#9 China, Mongolia, and North Korea: Beijing, Ulan Bator, and Pyongyang Hi y’all: Welcome to the ninth, count ‘em, ninth episode of my travel series Hypertravel with Hardie, about all the trips I’ve taken, as told by the pictures. Beginning in the year 2008, with my Hypertravel Book, which I published in the year 2012. This time we’re going to China, Mongolia, and North Korea, so something not so simple, but rewarding. It’s not the longest trip, but one of the more interesting. Are you ready? Let’s go. The oppressive heat and humidity ruled in China, but at least Beijing seemed a bit drier than my brief stopover in Shanghai, if no cooler. I took a liking to the city right away, its hutong alleyways a link to the past that’d be hard to find almost anywhere else in China, even in places much smaller and more socially backward. Still the first main order of business was preparing for North Korea. That’s a traveler’s Iron Curtain; you don’t just wander in, whether on a bus, train, or plane. It not only takes planning, but it takes guides; that’s the law. Still it can be done, with a fistful of dollars, and then a few dollars more… AND a lotta’ red tape. The whole thing seemed so sketchy and uncertain and bureaucratic that I felt obligated to check out the Beijing operation in advance, while I still might have some control over the monies involved, all this before I’d even gone to Mongolia, mind you, so something of an anomaly for me logistically. I managed to find their office, so I knew they actually existed, over in the Sanlitun “bar district” of Beijing nonetheless. It’s calm over there by Thai standards btw. So, I went to see the Great Wall with the time remaining. Now it’s time for Mongolia. That was enough to placate my concerns for the moment, so I felt free to turn my attention to Mongolia. I figured that’s where the real action is. I was mostly right. Mongolia is an unwashed traveler’s gem, waiting to be polished, and maybe one of the last great frontiers in the world. This is an area the size of Alaska perched between China and Russia at the latitude of the US-Canada border, and busy playing one off the other since time immemorial, or at least since China invented gunpowder and managed to keep the wolves at bay… for a while. The capital at Ulan Bator is just a hint of what lies in the countryside. The last vestiges of communism have mostly disappeared, and capitalism just pops up all around seemingly at random, a shopping complex here and a karaoke bar there, by some economic law of psychological value. This is especially evident with motorized vehicles, where seemingly everybody got the idea to buy a car and carry passengers for hire right at about the same time. So welcome to the world’s biggest traffic jams. Allow plenty of time to catch your flight. Outside of Ulan Bator, the cityscape quickly devolves into the vastness of a northern plain that was likely one of the original marshalling yards for modern evolution in the inter-glacial ages when large herds of large animals would make their way across the Bering Strait and begin the long trek downward, all the while dodging the spears and arrows of the freakiest albino apes that the planet’s ever seen. Through a process of elimination I somehow decided that Tsetserleg (Hot) would be the focus of my journey, mostly just because of logistics; I had five days in Mongolia, and there just wasn’t any more time to travel than a day out, a day there and a day back, with an extra day for snafus, but much more time than I wanted to spend in Ulan Bator itself. Tsetserleg has a rep as one of the nicer provincial capitals… but that probably isn’t saying much. It also has something rather anomalous for the vast outback of northern Asia, a British B&B. I figure that was reason enough right there for the trip. The terrain reminded me a lot of Alaska or the Yukon—except for the massive amounts of livestock—so that’s good. Travel on public transportation is a bit difficult, but not overly so. And then just when you think you’re the last lonely traveler at the end of a long lonely road, a pack of bikers on Harleys will pull up and fill the house with beer and laughter and tales of tire-wear… just like they do in Whitehorse. Tsetserleg itself was a bit disappointing, Stalinist architecture and all, but that’s no reflection on Mongolia as a whole, which is much greater than the sum of its individual parts. Still, it was a pleasant sojourn, at least until the ride back. It rained the whole night before, so the ground was fairly soaked, and the road is not so good. So, when the driver took the bus off into a pasture to avoid potholes, slipping and slopping and spinning up mud, there was more than a little anxiety to deal with, a pretty wild ride, actually. We made it, though. We usually do. The main tourist attraction in Mongolia is nature, and that doesn’t convert easily to cities. So, you have to get out into the outback for the full effect of Mongolia, the gers (yurts) and the cowboys and the livestock and the nomadic way of life. Still, Ulan Bator is not at all bad. There are even encampments of gers there. And there are rock bands playing in the parks, too. And there are supermarkets. And then there’s Buddhism, something like a crucial link in the Mongolian historical dialectic of tribalism> empire> subservience> Buddhism> communism> independence. And it’s the Tibetan style, too, which must really bug the Chinese. Watching monks chant their chants in a replica of the temple at Lhasa was truly inspiring. I think I felt something move. North Korea is something else entirely. If Ulan Bator is the wild wild West, then Pyongyang is the exact opposite, something so controlled and coordinated as to be almost devoid of instinct or logic. Getting there is the hardest part, though. After all the runaround and the red tape and the rigmarole and the razzmatazz, the actual being there was somewhat tame… after the Customs inspection, that is. There they confiscated all the cell phones, with almost religious fervor, as if they were the epitome of capitalist evil. Anything with GPS is strictly forbidden, so maybe that’s the deal; they don’t want anyone calling in an airstrike I guess. That makes sense. Laptops are okay in North Korea, but you’re back in the pre-Internet era with them. Most people probably don’t even realize there WAS a pre-Internet era of computers, as if that’s why they exist. And don’t even think about Wi-Fi. Like Cuba, there is none. If you look for a connection, there is simply nothing there. Unlike Cuba, you’re not likely to be able to talk to anyone about it. None of the guides ever mentioned it. Few tourists speak Korean. In Cuba, I talked with many Cubans about many things, the most memorable quote being, “I’m fifty-five years old, and you’re the first American I’ve ever talked to.” The second most memorable was, “Why do you need Internet?” (Gulp). After spending the first evening at the Arirang Mass Games, the next day was a whirlwind of monuments and memorials and assorted minglings with the masses, in the markets and the metro. And there aren’t much in the way of markets, really, just stuffy old state-run souvenir stores and book stores full of Kim-style Communist propaganda. But the restaurants were good, if uninspiring in atmosphere. Everything felt sterile and regimented, institutional. There were even fewer vehicles, mostly mass transit and a few private vehicles for government and diplomatic personnel. And there’s the epiphany right there. If the whole regimented system reeks of mind-control and brainwash, then the functionality of a city without private cars borders on true inspiration. These are cities truly intended to live in, something that cities rarely are. More often than not, a city is intended for commerce, and often little else, people scurrying home to fairytale suburbs at the end of the workday for the actual living of life. In Pyongyang the tallest buildings are full of apartments not offices. It’s actually quite inspiring, a city with no pollution or traffic jams, quite the contrast to Ulan Bator. Indeed Pyongyang is probably the quietest cleanest city I’ve ever been in, and something of a revelation that that would even be possible. A few days after I left, typhoon Bolaven hit, same time as Hurricane Isaac in the US, some of my tourist buddies still there. I hope they’re okay. We also went to the USS Pueblo. Don’t ask. Back in Beijing there wasn’t much left to do locally, since I’d already visited the Great Wall, and I was saving the Forbidden City for the last day. So I went to Chengde, now only a few hours away after the completion of the new four-lane highway. We beg for high-speed Internet; they still beg for high-speed highways. Hotels in China didn’t have Wi-Fi in the year 2012 btw; they had ETHERNET (slow-ass hard-wire data ports). Chengde is on the UN World Heritage list for its Qing-era summer palace and Buddhist temples, but I’ll confess to not seeing much of them. The pollution was so bad on the day I was there I decided not to press my luck too much. I’ve still got a cough. It’s nice to see a smaller city, though, at a half million people Chengde being something of a village by Chinese standards. Back in Beijing I went to see the Forbidden City almost as an afterthought, that and to spend the hotel deposit that they refund at the end of your stay and which would all be eaten up in charges if you tried to exchange it. And it was way cool, like a magic Chinese box full of smaller nested boxes. All in all it was a good trip, if a bit wet and unusually muggy, at least in the southern climes.

Hi y’all: Welcome to the 8th episode of my Hypertravel with Hardie video series of all the trips I've taken over the last twenty years. This coincides with the travel journal that I wrote called Hypertravel: 100 Countries in two years, and many more that came after. So, in effect, these first eight episodes are a pictorial version of the same book, and more, since this episode contains events and pictures that came after. And there is much more to come, with maybe even a Hypertravel II book to match, if all goes well. But this episode is about the South Pacific, including the major countries of the Philippines and Australia. So, let’s start there, then. Are you ready? Let’s go! Sydney is the largest city in Australia, by far, even if not the capital, and that’s where much of the action of the country takes place. Unfortunately for me, Australia was in the midst of its China boom, when they were investing like crazy and driving the value of the Australian dollar to a level higher than that of the US dollar, with resulting high prices. So, there’s not much time to waste chilling, but there is some time to sight-see. So, after the obligatory tourist stops of the opera House and the bridge or whatever, I’m on my way to Melbourne, to check things out there. It’s far to the south and so colder there in the southern hemisphere, appropriate for this Christmas season. The only ethnic neighborhoods in either city, though, are the various Chinatowns, since anyone besides ‘good Asians’ are subject to thorough scrutiny and likely denial of long-term entry. That means that there are many short-time helpers, mostly students and travelers like myself who come for a year to do the work that most Australians aren’t interested in. That means that there are also many low-budget hostels for short-time stays for me and them, too, because by this time I’m a confirmed hostel customer. Does Santa Claus surf? I don’t know, but by this time I’ve got to go, next stop New zealand, little brother to the land of OZ. New Zealand has been on my radar for a long time, though, thanks to its reputation as an ecotopia, just like the ecotopia of Oregon where I was living in the 1980’s. If the capital and largest city of New zealand, Auckland, was analogous to Seattle of the Pacific NW, then I suppose that Wellington would be analogous to Portland where I once lived. But I didn’t make it to Wellington due to time constraints and a previous earthquake in Christchurch, which destroyed much infrastructure in that city, New Zealand’s third largest. I did go to Fangarei, though, spelled Whangerei, at the entrance to Maori territory. So that was nice. And I moved downtown when I got back to Auckland town, in a high-rise hostel that was something like Latino central for the city. I did go to the nearby islands of Waheke and Rangitoto, too, both lovely and I had some good convos with some locals, that made me remember why I’m here and where I came from. Like Oregon, within a minute of meeting these people we’re finishing each others’ sentences and talking about old times the minute before. It’s New Year’s Eve, too, so it’s festive downtown and I’m hanging out with the Hare Krishnas. They always have good parties. Happy New Year! Fiji’s the next stop, but that’s a working concept as the hub of Pacific hub-and-spoke travel, so I’ll be in and out a few times within the next month. So, I stay a day and then head straight to the Solomons Islands, famous for the Battle of Guadalcanal in WWII. That means that if the sea level were to fall a few meters then a battlefield would present itself in the surrounding waters like naval ghosts from Christmases past rising from the ashes like zombies. But I’m just trying to get comfortable, and the rasta-flavored GH where I’m staying on the outskirts of town is just not working for me, so help me, Carmelita, before I sink down. So, even though there’s an ex-pat Britpub in the neighborhood, I bargain for a week in downtown Honiara, knowing the plane only comes once a week, so that’s okay. And I roam around the Chinatown, bruised and battered since the locals tried to shut them down after a fit of spite or jealousy, I suppose, but they always come back like perennials that they are. I consider the nearby islands, even one called Tulagi like my favorite bar in Boulder CO, back in the 1970’s, but spend most of my time studying Melanesian Pidgin language and trying to find similarities between it and the other languages I know like Spanish and Mississippi English. I spend more time in Fiji on the rebound. Nadi is not the largest town, but it/s near the international airport, so that’s convenient. All the groovers go out to the Yasawa Islands, so it’s only the backpackers here on Wailoaloa Beach. But it’s okay, especially on Wednesday night, which is Kava night, featuring the Kavaholics on folk instruments and the rest of us on the slightly tipsy brew called Kava. Then there are the fire dancers, unsure of what kind of music to dance to. But the kava seems to be ubiquitous in the Melanesia region, and if the Solomons are the ‘real thing’, then Fiji is Melanesia lite, literally, the product of many eggs scrambling over many years to get the mix of features that we call Fiji. But If I imagined it as a tourism monster, then that is not true. And neither is it for me, either, better as a centerpoint to all than a destination in its own right. The town of Nadi is nothing special and I assume the capital of Suva to be not much more, but still interesting for its social structure, if nothing else. At one point the Indians almost equalled the locals in number until the Fijian army sent them packing. They run the military and the Indians run the businesses. They share the government, while the Chinese wait in the wings. The food is killer, Indian or Chinese, vegetarian optional. Next stop is Samoa. Samoa is comprised of west and east, of course, Apia and Pago Pago, independent or American, Sunday or Saturday, since the two capitals straddle the international date line with all the confusion that entails, i.e. they’re separate, as the two airports for the two different regions in Apia would suggest. This is no longer Melanesia, though, but Polynesia, descendants of all the Austronesians that left the Asian continent to Taiwan, all within the last few 1000’s of years, and then spread out from there with excellent navigation skills. Melanesians came much earlier, mostly by land. But this is the cradle of Polynesian culture. There are churches everywhere, so on Sunday I go church-hopping, just follow the music. I don’t want to stay in Apia the whole time, though, so I scout out the outer islands and eventually settle on the most unlikely one, US Samoa, centered on Pago Pago, in the US outlying territories, complete with not only Kmart and KFC, but Napa Auto Parts and the US Post Office. Apia is much cheaper, though, and the people are huge in both. It must be genetic, or diet, or both. The westerners still wear lavalavas, while the easterners have spiked hair and other punk fashion statements. Pago Pago has a beautiful harbor, too. Many of the American Samoans are long gone to America proper, though, so many westerners come over to fill the job corps, just one big happy family. Next stop is Tonga. If you’re saving the best for last, then this is not a bad choice. We beat the rain out of Samoa, but Tonga is not much better, and I’ve got flu-like symptoms, so I’m being cautious. I do the Sunday church scene with a Finnish guy, and we even get to sit in on a traditional wedding ceremony and feast. The city of Nuku’alofa is nothing special, but the graveyards are incredible, folk art of the highest order. They don’t wear lavalavas, either, but real grass skirts. Storms are threatening again, but we manage to make it out on time, just a stop back in Fiji, then on to Honolulu, with a stop in Kiribati, then on to LA. So this trip over, but the narrative is not, because i neglected to mention the trip’s very first stop, in Papua New Guinea. It’s a weird place, so I didn’t want to set the wrong tone for the rest of the trip. How weird? Let’s just say that these are some of the nicest people in one of the world’s most dangerous places. Not weird enough? How’s this, then? Until the advent of airline travel, no one even knew that there were tribes in the interior of PNG, much less the full 800 languages. That’s less than 100 years ago. It’s travel policy for me to do the weirdest things first, so I went straight from Thailand to Brisbane in northern Australia, and from there to PNG. There are no roads out of Port Moresby, so I went to Lae on the northern coast with the idea to continue by road to Goroka, heart of the tribal highlands. The trip got off to a bad start, though, and I missed my ride from the airport to my pre-booked hostel at the Summer Institute of Linguistics, the infamous tribal translators. Nobody knew the place, so I ended up elsewhere, with resulting disruptions to my schedule. Oh, well, that’s life. So, I stayed in Lae, mostly cowering in fear, from the reputation of the place and the looks on people’s faces. I got an earlier flight back to Port Moresby and stayed with the Christian missionaries there, with plenty of stories amongst them, including one who said he was robbed four times on the very road that I wanted to be on in Goroka. So, I satisfied myself with the Port Moresby streetside crafts market to satisfy my vision quest for the interior. That’s all for this particular trip, but there’s another waiting to do, in the North and Central Pacific. 2012 This trip got reignited a year or so later, with a trip to the Philippines and nearby environs. The Philippines is one of the more popular destinations in the Pacific, but at the same time one of the more difficult to get to traditionally, though that is changing now with the advent of budget airlines, of which the Philippines has a few. But at this time, 2011-12, the big boys still largely controlled the skies and so prices were equally high. Which is good, in a way, because otherwise I might not have bothered with Guam, the Marshall Islands, and the Federated States of Micronesia, which are also in my month-long itinerary of January 2012. But the Philippines are the largest peach in this pie, and that’s where the trip starts. Manila reminds me of nothing so much as Bangkok, Thailand, where I’ve also spent much time and energy. And if the bars and prostitution are the starkest reminder of that, then the signs are also much in evidence elsewhere: the street food and the street scene most notably. The biggest differences lie in Manila’s relatively less development and the lower tourist numbers to match. Part of that could be the Philippines more remote location, and then there’s the greater poverty. There’s also the relative difference in their response to the Chinese presence, but be sure that they both have Chinatowns, Jake. Then there’s Makati, Ermita, old town Intramuros and still more, but they’re all crowded, as the inflated family sizes would indicate, one of the largest outside Africa. This trip will only cover the main island of Luzon, though, so I’m immediately drawn to the north. That’s where you’ll find one of the rarest places in all the country, Baguio City, onetime hill station for the resident Americans who controlled the country. Call me American and count me in. The Philippines is generally hot and sweaty, even for a Mississippian, so Baguio is a welcome relief, at almost a mile high. That elevation is nice anywhere in the tropics I find. At only 150mi/250km from the capital, that is convenient, also. The going is slow on the roads in the Cordillera, though, and that’s Spanish FYI, which is one of my hobbies here, mixing and mashing Spanish with the Tagalog equivalents which are many, usually distinguished more by spelling than meaning, which are often absent as the many women named Corazon can easily attest to. They have no idea what it means. Language evolves like DNA, almost exactly. So, I go to the most Spanish of Filipino towns, which is Vigan, but nobody speaks Spanish. The architecture is nice, though. But my main interests are the tribal areas, and that requires a backtrack to Baguio before traveling into the interior. The rice terraces are beautiful there, down the road in Banaue. But first there is Sagada, the hippie capital of the north. That means banana pancakes and more, of course, like reggae bars and yogurt parlors. But the drive is the real thrill, through beautiful scenery and winding roads. I’ve finally got a window in my room, too, so I’m happy about that. Banaue is nice, too, though notable for its differences, in price and custom. It likes to shut down early at night. There are tribal people, though, and not shy about it, so that’s nice, even if they are looking for tips. Given my limited time, this is a nice little taste, but it will have to do for the time being. Next stop is Guam. Guam shares much of the same history as the Philippines, first with Spain, and then with the USA. The big difference, of course, is that they never got independence, whether they ever wanted it or not. It feels Japanese, though, even if the culture is technically Micronesian, as distinct from the Melanesian and Polynesian of the south Pacific. The restaurants are Asian. The bars are American. But if this is the crossroads of culture, then Pohnpeio, FSM, is the Micronesian ‘real thing’ and almost the opposite of Guam. Because they have the historic ruins of Nan Madol, second only to Easter Island is terms of Pacific island archeology. They also have ‘sakau’, their version of kava, no ceremony required. It’s stronger, also. But the power is off much of the time, taking much of the shine off of what would otherwise be a splendid place. Then there’s Majuro, major city of the Marshall Islands. These are atolls, not volcanoes, so when the sea levels rise, then they will be the first to go. The Chinese are there in full force, too, likely as a stepping stone to the USA, of which it is a part. They are most famous for their nuclear tests, though, so that is a dubious distinction. Do you remember the song, “No Bikini Atoll?” That’s here. Again, like Pohnpei, FSM, there are few tourists, so that’s enormous potential being wasted. There are good churches, though, flowery shirts and all. I feel right at home. You gotta’ believe in something. This island is the perfect metaphor, a long narrow chain of livability surrounded by doubts and uncertainties. Did mention that you can walk down the only road looking to separate and different oceans on either side. This trip is over. C U in Honolulu. If you like these pictures and this story then please LIKE and SUBSCRIBE. It goes a long way. Thanks! C U next time, I hope.

El Viejo Viajero Does Cebu

Hi, I’m Hardie. Welcome to my new vlog El Viejo Viajero, the old traveler, my Spanish nom de guerre in recognition of my many years in Latin America, and the past history of my current home in the Philippines as a previous member of the Spanish Empire. I’ve called Cebu home for more than two years now, but I’ve never really vlogged it, or even blogged about it, with a v or a b, unless you count the period of my hospitalization, which was almost the end of my career as a traveler, and a travel blogger—almost. Because when the title of your blog is ‘Have Catheter, Will Travel,” then you’re pressing your luck, and hedging your bets, beyond the point which might be considered healthy. That was then; this is now. So now I want to pretend that I’m the new kid in town, fresh and full of excitement, ready to conquer the world, while telling you the best place to get the best views of a world equal parts water and earth, history and mystery, truth and consequence. Because that’s my job, as I see it, to explain history and culture as best I can, complete with photographs, since so few do, while they concentrate on the bars and pubs, restaurants and clubs, while ignoring what came before and what needs still to be explained. If you’re new to Cebu, then it all began down on the water’s edge near the city’s center. That’s where today you’ll find Magellan’s Cross, the actual cross that Ferdinand Magellan brought to the islands to begin its worship of Christianity, back in the year 1521 when Magellan landed as part of his round-the-world travel. You remember Magellan, right? That’s his English name. He’s also known as Fernando Magallanes in Spanish and Magalhaes in Portuguese, his native language. If this was his approximate half-way point around the world, it was also his final resting place, as he fell victim to the recriminations of the locals led by Lapu-lapu. May he rest in peace, though his body has never been found. Nearby is the basilica of Santo Nino, the country’s oldest Roman Catholic Church, dating from 1565, when the Holy child (Santo Nino) was found. It’s also a fully functioning modern church, also, so morning mass is easy to find at 0800 am in English and other times in Cebuano. It’s all quite beautiful and spiritually fulfilling, especially if you’re Catholic. Remember to dress appropriately, with long pants and no spaghetti straps. Also nearby is the historic Fort San Pedro, constructed in 1700-something to keep the enemies at bay and the pirates at sea, but just between you and me I suspect it was also designed to oversee the burgeoning galleon trade with Acapulco, Mexico, which yearly transferred supplies and product from one port to the other, while the Chinese waited to count their silver from Taxco, Mexico. This is no mock-up job, either, no. These are the actual cannons used to forestall the plunder of precious resources by precocious freebooters. Also, not far away, and still in the downtown area is the traditional fresh market at Carbon, where you can get all your fresh fruits and vegetables. It goes late into the night. You probably won’t be staying there, though, since most tourists now stay uptown, or even farther away at Mandaue or Lahug or Lapu Lapu near the airport. I like it near Fuente Osmena, though, which is like the new center, since the old Chinese centers have long since lost significance and many of the malls, especially Ayala, near IT Park, now attract many tourists. Many museums are centrally located, also, and are often historic. The Chinese still run many of the businesses, though, and scam centers, too, as the recent news reports can verify. Whether their connections are to mainland China or diaspora networks in Singapore, Malaysia, and Thailand, I don’t know. But since the main Chinese dialect here is Hokkien aka Fukien, that points to a shared history with the diaspora, more than the modern mainland putonghua language and CCP politics. I’ve never explored Taoist temples, though, before, so that’s new for me here, and they look like something so Chinese-y that it’s almost hard to believe I’ve really never been aware of them. And there are others besides the main tourist attraction in Lahug. There are also some Chinese Buddhist temples, also, and by comparison they look much more conservative, with fewer dragons and more dharma, I guess. I’d say Taoism is to Chinese Buddhism what Hinduism is to Vajrayana Buddhism, though that might be an over-generalization. Theravada Buddhism is ancestral to both. One of the main tourist attractions now, though, is TOPS, the recently remodeled literal high point of the city, which ‘tops out’ (pun intended) at about 600 meters, above sea level, or 2000 feet, depending on which language you speak. Promoted now as ‘the Circle’, this was forever the place to bring your hot date for romantic views of the city and normal life far below, while making whoopie far above the fray. Now it’s been heavily rebuilt and promoted as 'the Circle’, something of a sky mall, or at least the food court portion thereof. So, for a couple bucks USD per head, you can have your choice of luscious lumps and libidinous libations while looking down at the city any time of the day. The only problem, of course, is that it’s a long ways up from the city, both time and distance, but mostly time, depending on traffic. Because, depending on where you leave from, it may only be 5mi/8km, but that’s at least a half hour as the crow flies, and possible much more, not to mention a hefty taxi charge for the privilege. Cheap shuttles are available from IT Park if you’re a legit tourist, not a midnight rambler. That’s as far as many tourists will get, anyway, since it’s more central and typical for the average tourist in that neighborhood. And if it sounds like a high-tech business park, well, it is that, sort of kind of almost maybe. I’m pretty sure IBM is there, but I know that Amazon is not, unless you’re talking about the whole neighborhood, not just the block that is technically IT Park. But I think that it’s better known as a neighborhood, and the most-traveled strip there would probably be Ayala Mall, either the original not so far away from the center, or the Central Bloc, which forms something of a continuum with IT Park as the inner mall portion of which IT Park is the outer walk. Now, I know what you’re thinking: a mall? Really? That’s what you’re recommending as a tourist sight to see? To which the answer is no, not me. But for others, yes, absolutely. Now, I won’t call any names, but another vlogger, showcased exactly this, and TOPS, and nothing else, as the places to see in Cebu. WTF? Why? Well, for one thing, it IS a bit hot and sweaty almost any time of the day or night, true, so some fresh cool air IS nice. But, I think the main attraction of the uptown neighborhood and the malls, of which there are quite a few, is the chance to forget that the Philippines has a level of poverty that you won’t find in Thailand or Malaysia, and probably not even Myanmar or Kampuchea. And, while the reasons for this are endlessly debated, the result is the same: it ain’t pretty. So, rather than try to solve the problem, which might take years, if not decades, sometimes it’s easier to just escape it. I suspect that’s why some of the nicest malls are in the poorest countries now, while many wealthy countries have largely abandoned the concept. This would seem to be a relatively new role for the Philippines, also, which not so long ago was one of the brighter spots of a once-bleak SE Asian landscape. Some of the loudest critics blame the colonizers and the corruption while avoiding the birthrate which rivals that of Africa on even a good day. This is a very Catholic country, and large families are traditional. They were in Thailand, also, until the government started offering free hysterectomies. China’s problem is now under-population, not over. Still, it somewhat defines the Philippines now, and it is worthwhile to explore a little bit, if not more. Because many of these are people of fine disposition, even if their circumstances are a bit challenging. They seem to be at a crossroads that many countries already passed by years, if not decades, ago. But that doesn’t mean that they are worth any less, only that they have challenges to face. If escape is one way to face it, it’s also one way to deal with it, directly. So, many Filipinos migrate out-of-country to support their extended families, while foregoing the larger questions of how to avoid repeating this cycle endlessly. That is happening, though, little by little, as birth rates gradually come down, and women consider options for themselves besides the traditional choices, of motherhood, maid, or mama-san. These things take time. But their lives are not wretched. Even in the most basic of neighborhoods, they manage to maintain some dignity and decorum, while struggling to scrape by financially. There are always others doing worse, and many mothers with children spend their nights on the street. Most men could care less. These things take time. If you like this content, please like and subscribe, and I will really appreciate it. I hope to continue my Filipino travel blogs for a month or two and I also do some old travels on hypertravel with Hardie, on the same channel. C U there. Thanks.

Hypertravel with Hardie #7: Welcome to East Africa

Welcome to the latest, and seventh, episode of my Hypertravel with Hardie video series, here on YouTube, about all the trips I’ve taken in the last twenty years or so. This trip to East Africa just so happens to perfectly coincide with Chapter Seven of my original Hypertravel book, which I published in 2012, so I’m glad that’s convenient if you’re following along. This came only a few weeks after my Mideast trip, so that’s still in my heart and in my head, with only the Rose Bowl Parade and my girlfriend’s face to define the space between. I could’ve just stayed in London for that interim period, but that’s a decision I had to make. Africa is a bit of a tough nut to crack, after all, so any extra time and space to rest up and catch my breath is more than welcome. Often that happens in TJ, Mexico, actually, even though my wife is in LA, California USA. And this trip is no exception to the ‘Africa is broken’ theme. Because, right off the plane, at 07 am, my hostel driver in Nairobi, Kenya, informs me at the airport that the hostel is full, and the rain is falling, and a no-tell motel won’t tell, BUT..;. My driver’s got a place, though, of course, HIS place, conveniemtly located and ready to rock, all at affordable prices. It’s raining. It’s only for 2-3 nights. So I do it, damn the torpedoes. I’ve got a private bedroom, at least, and a kid that loves me, so who cares if I have to shit and shower in the same place. Welcome to Africa, and don’t forget to spread your legs when you flush! They’re all out partying the first night, of course, they flush with newfound wealth, what once was my wealth. I guess I can’t blame them. ‘The chief’, though, that’s his moniker, is nice enough. I just cant’ help the feeling that this is all a set-up. How would he know the hostel is full at 07 am, after all? This was the year 2010. Internet bookings were new. People come and go every day. This was not a weekend. So, it’s suspicious, but what else would i do? Hire a taxi to the original place? It was raining. At least The Chief took me out to his village, so that was nice. I skipped the parties. This requires full atention. But i got my onward ticket the first day, and assured him that i’d be back. That’ll work. Next stop is Uganda, Kampala by night bus. So, we do the border formalities between the two countries by candle light. Nice. From there it’s only a short hop into the city. And it’s pretty nice there, nicer than most. If I’d known that when I was there, I might’ve stayed longer. I’ve given up on hostel bookings in Africa, though, so I’m going old school again. No, not Lonely planet, older than that. I mean looking around the bus station, as long as it’s central, and finding a nice cheap place there. It works. That’s what i wuold do in the 70’s, long before Lonely Planet. But Kampala reminds me a bit of the old Deep South in the US, the nice part. Kigali, Rwanda, should be so nice. The night ride to there is interesting, especially Mbarara partying all night, but the Customs by canlelight is getting old. It gets worse. If Rwanda is cool and aloof, then, Burundi is downright racist, with calls of ‘Muzungu’ following me around like a bad smell. The views are good, though, these the mountain provinces of the continent. They had a war, of course, rival Tutsis and Hutus, so those feelings may still be a bit hard around the edges. But the strangest thing is the plastic bag policy in Rwanda, which will literally confiscate your plastic ones, and charge you to replace them with paper ones. The cost of an infraction is fifty bucks USD. Ouch. From there I buy a ticket to Dar es Salaam in Tanzania. Otherwise, it’s an even longer drive to Malawi, so that’ll come later. There’s only one problem: Tanzania doesn’t allow bus travel at night. There are workarounds, though, or maybe runarounds, better said. Dar es Salaam is nice, enough, too, but hot hot hot. It’s a long run to Lilongwe, Malawi, too, a long frieght run, since the whole bus is packed to the gills with goods. That means long waits at the border crossings, of course, which consumed almost a whole day. The re-pack is even worse, so we’re soon a rolling time bomb. I finally find a backpacker hostel, though, South African tent-camp style, so that’s cool. I always liked it when backpackers were once campers, complete with sleeping bag. But it’s basically pretty boring. Mbeya is better, a crossroads town in southern Tanzania, but only if you like clockwork. Muslims apprently do, along with cats and other fetishes. But here all the mosques are chock full of clocks! So, I catch the ferry to Zanzibar, just in time for the Sauti za Busara music festival. And it’s good, but there’s a problem. The power is off all day. Welcome to Pakistan. Welcome to Nepal. Welcome to that cheap-ass room down the hall. Some people work during the day. Digital nomads do it at home, wherever home happens to be. Prices are twice as high as Dar es Salaam, too. So, I go back and then head north to Kilimanjaro, the most famous mountain in Africa. Arusha is the access point, and it’s pretty nice, too, cooler if not cold, and backpacker central in this part of Africa. It’s a bone-jarring affair from there back to Nairobi, though, but that’s the deal, so I find my own place there this time around and report my previous hostel hijacker ASAP, upon departure. The circle is now complete. Stockhom Syndrome? Ha. No way, Jose’. The flight to Madagascar is rainy but nice, as is Antananarivo itself, the capital city. It may not rival San’aa, Yemen, for beauty, but it comes close. And San’aa has since been largely destroyed, too. These are original Asians, we know, from Indonesia’s islands, so one of the major mysteries of world history. There are others of similar bent. But the interesting thing is that they still occupy the highlands while relegating the lowlands to Africans, not only maintaining a distinct look, but also distinct habits, like rice and noodles. Count me in. They also have dual currency, so that’s fun, constantly doing math in the head. But the Big Thrill in Madagascar comes at the very end; hundreds of joggers on the road to the airport at 04 am. Somehow i feel totally vindicated–about everything. Comoros should take lessons. I don’t know if all French colonies are jerks, or what, but these guys have an attitude, just like Djibouti or Tahiti or Cannes. But it’s okay for a few days, adn then I’m back to madagascar, ready to see some new terrain. But my body won/t allow it. I’ve got a case of gout that will barely let me walk, and certainly not travel. So, I just get homey and cozy and resigned to the signs, the signs of age and physical decay that plague us the boomers and boners and never-go-homers that populate the farther reaches of civilization. There’s no rest for the wicked, though. When money disappears out of my pocket, i trace it back to a collection of kids crowding a thoroughfare to make things tight and then slipping and sliding fingers when the timing is right. It works every time, twenty-five bucks for the little yippers and yappers. Then I realize that this is my 121st country. That’s 11 squared. Did you know that the difference between squared numbers increases by two each time, so that you can could by odd numbers between them? If the squares are 4, 9,16, 25, 36, etc, then the numbers between them are 3, 5, 7, 9, 11, etc. There’s always something to celebrate. This trip is over, just back to LA via London, same ol same ol. I hope you liked the story and the video. It’s all true. So please like and subscribe if you did. I’d really appreciate it. Next week we’ll go to the South Pacific, see you there.

Hypertravel with Hardie #6: UK and North Europe

Welcome to the Sixth episode of my Hypertravel with Hardie video series here and on YouTube. This episode corresponds most closely with Chapter 8 of the original Hypertrvel book, that inspired and defines these videos, but we’re slowly drifting away from that model. So this episode begins with Chapter 4, which also closely corresponds to Episode 4. Got it? I doubt it, because the book depicted an actual travel narrative, while these video are more encyclopedic, in an effort to facilitate travel by any others interested in ‘seeing it all’ methodically. Because, whether you cross every border or not, to see 150 or more countries in your lifetime will take some effort and coordination. This series shows how I went about it methodically, and hopefully can be a guide to others, eventually on VR, Virtual Reality. This is all backpack-style traveling, too, so anyone can do it. I did it all alone, with no guides or special skills, and at costs that would be no more than the typical US apartment in the typical US city. This trip will concentrate mostly on North Europe, first in June 2009 and then again in April 2010. Are you ready? Let’s go! It’s sometimes fun to mix and match regions if the timing is convenient, so after my previous trip to the Horn of Africa and the Caucasus, I continued to Scandinavia, where I’d never been, up until then. It’s generally expensive, so a bit antithetical to the concept of backpack travel, but still rewarding nonetheless. Budget flights are good for that. So, I flew in from Istanbul to Stockholm late at night and then made my way to a place called the Boatel? Can you guess the rest? Yes, it floats. Which was all very cool, and so was Stockholm, but the place fills up on weekends, so I was off quickly to Goteborg (Gothenburg) to bide some time. My digital nomad inclinations were given a boost there, too, since it’s all remote and digital, even e-tickets for the Eurolines bus long before China and its fans started bragging about WeChat and Alipay and the QR code of life fulfillment. So, what if the cashless country used credit cards to beat China by a decade? If the average Chinese person had any credit, then they’d be using them, too. Sweden even prohibits smoking. Try that in China. Bhutan is better. Drinking Is ubiquitous. Look it up. Copenhagen, Denmark is cool, too, if you can afford it, Tivoli Gardens and all, kinda like Disneyland for semi-adults. At least you can walk to it. Oslo, Norway, is also okay, but I’d really like to head up the peninsula to see more, so this is just the warm-up. Everybody speaks English, it seems. But it’s pricey, so I beat a hasty retreat to Helsinki by night flight, and dig in a bit more there, with its cheaper digs and all. They have Euros, too, so that’s a convenient way to spend money, and with many street markets there, also. They even have reindeer burgers! But they don’t have an Indo-European language, so any further involvement would be challenging. They’ve got a close cousin across the way, though, that’s Estonia, so that’s my next stop, arrival there by ferry to the cute capital Tallinn. The proximity to Russia seems to be calling me, though, so I make a mental note of that for future reference. They even have gingerbread houses and the munchies to match, any hour of the day, so that’s not a bad way to play, if your budget can handle it. I finally took a bus straight through Riga and Vilnius, Latvia and Lithuania, on to Warsaw, Poland. It’s defined by its contradictions, but I’ll be back. This trip got re-ignited almost a year later, with Russia as the locus. I’d already been to Ukraine by that point, so the north was now the focus, even crossing tracks with some of the previous trip some nine months before. This segment even envisioned a continuing trip to west Africa, but that had some surprises, to be mentioned later. But Russia was the juggernaut, Russia and Moscow, especially, complete with $400 visa charge, which I did in LA, and which included LOI, Letter of Invitation, old-fashioned visa BS. West Africa was a pain, too, visas necessaary for every tiny country, but that’s another story, almost. The high charge for Russia is worth it, maybe, if you are taking the Orient Express to Mongolia and China, but I had no intention of that, though details were left flexible. I only knew that I’d be visiting Moscow and St. Petersburg, and possibly more, with Belarus as dessert, if at all possible. But almost all of these trips include London, either as stopover or connection, even if seldom worth the mention. But this time would be the exception. A half day in LHR at the beginning seemed to confirm that, almost ominous. Even more ominous would be the female suicide bombers on the Moscow subway on March 29, 2010, the same day that I would later saunter in, this only a few months after the Yemen-based Christmas Bomber shot his wad on a flight from Amsterdam to Detroit. But those two Muslim girls in Moscow killed 38 at two separate stations during rush hour, apparently for the Islamic cause in the Caucasus. So, I come strolling in later the same day with no Russian lingo, and no English to be found, hardly. But I knew some Cyrillic alphabet by then, so that helps, since many of the words are the same in their Greek and our Latin etymologies. It’s 2010, though, and Russia was still Communist in many ways, bureaucratic BS the least of it, registering anything and everything all the time. So, I’m quickly looking for an exit after the tourist sites of Red Square and St. Basil’s cathedral. I even considered heading straight thru Belarus to Poland, but I ended up in St. Petersburg, instead, a more rational decision. So, I caught the train to St. Pete, and that’s very nice, well worth the wait. The scenery from the train isn’t bad, either, straight from the Old West, it seems, so I feel right at home. The Hermitage Museum downtown is the big deal, though, relics from ancient Russia, the steppe lands, and Asia to boot, kinda like strolling through the pages of history. Mostly, though, modern Russia is ready to rock, and if the rock band Mumiy Troll isn’t enough for you, then ageing classic rockers from the US and UK are ready to fill the bill. This was 2010, remember, before Ukraine in 2014, and Russia waas still opening up to the West, before its current tilt to China. St. Pete is the most western city of Russia, with extensive connections to Europe, so that’s gold for indie travel, and means that I can catch a train stright to Vilnius, Lithuania, the same city I briefly saw on the bus from Tallinn, Estonia to Warsaw, Poland, so this time I plan a few days. It’s nice, too, old-fashioned Baltic, with some nice modern flourishes thrown in, like a statue of Frank Zappa! Cool. I see the Belarus consulate, but they don’t look too encouraging for travel. Ex-KGB headquarters is interesting, though, aka the Genocide Museum, and the National Museum is not bad, either. I walk my little feet off, but things are changing all the time. I need to get back early to London to do my visa for Ghana, so I blow off my Warsaw stay and head straight to the airport from Vilnius. Wizz Air charges for everything, so I’m wearing half my luggage with the rest stuffed i my pockets as I board the plane to London. The visa will take a few days, so I now have time to kill and that means Scotland, specifically Loch Ness, since I’d already done Stonehenge the year before, almost lost a bag there, even, so this is good timing. I even hung out in London then, for a film festival and music, so time to revisit the north, which I aborted only a few years before. This was my UK decade, after all, after I almost settled into some business there, based in Hounslow, which I ultimately gave up. The north country is nice, though, Inverness included, pub central. Then the volcano in iceland erupted and the drifting ash is closing airports all over, including London. So, my passport is ready, but the skies are not. So, this is now a UK trip, and thousands of travelers are stuck. I catch a bus to Belfast, though, and take it from there. No one’s going there, except me. And it’s not Dublin, but it’s not bad. I even got to see London Derry, too, on my hostel’s free tour. I’m a confirmed hostel guy by now, for the wifi, if nothing else, but the low prices and travel vibe are nice, too. There was no 5G then, remember, just laptops in the transition from desktops to smart phones, so right up my alley, writer’s alley, camera optional. Finally, the skies clear, and that means I need to re-book my Air Afriqiyah flight from London via Libya to Ghana. Yep, that’s correct. And Ghana’s okay, but Burkina Faso is not, through no fault of its own, my laptop broken into squiggles and giggles just at the thought of my half-baked travel narratives. I can’t travel a month without my laptop. This trip is over. Africa bites the dust, once again, just like my kidney stones in Mali two years ago, thieves in South Africa last year, and now this. If you like the content, please like and subscribe. We’ll have a successful trip to Africa next time, I promise. Bye now.

Hypertravel with Hardie #5: the Mideast

Hi ya’ll, welcome to the fith episode of Hypertravel with Hardie here on YouTube. Actually our fifth episode here was really the sixth episode in the original Hypertravel book, but mostly left out here because of the misfortune I encountered in South Africa, being robbed in broad daylight on the streets of Nelspruit, South Africa, not Jo’burg, but a bucolic smaller city, leafy and green until the streets turned mean and left me standing there with not much to spare but my self-interest and my self-preservation instincts, forcing me to return to Jo’Burg for a temporary passport, but no camera, unfortunately. So, I finished my trip with only a 3-month passport, including all of southern Africa, including Zambia, Namibia, Botswana, Lesotho, Swaziland and Mozambique. I even continued to East Europe to make my rounds there, which I dutifully wrote up, but without a camera to document the digs. Ukraine was nice; I remember that much, that slice of a little southwest corner, featuring Lviv, that was the northeastern culmination of my southeastern foray that included Romania, Moldova, and now Ukraine, even Poland. Before it’s all over, I’ll also visit my one-hundredth country Andorra on this trip, but the more important thing is to hustle a quickie passport ASAP back in LA, and that’s possible if you’ve got a trip planned. So, I told them I was going to Mexico. They bought it. So August and September weren’t too good, but October 2009 is looking up. C U down the road. I always stay in Mexico during my interim travel. Maybe I’ll write more on this for another East Europe episode, if I can find some pictures. But this episode is mostly about the Mideast. So, that means a nice return to the one-region/one trip format. But it’ll still be hub-and-spoke with Cairo at the center, not point-to-point like the good ole USA or something similar. No, this is the Mideast, not the Midwest, and I’m lucky to even have good travel conditions considering the shit that’s gone down since. Almost as if by design, there’s a screw-up in Cairo with two competing hotels, but there was a happy ending, and good wifi, so no real problem. The main problem are the multifarious travel options in a tricky region, so that takes up more time than the pyramids for the first few days. But wifi is much easier, and cheaper than travel agents, so it all eventually works out. The pyramids at Giza are incredible, of course, Sphinx and all that, and the Cairo Film Festival is like icing on the cake. The current plan is to take a cheap flight to Lebanon, and then proceed from there, so that’s what I do. Beirut isn’t especially cheap, so somehow I end up in the Christian suburbs, not downtown, where I usually like to be, depending on prices. That means TV porn and Alcohol to boot, neither of which I crave, but that’s okay. Part of the deal is that I can hopefully get a Syrian visa at the land border with a bus from Beirut, so that’s what I do. It costs me hours at the border and a shout-down from the ICE man, but I get onward trans to Damascus, and arrive before dark. Hey, the apostle Paul was blinded on the same road, so I should feel lucky! At least I’ve got decent digs in Damascus, so I’ll see more there than Beirut. It’s old-fashioned, if not Biblical, but fine for the walking, so I even stay another day due to the runs in my buns. Next stop will be a taxi drive to Amman, Jordan, and that comes off withoiut a hitch. Amman, Jordan, is middle-class, neither rich nor poor, so no big deal. The big deal are the ruins of Petra down the road, made famous by Indian Jones, I believe, and well worth the waiting to get there. It’s csrved, BTW, not constructed. From there it’s back to Egypt, by a different route, of course, no return to Beirut necessary, when a ferry ride to southern Egypt will do fine, thank you. That means a ride from Aqaba to Nuweiba, and an option to chill at Dahab, groover central, time permitting. But I passed on by, like a ship in the night, on to Cairo after midnight. From there I’ll go south to Luxor, which is something of a revelation in itself. That’s because of the massive temple columns, a hyperbole to the Greek version, but these came first, so an alternative to the pyramids, and a fashion forward to the future. The Greeks would refine them to architectural perfection, but the Egyptian version were the original. Combine them with arches and you’ve got something truly revolutionary, castles floating in the air! Or so, it might seem. The ruins of Karnak are nearby and the ancient site of Thebes is beneath and underneath, making modern Luxor something truly exotic, what with the Nile River flowing nearby. It’s a chill deal compared to Cairo, too, so worth the ride for the extensive look. The trip gets more complicated now, and that means a cheapo flight to Yemen, San’aa to be exact. This is the icing on the Arabian cake, of course, as timeless as it is timely. The traditional architecture is unbelievable and the traditional people are similarly fashioned. That means daggers, dirhams, and of course the imminently chewable qat. It also means that I got totally lost my first night, wandering the meandering streets without counting my turns carefully enough, dead reckoning, so finally getting totally lost in the darkness. That’s what taxi cabs are for, of course, and business cards, too, if the hotel has them and the counter help is not too busy chewing qat to help find them. Life is far from perfect, no matter the country or religion, but where there is a will, there’s a way, in lieu of any better cliche’, so when the taxi crossed a path that I’d already crossed earier in the day, I yell at him to stop, and i walk it home from there, landmarks succeeding where street names and numbers often fail, business card or not. Yemen is my new travel hub and the next stops are Doha, Qatar, and Dubai, UAE. Doha is flooded, but that will soon pass, and so will the traditional old quarter that almost resembles San’aa, as the new Miracle Mile springs up along the other side of the bay. It looks impressive, but it’s empty, all just speculation as to what the neighborhood is really worth, as the traditional Arabia gives way to the newer more modern model. The only people there are construction workers, so conclusions must wait. This is all ‘old hat’ to Dubai, of course, long accustomed to such speculations and re-workings of old metaphors. UAE is hardly even arabian any more, really, unless you’re counting coups on the soles of old shoes. Because most of the inhabitants are foreigners, now, and more than a few of them Filipino, fleeing their own population boom and income bust, ditto for the Russians and other assorted Slavic country citizens. English is the lingua franca and dollars can easily pass for dirhams. Oman is right down the road and something of an anomaly of its own design. It’s an old sailing port of ancient renown, but left out of the more modern oil-rich money that passes for mideast currency. So, it’s not as poor and traditional as Yemen, but not so rich and modern as UAE. It’s even accessible by bus from Dubai, so something of a walk in the park that is the Arabian peninsula. The Muscat souq has the traditional frankincense and myrrh, even if the malls lack the latest fashion that make the models twirl on runways. But I’m good there for a few days. And the Iranian island of Kish is right across the bay from Dubai , so I go there to stay a few days, also, and let the resident Filipinos fill me in on the scene. It’s enlightening, of course, even more so since it’s the only way I could get into Iran without a guide or visa, and cheap as dirt if I stay with the visa runners. They’re all waiting for their visas, and the local TV station updates them every day, many here longer than a month already, biding their not-so-precious time, as long as their in-laws back home know how to manage their money. That’s the scoop, my friends, I now older but wiser, as the axe would soon fall on all that is Arabia, like chessmen on a chess board, first Tunisia, and then all the rest, finally Syria just a while ago, I forget when, since it’s all so confusing and disheartening, usually, but sometimes good. If you like, then subscribe, and I’ll see you back soon with more from East Africa, and maybe East Europe, too, or at least London and the UK, so ubiquitous as to almost be overlooked. Thanks!

Hyper-travel with Hardie #4: The Horn of Africa and the Caucasus...

 

Welcome to the fourth installment of my Hypertravel with Hardie series, in which I’m showing pictures of my trips for the last twenty years. We’ve already covered southernmost South America, the Caribbean, and Southeast Europe. Now we’ll go to the Caucasus region, including Turkey, and the Horn of Africa, including Ethiopia. This trip goes against the idea that a coherent trip would consist of one continuous region, in that the Cuacasus and the Horn of Africa aren’t really connected. But in the modern jet age of hab-and-spoke travel and inexpensive airlines, that’s very possible. In fact, the original trip also consisted of the Scandinavian region, but I’ve saved that for later, in order to maintain some regional continuity. So, we’ll only cover two nearby regions for this trip. Are you ready? Let’s go! I’ve had the Ethiopian visa for a while, thinking i might branch off from my previous southeast Europe trip to use it, but that didn/t happen, so now it’s time. First stop will be Ethiopia, with a brief stopover in London from LA. i’mstaying with some NGO friends in Addis Ababa, so a bit out of the way and on the outskirts of town, so we do some touristy stuff, the best of which are the culture shows for drinks and dinner, which seem to have made an impact on the local tourist scene. Oliver Mtukudzi is also giving a concert on the weekend, so I’ll stay for that before heading for the border. Because Somalia is the big question mark for this trip, so I’ll deal with that first, specifically a visa to the rump upstart Somaliland, with capital at Hargeisa, accessible by land from Ethiopia and imminently more peaceful that Mogadishu, so I’ll get my visa for there in the meantime. It’s no problem. And the concert with ‘Tuku’ is good, sprawling over the pavement and inviting all to dance. The but to the border should be so welcoming. I’ll make stops at Dire Dawa and Harar, but the terminal at the Italian Merkato At 0500 is shambolic. Some of these people look like they’ve been sleeping on the bus all night, but that’s okay, as long as I don’t get robbed. I’ll get pick-pocketed at least once in Ethiopia, so my fears are well-founded. Merkato is notorious. Things get better out on the open road, though, especially when the large trucks take the turn to Djibouti, while we continue on to Dire Dawa. At some point the bus stops and people buy qat, but not me, not yet. Dire Dawa is not so different from Addis, Christian and full of parties, but Harar only an hour away is totally different, Muslim and prohibitive, semi-narcotic qat only, to stay awake for prayers, uh huh. The big deal for tourists there are the hyena feedings, but the big deal for me is the trail of Rimbaud, the French poet who put Ethiopia on his map when he retired from poetry at the age of twenty-something. They remember him, too. From there it’s all downhill to Jijiga and the border to Somaliland. The border looks like it’s been scratched into the sand willy-nilly. The city of Hargeisa is not bad, though, better than Mogadishu, I’m sure, with wifi, just a taxi from the border with a Muslim inmy lap. But there’s nothing special there, so I book a flight to Djibouti and cross my fingers. It’s a real Russian plane with real Russian pilots and crew, flying low over the sand, with notihhing much better to do. Adn Djibouti is no better, just more French and more expensive, and quite rude to boot, especially if you make the grave mistake of snapping a picture, no matter of what. It’s all prohibited. So I don’t stay long, but bite the bullet and catch a flight back to Addis, rather than sweat two or more days on the slow bus uphill. That gives me time to explore the rest of Ethiopia, which is much preferable to these lowland desert dregs. Classic Ethiopia is in the hills, where it’s cool and the atmosphere is Biblical, shepherds with rods and staffs and robes to conceal themselves. The only problem is the bus system, and i found the solution to that–Selam bus. Back in Addis Ababa I get my own place and a real live modern city, complete with uptown, downtown, and miles of walkable roads between the two. I won’t waste a lot of time right now, though, since it’s a well-worn travel truth that you do the hard miles first, since there will always be chill time on the rebound. So, I catch the bus for Gonder, which will allow me a stopover at Bahir Dar on Lake Tana on the return leg. Glorious Lalibela doesn’t look far as the crow flies on that map, either, but i’ve learned not to trust random crows. This upgrade Selam bus doesn’t leave from the Merkato, either, so that’s good, even though it’ll get me in to Gonder after dark, VERY dark, since there’s rolling brown-outs in Ethiopia, too, almost like a Communist knee-jerk reaction, along with illegal blogs and feral dogs. The espresso makes up for the minor inconveniences, I guess. The check-in guy assures me that the lights will come on at 10 pm, just like Harar, but I’m not impressed, since i don’t sleep with the lights on, thoiugh i guess some do. It’s probably a security thing. The ‘royal enclosure’ that defines Gonder is nice, though, and the people are fine, when they don’t pick my pockets, so I;m digging the Biblical scenes with Joseph and his technicolor dreamcoat, and I even find a rare picture of Mohammad on a village church’s wall. Did you know that Ethiopia is the oldest form of Christianity in the world? They and Armenia, or is it Georgia? Their alphabets are all similar. Muhammad came later, but he’s remembered. I backtrak to Bahir Dar, and the move feels good . Lalibela will have to wait. The big deal there are monasteries dotting the lake, but not so scenic. So, I go down the road to see the falls of the Blue Nile., and that’s cool. The drive back to Addis is much better than the drive out simply because the air is so much cleaner now, so almost like a different trip. And Addis almost feels like home now, so I go to my favorite coffee shop and chill. When someone tries to pickpocket me from behind, I shake their hand in perfect time, their face long lost in the crowd. This part of the trip is over. I’ll go back to Istanbul now. ISTANBUL Istanbul is a metropolis by comparison to Addis Ababa, with dozens of hostels and guesthuoses vying for business in Sultanahmet, where the rival mosques of Haga Sophia and the Blue Mosque, vye for tourist dollars, while the beds and breakfasts vye for rooftop views. Oh, sure, Istanbul has a reputation for sleaze bakc in the days of French connections and lethal injections, and you could probably find a sad old streetwalker if you really need that, but mostly it’s buffet breakfasts and AYCE shashlik served up straight from the street, ready to put the shish back in your kebab. You could probably find something Lebanes and blonde, too, without too much trouble, but Midnight Epress is still fresh in my memory, so I think better of all such propositions. There’s some hard travel to do, too, so time waits for no one, and I set out on a big ass bus, complete with hostess and snacks. There;s a ferry across the Black Sea at some point, maybe Samsun, but I forgo it. And Trabzon is the historic Greek limit of influence, so I stop there, thinking to meander, but end up cathcing a connection to Georgia within five minutes. Geogia is totally different, Batumi a seacoast city, for one thing, and good coffee, for another. Their Turkish coffee is much better than Turkey’s, where Nescafe rules supreme. Market stalls line the streets up and down this town. Then I go to Tbilisi, which is different yet again, big city in a small country. Wifi is scarce everywhere, and i have no reservation, so bite the bullet on a pricey place rather than find an internet cafe and start over. The old ways of Lonely planet and blind logic die hard. So, I don’t stay long, instead looking for the bus stop by tha muddy spot, and hoping for the best on the border to Armenia. They all look like Seinfeld’s Uncle Leo, but that’s okay, I can pay, just ge me to yerevan by sundown. So i get the good bus, finally and a free coffee at the countryside inn, and all is right with the world. There’s a hostel waiting for me at Yerevan and some righteous travelers, too, so that is fine, and i try tostudy russian. Because this is still the USSR, by some accounts, and that keeps the cynics at bay and the critics at sea, and lessens the distinctions betweens you and me, so that all three naions here, Georgian, Armenian and Azerbaijani, can stay away from each other’s throats long enough to draw maps, where otherwise none would exist. So, Nagorno-Karabakh bides its time and Naxchivan hangs nine, and waits for another day to be delivered. The duduk flute makers live onthe outskirts of town, so we do that one day, and get drunk, me on one of my few guided tours in some thirty-five years of travel. i can count them on one hand. And the city is cool, too, with parks full of pop-up restos and bars, so what if the drivers are maniacs and the food is nothing special? That’s why Thai town and Little armenia share space in LA, so i can have good bread with my Thai food. From here there’s no Way to cross into Azerbaijan, unless I want to wait for Nagorno-Karabakh to surrender or return to Georgia and backtrack from there. There’s no direct route to Turkiye either. It sounds too complicated for a trip to the birthplace of the oil industry, so I return to Georgia and take it from there, figuring to go to Cappadocia first and then Cyprus for extra credit. That means Goreme, and the fairy chimneys and hoodoo voodoo haunts, which make it famous, with barkers and colored balloons floating overhead like semaphores over Santa Fe from Albuquerque far below, the whole place looking like bedrock for Flintstones, Wilma and Fred, then Betty and Barney Rubble with Dino the dinosaur for good measure. It’s all good fun until I wake up with my laptop lying on the floor, incapable of holding a charge now without some expert care and maintenance. It’s these dams fluffy beds rejecting everything semi-erect and hardened. That means a return to Istanbul, but not so fast. So I hightail it to Cyprus, with a ferry from Tasucu, chastened but not hastened, not too much anyway. The green line between Nicosia and Lefkosa separates more than North Cyprus from the South. It divides Asia from Europe and Muhammad from Jesus, just like Odysseus crossing the Aegean Sea to fight Trojans who would be Persians as soon as the opportunity presented itself, those two Indo-Euiropean brothers long separated by time and space from the northern steppes. And this is my odyssey, crossing the green line where time stood still in 1974, and the prices stay the same in stores and magazines long shuttered but not silent. But the prices are cheaper on the northern side now, so that’s where I stay, with everything but the girl, laptop begging me for succor, while I prepare another boring supper, last one for the passion of Christ, as I prepare my return to civilization. So I return to Istanbul, as my foot breaks out, with another bout of gout, begging for attention while I navigate the situation of my laptop, the factory’s service center on the other side of town, giving me a guided tour of the city’s broader environs that I could never get from the breakfast buffet of the average guest house in Sultanahmet. Yogurt may be the saving grace, but that can only go so far. So, what’s the verdict on a Turkey, with little genetic relation to its ancestral Turks back in Asia, merely a culture and a religion and a language, where not much else really counts? The Turkish coffee is better in Georgia and the Turkish kilims are better in Bosnia. This is arguably Asia, true, but not much, only sort kinda almost maybe. But if that’s enough to keep Odysseus occupied for a decade, then I guess it’s enough for me. This trip is over. C U in Africa. If you like this content, then don’t forget to like and subscribe. That goes a long way to make me happy and gives me the inspriation to make you happy. In the next episode we’ll return to southern Europe and southern Africa, too. C U there. Thanks for watching.

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