during Korce’s annual BEER FEST! Festes e Birres is surprisingly non-Albanian, and by that I only mean to say that it’s a municipality-led production where all sorts of organizations and vendors work together to put on a large-scale event, complete with live music, all sorts of food (meat, meat, and meat), and the general population of the city showed up to support it and have fun. No matter which political party they belong to. I guess maybe Korce beer is just too darn good to pass up, and at 50 cents per cup why not?

Some of my favorite ladies!!

On the way to the beer garden entrepreneurs sold fresh grilled meat kebabs... and yes that's a bunker behind him!

So we attended en masse. We’re like a big family. We hogged three long picnic tables and created several towers of beer cups. I spent most of the time doing crazy dances with Maggie and Amy, and whoever else was game—one the bands even rocked some SKA! Albanians don’t dance to rock music so we were the main attraction…crazy Americans…all good fun though, and no messy beer-fights like last year. ;)

I don't think I'm allowed to post pics of volunteers gezuar-ing with big mugs of beer, so instead here's one of the many dispenser tents

After MSC Chris and I jumped across the border through Pogradec, catching a bus around the rim of the lake to Macedonia’s summer tourist destination of Ohrid. This town is beautiful! There are houses built up the side of a mountain, stitched with narrow winding alleys leading to a castle at the top (hmm, sounds like home), all with spectacular views of the sparkling blue water below. Many of the houses have been restored and converted into inexpensive guestrooms, and there are several restaurants down near the water’s edge to eat at, or just drink coffee and people-watch (also sounds familiar…). My guidebooks says there are 364 holy sites scattered around town, though the most picturesque is Sveti Joni (St. John), a well-restored church perched at the edge of a cliff.

Panoramic of Ohrid's lake

Church of Sveti Joni

For the most part, Macedonia’s churches and monasteries survived throughout both the Ottoman occupation and communism-- no easy feat. During the 500 years of Ottoman occupation, churches were forbidden to be taller than mosques, and many were converted into mosques and reconverted back later. They now serve as monuments of religious and national pride-- which is currently all the rage as the citizens are pushing for EU status, despite opposition from Greece…

One of the many, many beautiful churchyards. This one is peacefully hidden away from the crowds and full of wild plum trees!

Lake Ohrid doesn’t have any natural sand beaches, but a few of the cafes built decks to put chairs or couches with awnings over, so there are pockets of cozy hang-out spots. At the opposite end extending away from the city is a biking/jogging path that stretches out toward the national park, and there are more cafes and grassy areas to picnic or set out blankets and swim. Thankfully the lake and town’s beauty has not been destroyed by overdevelopment; I wonder why Albanians didn’t take more clues from their nearby neighbor.

Fishing is a popular activity along the lake, all throughout the day. At night it gets more interesting with so many people doing a xhiro along the water...

Boats bobble in the lake waters

One of the coolest shops is a paper making/printing shop. The owner has an original Gutenberg press! They sell beautiful handmade paper cards and books and iconic prints, etc.

Anyway, we stayed with a Mak PCV, a friendly older woman who I think may be in a more posh-corp position than us. In the evening, after dining on pizza and salad along the water, we hiked up to the ancient amphitheater to watch a performance from the Summer Days festival. The stone steps were packed with families; we watched two women sing classical opera in Macedonian (which is a Slavic language with a Cyrillic script, and strangely not at all related to Shqip) until we got sleepy.

Crowds of locals entertained by Macedonian opera in the amphitheater

Chris and I continued on alone the next day to Bitola, a town 2 hours east where we have a PCV friend. I met this volunteer in Albania, when she came to host a facilitation training for OA club leaders-- super nice girl. We were pleasantly surprised to find that Bitola is a cool place—very much an ‘Austrian architecture meets Turkish quarters’, like a mini-Sarajevo. My first thought in foreign countries is how well their city planners have done—landscaped parks, public spaces, garbage collection…?!

Bitola's main road, grandiose architecture with many cafes suitable for people watching

One of Bitola's beautiful mosques

At the outskirts of the city there are some ruins from the ancient city of Hereclea, founded by King Phillip of Macedon in the 4th century BC. [King P is advertised everywhere in MAK! Their national hero en par with Albania’s Skanderbeg.] Bitola continued to be an important regional center due to its placement along the Via Egnatia, an ancient trading route that connected Rome to the east. During the Ottoman period the city was a central location for consuls, and it was here that the Albanian alphabet was unified into the modern script in 1908.

Beautiful 'curtains' of red peppers hand in the markets here, they are traditionally roasted with spices and jarred to keep for the winter. They become a delicious pepper paste called ivar

If one person is successful selling steamed corn, why not 10? No one has heard yet about over-saturating the market..

So anyways, we stayed two nights, the second night another friend came to town and we all splurged on Chinese food. Heather took us hiking in the mountains overlooking the city, which are dotted with some discarded military tanks from WWII. We went for coffee on the main drag, where everyone hangs out to people-watch and gossip. I really enjoy sharing Peace Corp experiences amongst other PCVs—so much is different, so much the same. There are many similarities in Balkan culture, and yet small treasures—unique foods, varying social and political problems, differing geography and landscapes, etc. Even life as a PCV can be totally different—one would assume total uniformity in such a large bureaucracy but in fact no, every country’s program is run on its own. We get different medical kits, water filters, training methods, and so on. I occasionally get the opportunity to call my best friend, Anne, who began her PC service in Guatemala a month after my departure, and am always amazed by how extremely diverse our lives are, even though we are both “health sector PCVs”. Check out her blog you’ll see what I mean!

We found a tank on our hike! It was discarded on the road somewhere after the terrifying so-called "zoo" and the village where we met a man carrying buckets of milk home

From Bitola, Chris and I continued by bus to the capital, Skopje, which is a big, well, city. Its crowded and has lots of highways and shops. We spent most of our time hanging out in the Turkish Quarter, which is full of mosques, shops, some Ottoman bath houses that have been converted to art galleries, and a few museums (which were sadly closed). Here is where we caught our first glimpse of the Albanian community. Well, perhaps I should say Kosavar community, because although they were speaking Shqip, (cool! We could understand speech again!) Kosovar-Albanians are of a totally different culture than Albanian-Albanians. First and foremost they are much more conservative, and the women dress covered head to toe—and for those who have seen my pics you’ll know that Shqiptare girls leave nothing to the imagination. And Kosavars actually practice Islam, which is not common here. My host family was completely unaware that Muslims don’t typically eat pork, or where/what Mecca is. In general, Albanians identify as Muslims only as a family name, and they are quick to tell you that it was a name forced upon them hundreds of years ago during the Ottoman occupation. [Families who took Muslim names didn’t have to pay extra taxes to the Turks, and generally had less restrictions than those who remained Christian.]

One of the alleys in Skopje's Turkish Quarters

Traditional han in the Turkish Quarters. Travelers would rest the night here during the Ottoman period. Those with animals stayed in the slightly larger downstairs stalls where they could tie up the horses.

General state of buildings in the old TQ. The streets are winding, narrow alleys full of completely useless shops and some restaurants, and sadly the whole area seems to be collapsing

In the evening we hung out at a refreshingly bohemian tea house (appropriately named New Age Tea), which was a darkly lit indoor-outdoor garden setting, decorated with hanging fabric and Indian art. We sipped mint tea and wrote/sketched until it grew crowded, then quietly paid our bill and slipped out. The next day we spent walking, walking again, taking pictures, sketching, and generally absorbing the city feel.

Restored Ottoman-era bridge connecting the old city to the newer sections and downtown. Along the waterfront there is a 7 km jogging/biking path that's popular in the am!

Chris was absolutely enamored by these tiny little cars that are so popular here. Every time we saw one he would grab my arm and beg "Come on, wouldn't it be great to buy one and drive across Turkey?!"

Just before our afternoon bus I found a macrobiotic vegan restaurant, Harmonije, and bought the most scrumptious seitan sandwich I’ve ever tasted. I know most people cringe when I say ‘macrobiotic’, a diet which I don’t normally ascribe to, but let me just convey the relief of opening a menu full of seitan, tofu, vegetable salads, quinoa/ amaranth, and various concoctions of creative platters and flavors. Mmmm, yum.

Inside a restored Turkish bath house, now art gallery.

Outside view of the bath houses

Back to Ohrid! The buses were kind of weird to us because: 1) they all collected in a central area called a “station”, which I haven’t seen in a long while, and 2) buying the tickets was sometimes required a day in advance and other times impossible until the bus actually arrived, and we were never really sure why. We also had to pay extra to get our tickets validated and again to bring backpacks with us. Isn’t that normally all included in ticket costs?

The last two nights we stayed again with the PCV in Ohrid, wandering the alleys, hilltop fortress, and lakeside “beaches”. Oh yes and picking shameful amounts of wild plums! Kiwis, figs, and plums were absolutely everywhere-- a tourist’s paradise.

View from the castle

Eventually our time ran out, so in the morning Chris and I caught a ‘wild taxi’ to the border and crossed back on our side of the lake. We were too late to catch the once-daily bus to Gjirokastёr, however, good fortune smiled our way and we got picked up by two French tourists on their way to Sarande. Score! We rode in their back seat, and passed the time listening to differences they noticed in Albania from their previous trip here in ’04.

This cow wanted to play 'chicken' during our face-off at the bridge. He won.

And we’re back, at least for now. I tried to really focus on getting work done and check in with all my counterparts, because we’re heading to Tiranё for our medical check-ups, and then after I’m going to the OA camp for a few days. Having said written that, I should mention that Gjirokastёr is a popular town for PCVs and we had on average 3-5 friends crashing on our couches every night since returning. I feel terribly guilty for leaving again so soon, but I’m not exactly carrying the world on my shoulders here anyways. Summer slumber will soon be over, and I’m glad to savor every moment of this before winter sets in…!

And we're back. Welcome home.