Leaping at the Edges of the Earth

The Falls
Livingston, Zambia

The Victoria Falls constitutes one of the most spectacular natural wonders of the world. The local people call it "Mosi-oa-Tunya" -- the smoke that thunders. 1,708 meters wide, the Falls are the largest curtain of water on the planet. They drop between 90m and 107m into the Zambezi Gorge and an average of 550,000 cubic meters of water plummet over the edge every minute.

From the Zambian side, just a few kilometers from the city of Livingstone, Anand and I hiked around and enjoyed the view. Compared to Niagara, where I have been countless times while visiting family in Buffalo or on my way up to school, Victoria Falls is higher and longer but less full looking. Perhaps this is because the water levels are a bit lower in August. Still, there are heavy sections of the falls and you can see more when the water is low. There is a beauty to Niagara I did not find at Victoria; there is a violence at Victoria I did not find at Niagara.

Most people come to the falls to engage in extreme activities: abseiling, speed boating, microlyting, helicopter rides, rafting, bungee jumping, etc. Each activity costs about US $100, which was a problem for us. So we found instead an activity called the "walking safari" that simply took us further along the rock face and right up to the edge of the dropping Zambezi River. It came highly recommended by a small group of Peace Corps Namibia friends we had been hanging out with for a week or so.

At first it seemed like a waste of money - an hour of walking across rocks and low water, balancing awkwardly while holding hands and hiking in the heat. After a short break closer to the edge, taking some pictures and enjoying a beer and a chat with Eustice, our guide, we were handed a pair of towels. Stripping down, we followed Eustice into the water and swam diagonally out across a heavier section of river towards the edge.

About 15 meters from the drop, there is a section of rock that we climbed up onto. Between this rock and the actual drop in the falls there exists a small pool of water about 5 meters in diameter. Within this space there is little current, and the natural rock formation creates a wall about 1 meter from the edge of the 108 meter drop into the gorge. Simply put, if you go too far right or too far left you go over. While we, and a slew of astonished onlookers across the gorge on the Zimbabwe side, took turns taking pictures and video, Anand and I spent the next half hour leaping, flipping, and diving above Victoria Falls. Eustice held my ankles as I stretched my upper body and arms over the edge and looked down. The amazing part, once you overcome the fear of death, is the lack of people around. We quite literally had this enormous section of the falls to ourselves. I will definitely figure out how to post the video when I get home in a few days. It is one of the most amazing things I have ever done, and I am certain the activity would never be allowed in a place like the US!

That night we went out on the town with our guides, drinking Mosi and hanging out a local outdoor club. The Zambian women were beautiful, very dressed up and surprisingly aggressive! The Mosi beer label is a picture of the Falls; we enjoyed pointing out exactly where we had swam that day.

Side Note cool story: There was this guy staying in Zambia living out of his Land Rover in the parking lot. An Englishman, he had been traveling down through Africa for 8 years now. 8 years! In the late 1990's he crossed into Sudan from Chad. Soon after, Sudan was engaged in a war with every one of its bordering neighbors, and our friend found himself stranded and unable to exit the country except by airplane. For the next 6 months he drove back and forth along different borders attempting to flee, memorizing road blocks and dirt road routes. Finally, and miraculously, the guy found himself hiding under his truck in the aftermath of a battle in which a rebel group took control of the area. He negotiated his way out with them to the Ethiopian border.

Etosha and the Caprivi Strip
The Etosha experience, prior to our arrival in Zambia, was fun but slightly disappointing. I would suggest to all those interested in game parks that it is probably worth the money to hire an expensive tour on a big Land Cruiser for a day or two. Poor as we are, we drove the northern Namibian game park ourselves. What did we see...? Well, a lot actually, just no cats. Giraffes, zebra, springbok, wilderbeast, elephants, crazy looking birds, impala, eland. They all come very close to the roads or you go to designated watering hole areas, few and far between this time of year (a good thing), to find the animals. What struck me most within the park was how well the animals coexist with eachother. I guess I just never really considered that herds of Springbok would hang out with herds of Zebra, no problem. Out of the entire 10,000 km road trip through SA, Namibia, Zambia, Botswana, and back to Durban Anand did all the driving. I took over for 20 minutes inside Etosha. So I'm still no good at stick, very embarrassing.

There are few people in Namibia, and virtually no women. For a while we sort of forgot they exist, like when you spend four years living in a University town and forget that small children also exist. At least when we headed north east through the narrow Caprivi Strip, on the southern border of Angola and heading towards Vic Falls, we found many more Namibians. For about 500 km the narrow strip is lined with villages and schools, people selling oranges and carved wood art. There's not much to see, but we flirted with the idea of crossing into southern Angola before just gunning it to the Zambian border on Anand's birthday.

The Long Road Home After Vic Falls we chose to return to S Africa by way of Botswana rather than Zimbabwe. First, petrol is cheaper in Botswana (that's about the only cheap thing there). Also, I didn't want to run the risk of getting robbed for petrol in Zim right now, where with the shortages it is not uncommon for border guards to take your reserve canisters and even syphon out your tank, even as they let you through! Plus, who wants to support the raving lunatic running the country, Mugabe with his disastrous policies!

Botswana is boring to drive through, although it is similar to driving through a game park up north. The scenery is dull and the roads are perfectly straight for miles - you start to feel like you're in Nebraska or something. Along the highways we saw many elefants and giraffe. Stopping for a cold drink, beer posters advertise contests to win cattle and bulls as prizes. To be fair, we skipped Okavanga Delta, Chobe game park, and even Gaborone, opting instead to only spend one night in Francistown, the second largest city. Francistown felt more like Rockville Pike than southern Africa, and accommodation was not cheap. It cost us nearly US $50 to lounge in a cheap motel and fall asleep to Jerry Maguire. At least the food in these countries was pretty good. I really enjoyed the local chicken and chips and mealie-pop dishes.

Pretoria, the administrative capital, was very administrative. It was pretty, and is a cool college town, but downtown there is nothing but government buildings. At the hostel, Anand accidentally sat on a cat that had blended in with the black bean bag. That was a good laugh after the screeching stopped.

Johannesburg is an interesting place. Tourists are scared of it for its reputation of muggings and violence, and South Africans seem to love it as a fast paced, high energy capital with bustling business and shopping opportunities. We stayed at a former Mafioso-type guy's house who was killed a few years back. Some Swiss dude bought his mansion and converted it into a hostel, perched above an area called Observatory that looks over the city. It was cool, felt like Sopranos, but some strange guests. The problem with Jo'berg is that it is expensive like Cape Town, but not so pretty. If you don't want to spend money and don't have people to see, you might leave fairly quickly. We spent about 3 hours at the Apartheid Museum - hands down the best museum I have ever visited in all my travels - and then made straight for sweet, sweet home (Durban).

Going Out with a Bang
At 6am this morning Nupe (American med student), Janice (local friend) and I strolled out of Durban's Suncoast Casino into the uncomfortable early morning light after a long night of laughing, drinking, and dancing. We wore wide smiles, each about $200 Rand richer after the blackjack and roulette tables. The night began with a stand-up comedy show at the Playhouse Theatre downtown, and was followed by a crazy, late night at the bars. The comedy show was kinda weak, but it was still interesting to see S African humor, like how they can poke fun at Apartheid era subjects (making fun of the "Europeans Only" and "non-Europeans Only" lines at Heathrow), or joke about how a suicide bomber could never successfully strike in S Africa because the public transport system is non-existent and the guy would get robbed of his backpack and shoes before he could carry anything into a public place anyhow. One Indian Muslim comedian joked that he is so nervous now about terrorism that he often gets suspicious just looking in the mirror!

Late night Anand was exhausted, but I stayed out with the others and enjoyed flaming lamborghinies, getting shot down by married women at the bar, and dancing to one of the hottest DJ's in the area. South Africans know how to party. Durban is so cool just because it has everything; the range of bar or club nightlife choices, the markets, the businesses, the restaurants, the cultural mix (largely Indian), the famous surfer beaches, etc. I'd live here over Cape Town or Jo'berg any day.

Tomorrow I begin my five-flight journey home via Jo'berg, Zurich, London, and Reykjavik. I'll frantically purchase the first fantasy football magazine I can find and begin the readjustment process to life in the Washington, DC area. Some of you will have to catch me up on the new slang, new music, the insanity in New Orleans, etc. 6 months is finally over. Monday is the first day of the rest of my life.

To those of you who have kept up with my stories, thank you for reading. I hope the blog has kept you sufficiently entertained at work. Give me a call once I'm back, and if I'm not too broke we'll hang out. Cheers.

I'm an Idiot

Correction: in my most recent blog on Namibia I said Presient Nujoma was still in power way past his second 5 year term limit. I was dead wrong, although Nujoma had altered the constitution to stay on for 3 terms. In November 2004 a new man, President Pohamba was democratically elected. Pohamba too is a Swapo veteran, as the party dominates the majority of the country. Perhaps it is similar to the ANC in S Africa.

My apologies. Always check your facts.

Under Cover of Namib Desert Dust

Unscratched Tracks
Windhoek, Namibia
It was no short ride out of the fickle weather of Cape Town, heading north to cross the Namibian border near sunset. Stopping only for petrol in a northern South African town called Springbok, Anand and I exhausted our music supply. We've resorted to relying primarily on those cd's that remain largely unscratched and therefore continue to play when the road turns bumby. I'm getting a little sick of Coldplay, but have been turned on to Postal Service.

Security in this part of the world has been surprisingly thorough. At the South African border we were held up for at least an hour while they unloaded our vehicle. We ended up chatting with border guards about their living conditions and previous encounters with border smuggling operations. Nice guys really.

The border is naturally drawn by the Orange River, supposedly a wonderful 4 day trip in itself. When you cross over as we did around 6pm the change in topography is dramatic. You can almost hear the wind whistling and the tumbleweeds begin to blow by as moving north, you stare out the passenger side window at a setting sun over arching mountains and plateus in the distance. Some towns have no vehicles, only carriages driven by horse or mule. Residents look like black cowboys from the old days of the American west! During the daytime sun, a man's eyes play funny tricks on him in such a "day after tomorrow" scenario. The desert heat creates a blurry haze above the paved major highway leaving you wondering what strange images are coming up ahead, and whether that oncoming 18 wheeler is just around the bend or even exists at all. What strikes me about this landscape is how close it comes to what I imagined, the browns and reds of the desert dunes and mountains, the lack of visible animal life save for a few springbok or monkeys, the utter desolation, heat and swirling dust clouds.

Off road, where the real Namibia exists, you learn what it is to be coated with sand and dirt. For long stretches of time you witness no life, be it human, animal, or plant. Only mountains and dry brush. Yet out of nowhere a man will be sitting on the side of the road, perhaps in decent clothing, and you wonder where in the world he came from and where he plans to go! Hitch hiking is a funny thing. In some parts of the world, like Namibia, it is THE way to get around. Men here make a living gioving rides. And yet we are raised that it is dangerous to offer rides in the states (it used to be ok for our parents I guess). We've had trouble passing, in good conscience, a woman unquestionably far and alone on the side of a road with her infant child. I think there are exceptions. Breathing in the desert's stale air, our throats are permanently parched. I don't know how they do it.

We stayed our first night in Keetmanshoop, a very large town of 15,000 that essentially acts as a petrol oasis halfway to Windhoek. At Bernice's Beds we overpaid for a double room from an aging Afrikans speaking man who gratiously offered us a pot in which to cook our 3.50 rand pasta (50 cents).

The Dunes

We made for Sesrium the next morning, gateway to Sessusvlei and the awe inspiring 300 meter high red dunes of the Namib Desert, world reknowned. The majority of tourists here by the way are German and Italian, strange? Arriving late at night after getting lost on terrible back roads in our two wheel drive Ford, we barely made it to the front gate of the closed park. Just before sunset we popped a tire in a beautiful mountain pass. I'm proud of our ability to change it in under half an hour, but embarrassed that it was the first time for both of us. Ahhh, AAA. Unfortunately, there was nowhere to stay by the park except the Sessusvlei Lodge at $250 American per night. Being the fine, upstanding gentleman Anand and I are, we splurged on dinner at the lodge - $20 per person - and slept in the car on the road in front of the park, freezing in sleeping bags! Oh, but the food! Every night this lodge has an all you can eat buffet complete with chef's cooking up game meat or fish, Mongolian style stir fry, and pastas and salads and deserts. In one meal I ate crocodile, salmon, zebra, springbok, eland, lamb, and vegetable stirfry. After lounging in the resort tv room to watch the news - mostly about the long overdue Gaza withdrawal from Palestinian territories - and observe filthy rich tourists play cards and chess, we retired to our car seats.

The dunes really were amazing, and I have wonderful pictures. We went in at 6:30 and made our way to dune #45, 45km from the entrance and the 45th dune, which they allow you to climb. Then we drove into Sessusvlei and hitched the final 5km into Death Vlei, a other-worldly lanscape I can only compare in oddity to Cappadocia in Turkey. It looks really like somethig in a Dr. Seuss book, like Joshua Tree in a sea of red dunes. Hiking across dunes is no small feat, by the way. It is extremely tiring to walk on an unstable surface for the 5km hike back.

Once in Windhoek, after another long day along back roads, we had a lovely experience cleaning the car at a gas station. A team of 8 women were assigned to our car, and I've never witnessed such hard work and thoroughness in detail with the air and water guns, scrubbing inside and out of every nook and cranny of the crappy automobile. It felt damn good to leave a hundred percent tip.

Namibia is a very large country. Formerly South West Africa, it was administered by South Africa under a UN Mandate following WWII and has only been independent for maybe 15 years. Their history therefore involves much of the same apartheid experiences, but the population is miniscule. 1.8 million people are scattered across a desolate, yet pretty, landscape dotted with small towns and vast national parks; Fish River Canyon, Etosha Game Park, the Skeleton Coast, etc. There are also several diamond mining regions completely sealed off to the public. Rich minerals and resources have been extracted for decades, with much of the profits actually leaving the country. Although the government boasts a democratic constitution (rare in these parts) and a system of checks and balances, President Nujoma (leader of the Swapo Party) has stayed on years past his two-year term limit. It is fun to drive around Windhoek, the capital from which I am this day writing, and observe the street names: Mandela, Mugabe, Bach, Beethoven, Castro, and of course Nujoma. The international airport is small and nearly 50km from this city of 250,000. We took long showers at our fabulous hostel here. There is little to do really except dine out, organize safari trips, rest, and blog! Next stop is Etosha.

Round and Round We Go...

Durban, South Africa
It's ambitious. It's also more expensive than I thought. Roughly 3000 miles in 3-4 weeks, across Southern Africa and up through Namibia, into parts of Zambia and Zimbabwe (Victoria Falls), and back down through Botswana. A final road trip to end my whirlwind tour of the world in 6 months. Our mode of transport, Anand and I, is an aging Ford Escort with failing lights, windows that won't roll down, a trunk that currently won't open, and a bad leak somewhere under the glove compartment that leaves me navigating lately in an inch of water through rainy Cape Town. But we have nice new tires and are doing well; I'll soon hone my stick shift skills to ease the burden of driving across the continent. Murray and Rosemary, Anand's friends and landlords, graciously outfitted us with everything we need to survive in the wild or the desert dunes - sleeping bags, water tank, cooking stove, extra tires, etc.

So after a delay that kept me in Durban almost two weeks - which I loved, by the way - we made for Coffee Bay in the Transkei on the Wild Coast. Before leaving Durban I sat in on one more surgeory all by myself, a C-section. Actually the father was present as well, and I got to shake his hand and say congratulations. It was a flawless operation. Amazing, watching a half hour procedure in which a newborn is extracted from a relatively small incision down through the young Indian woman's abdomen and uterus, and then she is simply stitched back together. Voila.

One of my last days in Durban was actually the most interesting. I toured Cato Manor, an informal settlement of about 95,000 residents, toured the Jama Masjid, the largest mosque in southern Africa, and wandered the city's botanical gardens with a new friend from the hospital, Hillary.

In an African township or informal settlement, it is an eye-opening experience to simply see how the average, disadvantaged black South African is living, usually in poverty and makeshift housing, hopefully in line for proper new housing plans supported by the government and outside money from places like the EU. What strikes you is how kind and friendly residents are to foreigners, and how they invite you into their world to help you understand. We toured a beautiful new community library and had a homebrewed beer with some locals after wandering the streets and meeting some friends of the young man taking us around.

The mosque was a somewhat disappointing experience. After a brief explanation of the layout of the house of worship, Hillary and I sat on a carpeted floor next to praying worshipers with a leader of the community discussing the religion. Conversation quickly deteriorated into argumentative religious comparisons and an argument about September 11th that Hillary probably should not have provoked, to my dismay, as our host layed out the "facts" that "prove" no Muslims were involved in the attacks. In fact it was all orchestrated by the American government. I tried to maintain repect for the guy, but it saddens me to think what must be taught to the community and children there about our country. Ultimately, and in my opinion, we live in a world of appalling miscommunication among races and religions the world over. That night we unwinded at a local jazz club in a seedier part of town that reminded me of a scene from the old American south - like an all African American club in Birmingham, Alabama or something where locals gathered for cheap beer, fine food, and to hear passionate musicians sing and dance. Throw in the African dress, dance and singing style, and you get a lively crowd.
And so Anand and I set out early, westward along the southern coast.

Coffee Bay is a jewel. Unadulterated, unblemished coastline and blue water among rolling hills, cliffside drops and dirt roads dotted with aqua green or pink rounded and rectangular houses. Children call out in Zulu or Xhosa as you tumble through waving, avoiding the potholes or sudden twists in topography. Essentially it is a backpacker's paradise; hammocks, fireside chats and hippies playing bongos and guitars while rolling blunts. We came to support Nupe and Anya (two medical student friends of Anand's) in their HIV educational presentation for the community, which went very well, and then lost ourselves for three days hiking along the coast to sacred waters or fantastic geological formations (Hole in the Wall).

Lunch in Umtata nearby was my finest meal so far, a small city with a Mandela museum - he spent much of his childhood there. We were then off along the coast to Port Alfred, where we stayed in Rosemary's sister's beautiful home in the Marina complex on the water. Our host Shane opened up to us about his views on life in S Africa post-Apartheid while sparing no expense teaching us the subtle differences between his fine brandys and whiskeys in an all-night taste test! after a wonderful homecooked mutton meal. We were spoiled and lay around watching Desperate Housewives and this country's version of American Idol tryouts until 3pm the next day. Next through Grahmstown, home to the prestigious Rhodes University where Anand knew a friend and we stayed in a damp, disgusting and dirty jail that had been converted to a backpackers (an excuse not to provide clean and comfortable accomodation).

After a brief stop in Mossel Bay where we wasted money at the casino, we crashed in Stellendam at the foot of a mountain range and near hot springs to chat with an older, slower!, more mature crowd about the travelling life. And now we find ourselves in Capetown after a night in the yuppie marina town of Knysna and a brief stop in Hermanus to watch the Right Whales that come in amazingly close to shore while you eat lunch or peer out through binoculars. (Originally they were thought of as the "right" whales to hunt!) I have fantastic pictures but the coast does start to look the same after a while. We skipped Storm's River, home to the highest bungee jump in the world.

Through it all I've observed a little more the severe economic disparities that linger across the country. Unemployment and poor services for the average rich taxpayer or village resident alike are deplorable. But many white communities here are still able to live as if it were the south of France, even finding themselves in towns with little crime or exposure to the large scale problems of the rest of the country (the Garden Route is a special place in this way). And yet all you hear from the average white South African in these areas is how his lot has suffered since the fall of apartheid, as if they are somehow entitled to preserve their superiority or excessive wealth without working hard for it on an equal playing field. It is an awkward conversation to hear whites exclaim that they see no future for their children in a country that actively discriminates against them in an effort to undue the injustices of apartheid. Black economic empowerment is very scary to these people, who so far see social services worsening and a deteriorating national education system. Political conversations here are fascinating in their sheer range of hopefulness versus despair. There are those that call the current South Africa a great "experiment" and talk optimistically, and still others who point to an aging Nelson Mandela and a fear of chaos within the country while the government mismanages its money (virtually none of the millions allocated for HIV grants in the Eastern Cape has been spent) and offers nearbye Zimbabwe millions to bail out their own economic collapse. I continue to absorb what I can and lengthen my reading list.

Cape Town has been lovely, but rainy. Table Mountain and Chapman's Peak our first day was my favorite. Since then we have been meeting friends for drinks, attending a house party at Molly Blank's (BCC alum who knows my brother), and touring museums. The Robben Island and Jewish Mueseums are fantastic, and the District Six Museum is also very good, laying out the forced evacuations and clearances of land in the city that destroyed the lives of tens of thousands - similar government programs occurred all over the country in and around city centers. The great thing is that the people running these museums and telling the stories are the residents and survivors. It was all so recent that new exhibitons are still being introduced.

My only reservation with Cape Town is that, unlike Durban, I am not feeling a pulse to this city, something that draws me in and excites me as some cities do. It is undoubtedly one of the most beautiful cities I have seen. It never ceases to amaze me to turn around and see Table Mountain hovering above, or to gaze out along the coastline or cruise through the vineyards. I am beginning to see more culture and nightlife, but I am still waiting to see that unique energy. Perhaps it is just the change in weather. I have been doting a raincoat and winter hat. Next week we will be back in 80 degree weather, crusing through the flowered dunes of Namibia as we move north. I can't wait.

For now it is expensive meals, political conversations, and sightseeing in a georgeous, if touristy, little city near the Cape of Good Hope. Hope all is well with everyone. Enjoy the last few weeks of summer. Oh, and a special happy birthday to #4.

Life Must Go On

London, England

I know that you personally do not fear to give your own life in exchange for taking others [that is why you are so dangerous] ... but I know you do fear you may fail in your long-term objective to destroy our free society ... in the days that follow, look at our airports, look at our seaports and look at our railway stations ... you will see that people from the rest of Britain, people from around the world, will arrive in London to become Londoners, to fulfill their dreams and achieve their potential ... whatever you do, however many you kill, you will fail.

-London Mayor Ken Livingstone

You can't destroy London because it is all of us; the city is diversity at its most extreme. Livingstone also mentions earlier in his speech, concerning the future of the city after the attacks, that one television commentator even called London the world's first "post-national city." Every creed, color, and stripe of man is a resident, and it is a beautiful thing. Striking the community strikes every community.

Dropping Pounds, Adding Weight. When I arrived in London it was bright and beautiful, and my brother and Clara welcomed me with overwhelming hospitality. They also set out on a mission to fatten my belly, saying I looked skinny. We strolled through their neighborhood, conveniently sandwiched between Regent's and Hyde Park, and even took a row boat out with ice cream and the works. I was repeatedly stuffed with homemade meals and desserts: lamb chops, green chicken curry, mom's chicken soup, banana bread. Not to mention the fantastic Asian foods around the city that followed.

Marc and Clara have a wonderful apartment in central London from where I could stroll through the city, chasing and retracing the footsteps of four years before...I even sat on the same bench under the London Eye where once upon a time, on another sunny morning after a different sleepless flight, at age 19, I had collapsed to survey my summer surroundings. Who would believe that Portcullis House just across the Thames was once my stomping grounds!?
So we ate well, maybe too well, and while they worked at their fabulous jobs I wandered and just took it easy. I tried to concentrate on seeing some of the things I had missed before: a good Frida Kahlo exhibit at the Tate Modern, Camden Market, and a bit of Soho nightlife. I also met up with another old friend, Ben, for a steak and guiness business lunch near his office on Liverpool Street. I was able to catch up on what came of everyone I remembered from my London days. In short: new jobs, marriages, and even babies.

Conversation with Marc and Clara was always exciting, and I found out a lot more about what they actually do and how much they enjoy being in London. We talked a lot about their lives and touched briefly on my own future, not exactly my favorite topic while traveling. Aside from the craziness of the bomb scares and one shooting on the tube, it was the perfect week.

If this London visit began perfectly - sleeping in, walking the city streets, spending quality time with bra and Clara and even our family friend Alexa on the weekend and after work - then Paris even took things up a notch. I spent a few days in Paris midweek with an old friend, Magali, and she showed me her beautiful city. Nevermind the sprinkling sunshower that became a downpour as we toured the city bridges on a fly-boat, we two the only fools not to bring an umbrella or jacket. We had a fantastic few nights out to dinner, wandering the Latin Quarter, sitting by the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame Cathedral, or the Sacre Coeur, or battling eachother to cover the bill in lounges and bars around the city. Magali is now working on the equivalent of a Phd., and it was great to see her doing so well.

Purgatory. If there is such a place, it is on the outskirts of London. Namely, it is terminal 2 of Heathrow airport, where the masses crowd interminably under a 7 foot ceiling to endure claustrophobia together while they wait 2-3 hours just to check in luggage. In contrast, Zurich's airport in an exercise in modern art and the value of negative space. Relief only came when I was upgraded to business class for the short flight from London to Zurich with no explanation. It wouldn't be so comfortable on Swiss Air to Africa...

It was awkward to return to London from Paris on the same day as the second wave of bomb scares. You can't imagine how long the taxi queues became. But Londoners continued to ride the tube, simply adjusting to the latest closures and detours and carrying on with their tabloid gossip and strange slang - "You cheeky bastards!" There were even impromptu dance parties reported in the streets in an area where local residents had been temporarily evacuated from their homes. The papers referred to them as "Beat the Bombers" parties. The only awkward part for me was leaving the city for Heathrow on my last day - I had to carry my backpack through the tube system while passengers scrutinized me as a potential danger.

On this latest flight to Jo'berg I was kept awake by a first year Oxford student - politics, economics, philosophy - from Canterbury, England. We argued about philosophy between political and educational debates. Does Knowledge equal Justified True Belief? The answer, according to Frank, lies in a thoughtful tale about two men, each with ten coins in their pockets.

Arriving in Durban, SA, I hardly knew what to expect. I was greeted immediately by my best friend Anand, who graciously showed up to the airport with his car to pick me up! First impressions: from the airplane, the coast was beautiful and hilly, dry yet also very green; everyone I met on the plane [filled with rich white people] were very kind, especially two teachers who gave me tips on where to travel along the coast and to wild animal parks; the airport bathroom hand-dryers are state-of-the-art and should be imported.

Anand and I went to McDonalds after a brief drive through the city. Sitting there with our chicken nuggets and big mac's, we could feel many eyes upon us. There is still a general reaction of surprise here when two individuals of different race are seen together laughing and talking and generally just so comfortable. Within the city center there are few whites anyhow. Durban is unique however for its nearly 33% Indian population. As we looked around, he explained to me that 25% of the population here is HIV positive. I let it marinade...

Anand works at McCord Hospital near Morningside, a wealthier area in the hills around Durban's center not unlike San Francisco with its georgeous vistas and sunsets. He has come here to study HIV and tuberculosis at the Sinikithemba clinic for a year or more, and to help out generally in the community. Anand stays with a warm and wonderful family in a beautiful home in the hills. They are two doctors with adorable little girls and a passion for science, history, politics, and just hanging out with crazy twenty-somethings. They are the best thing that could have happened for Anand in this city. Unfortunately, everyone's homes here are necessarily protected by gates and barbed wire and emergency armed responders. South Africans seem to be as paranoid as a common visitor about their general safety, which is evidenced by such things as car guards on regular streets and around bars and restaurants, segregated neighborhoods, and a general avoidance of the city center by whites at nightfall. Almost everyone gives you the "be careful" remark when you part ways. Perhaps it is just a part of the scene, but certain bars are entirely white which feels a bit strange. Yesterday I actually had my shoes stolen at the georgeous North Beach while reading quietly and watching the local surfers. I got them back 100 meters down the promenade after I motioned helplessly to the probable thieves around me and one man pointed toward the sand. It was almost comical. Most days I've spent here touring the city center museums (Apartheid, Natural History, African Art), markets and beaches or just hanging around the hospital, learning or observing the goings-on.

Under the Knife
The other day at McCord Hospital I went with Hillary, another med student from Bethesda (Stone Ridge), to observe surgery for the morning. We had hoped to sit in on a C-section, but instead I watched a woman have her big toe amputated, and next a hysterectomy in which a different woman had both ovaries and her uterus removed. The doctor was very kind and skilled - Dr. Candace Roberts - and dissected the uterus for us to show us exactly where we had "come from." The surgical theatre is no nonsense and quite a surreal experience. After I had changed into the proper light-green hospital gear and been equipped with a hairnet, shoenet, and surgical mask, we scrubbed in and were escorted into the thick of it. The anesthesiologist, Dr. Mannie, had a lot of trouble piercing the spine of the obese woman having her toe removed (diabetic), and the process took a painful 5-10 minutes of repeated insertions. After she lay still, chief surgeon Dr. Stanley went to work quickly scalping open her toe at its base and removing it with little trouble. The blood did flow, and run onto the floor in a puddle, and squirt all over the doctor and up at us a meter away. The trouble came when he needed to use a crude electric saw to take off more bone, but before long she was sutured and stitched up, toeless.

In theatre #3 we encountered two surgeons almost elbow-deep into the belly of a 38 year old woman who had grown a large cyst that needed to be removed. Latched onto to her ovary, it had filled with a chocolate mousse-like substance. The internal organs had shifted such that the doctors had to be careful not to cut the wrong pieces out. As the doctor commented, "her anatomy is all over the place."

The amazing thing about surgery is how rough and crude it all is, despite the numerous technological advancements we all assume make things clean and easy. As in all things on this trip, my assumptions were shattered. Yet I was 20 times better than I thought in there personally, at dealing with what I was watching. I even leaned in close with the surgeons most of the time, fascinated by the procedures and not bothered by the blood and gore. If I could do it all over again, and if I had steadier hands, I'd have looked into this field.

"Africa Must Be Saved" - Sinikithemba Choir
The other night we attended a cocktail party arranged by Dr. Bruce Walker, an American HIV researcher and Harvard Prof who is largely responsible for the funding that makes much of what is being done in and around Sinikithemba (McCord Hospital's HIV clinic) possible. The party was at a fancy mansion with a pool, and I wandered amongst common hospital workers, friends, interns, and even a private investor, Mark Schwartz, who probably made millions at his former Goldman Sachs position in Japan and working for George Soros. But the highlight of the night was the Sinikithemba Choir, a group of 15-20 HIV positive community members and co-workers who sing traditional African songs and hymns, and dance and smile while taking solos. The choir recently retured from a trip to Elton John's house in London. They have begun travelling the world with their newfound fame. Truly they were phenomenal in their passion and energy, and lit up the night.

It is strange how deeply affected the community is by HIV. Still, it never ceases to surprise me that the latest friend or co-worker of Anand's that I meet at the hospital or a cocktail party or just socially, is infected with the virus. I hang out with them all day, and then when I am told they are positive I am still shocked. I suppose this is because at home it would be startling; here it is disturbingly normal. No wonder the people are so deeply religious, even the hospital itself. I could not understand until now how intertwined faith and medicine could become, regardless of my distaste for faith-based medicine. Even at a fiscal meeting of the hospital yesterday evening the attendees were serenaded with the songs of the hospital choir before, during, and after, almost as if it were a religious event. By the way, did you know the South African national anthem is an amalgamation of 9 languages in one song?! Beautiful, yet if you look around some of the older white males were not actively mouthing the words...

This entry has been a bit rushed and was written piecemeal. I'm having difficulty collecting my thoughts here, but having a wonderful time attempting. Tomorrow we may be off to a wild animal park. But first, Anand and I are sitting in on a C-section this evening! Ever seen a one-second old baby??? I guess the theme of this entry is just the extremes of life I am experiencing - everything from the fear of death on highly advanced transportation systems to the miracle of life on the operating table. HALLELUJAH!

Hope all is well with everyone, and Happy Birthday to Scott in a couple days! Sorry I couldn't be there buddy.

If you can talk, you can sing.
If you can walk, you can dance.

Eastern Europe Photos

Relaxing in London at my brother's apartment...

Latest Photos

Bored in Budapest???

Budapest, Hungary

I'll say it. I miss the Balkans, it was my favorite place in Europe. 4 days alone in Budapest is not killing me, but let's just say I have time to blog on a Friday night tonight before my 6am flight to see my brother in London.

I know, I am a spoiled brat, but on my own Budapest is just feeling like another big city with the usual parks, tourist traps, sights, etc. It's not that I haven't been doing things, I think I just like the smaller cities that aren't yet flooded with tourists. But it is cool to be in a place where "see ya" means hello.
Let's see, I've viewed the city from the Castle Hill complex on the Buda side; visited the former Jewish ghetto section on the Pest side - 2nd largest synogogue in the world and nice museum; bathed in the thermal baths; toured the Parliament and it's 40 kilos of gold trimmings; visited the Terror Museum (Nazi and post-war Soviet occupation history); toured the zoo with a Norweigan 17 year old (a girl I ran into that was in Sarajevo - man, it even sounds illegal to say you hung out with a 17 year old); wandered the tourist center streets and had some beers with crazy German and Swedish middle aged businessmen; turned down an offer to go bowling with some more Scandinavians; chilled out on Margit Island on the Danube to read War of the Worlds finally; visited Statue Park, where they've relocated gigantic Soviet era statues torn down from the city; etc. etc. etc. Man this sounds boring. Isn't visiting all the sights merely evidence that you haven't found better people and more unique activities to do...

I guess I just didn't met any cool people here to see things with. I had a plan to rendevouz with an old friend here for a few days but she couldn't make it work. But it isn't that depressing, I'll be fine. It was 4 days in a beautiful city, and I've had a lot of cheap ice cream to stay happy.

Food. My god, the stereoptypes about Eastern European food aren't just correct, they are understated. Every meal is meat and potatoes, usually some kind of stew with rice or goulash that also has noodles or dumplings AND comes with bread. Atkins nightmare. And you drink beer of course. So what did Judit, a nice Hungarian girl I met, say when I asked her how everyone doesn't get fat? "Well, we don't eat like that 3 times a day!" I took that to mean they do eat like that 2 times a day. But it is fantastic food, and cheap in the right neighborhoods. Paprika comes from Hungary, and is featured in most national dishes.

I made a fool of myself in front of some Angolan tourists yesterday. I actually tried to start speaking to these girls in French. How ignorant am I.

Women. I had heard that this was the place, but I do not concur exactly. This is no Bulgaria or Serbia. Here we're approaching normalcy again, we're off the runway; that is, normal people of all shapes and sizes exist. It's only that MOST of the girls are still amazing.

Hungarian Jewry. Man, the tribe, as my brother would say, is everywhere. I found evidence of this not just in the Synogogue area, but when the guy at the movie theatre spoke more Hebrew with me than English (Batman Begins is the best movie of the summer), and when the guy I passed in the subway tunnel was playing Klesmer and Hava Nagila on the violin. But the Jewish population is an even sadder story than most. The nearly 1 million pre-war population was decimated after the Hungarian government, who have always joined the wrong side in history's wars, actively helped deport it's Jewish citizens to the gas chanbers. It is said that Eichman only needed to send 200 German supervisors, the Hungarian military did all the work wiping out nearly 2/3 of the population. Budapest also had the last Jewish ghetto in Europe, set up even after some other countries had been liberated! but miraculously saved by an early Russian offensive that gave the Germans no time to destroy the ghetto as they retreated. A strong community of nearly 100,000 exits today.

One detail in Hungary's defense in WWII: the reason the government aligned firmly with Hitler was because he promised to restore to them the 2/3 of their country they lost after WWI in the Treaty of Triannon. Places like the Balkans and Transylvania and Moldova all used to be Hungarian territory, and it was a lingering wound in their national identity. When Hitler betrayed the country later in the war, it was too late to sue for neutrality or UN intervention.

Opression. I was also ignorant about the Soviet era after the war. I had thought that communism had somehow ushered in a peaceful era here, even if we were against it. But literally hundreds of thousands of people were relocated, imprisoned, tortured, and killed as enemies of the new leadership over the next decade and a half, whether for practicing their religions or facing trumped up charges of breaking new laws or engaging in sedition, etc. For years it was a police state that answered to the USSR, and the 1950's were the most debilitating years.

Sorry for so much history, it is just what I get into. But free elections have only truly existed since 1990! Amazing. This was in my lifetime, it is not just some high school history book bullshit.

That's all I got tonight. More from London. Wow, first flight in 2 months. Peace out.

Living in a State of EXIT

Novi Sad, Serbia

The EXIT festival, with over 20 main stages spread out across the main sections of the Petrogardin Fortress high above the Danube River in Novi Sad, Serbia, was amazing. Returning to Novi Sad also had this undeniably comfortable feeling, like home. That's what scares me about the Balkans, I always feel like I'm home...

I'm basically speechless about the last 24 hours, is it ironic to write about being speechless? Every kind of music was there, Serbian reggae and Latino bands, rap, hard rock, metal, dj's, an entire outdoor dance arena housing a rave with maybe 10,000 people, etc. Basically around every castle wall and through every tunnel you found a new scene for the 100,000 per day crowd. I only came for the last day, mostly to see the Datsuns and White Stripes, who were every bit as weird as they are on cd.

My last night in Sarajevo was fantastic. I actually skipped the UNICEF party to hang out with all my new friends at the hostel. We hit some major bars and clubs, drinking and dancing in classic Eastern European clubs until 4 in the morning. I then wandered the streets and ate pizza until nearly sunrise with a crazy Irishman and a guy from Montreal in front of the Eternal Flame, a national monument to WWII.

Because I couldn't sleep on the night bus from Sarajevo - I was so tired too, and the hostel in Novi Sad had no room ready for me (although I almost slept in the conference room the lovely Dragana had prepared for me), you could find me wandering like a zombie at 6am amongst others in the center of town who had stayed up all night and were still drinking and partying in the streets (the festival is 8pm to 7am for 4 straight days). I slept on a bench like a true hobo for maybe an hour (it is unbelievably safe to do here, unlike America) before being waken up by Vladimir, his sister Tattiana, and her friend Alexandra, who all walked by just as exhausted and laughed at me. Soon we were all having coffee and talking through our heavy eyelids. The brother and sister spoke english, but Alexandra only speaks Russian, which made conversation harder and led to problems later...

I was able to sleep for 2 more hours before heading to the castle at 7, and I ran into my new friends again immediately. We listened to some local bands and danced a bit. Like that scene in the 3rd Matrix movie when the people in Zion start dancing to house music and there is this primitive, animal feeling to the atmosphere, the dance arena was multiple levels around an ancient drawbridge of bodies in motion under massive speakers, scantily clad professional club dancers, and light shows. It took me half an hour to get through the crowd. When the two english speakers stayed in the dance arena, I was left in a somewhat awkward situation with Alexandra at the main stage. At first it went well, I could make her smile by telling her I loved Sarajevo (her home town) or mentioning great legends like Hendrix or Zeppelin. We even managed to have some minor conversations about school and jobs and politics - she is in a 5 year child psychology program in Belgrade. But at the same time, huddled together under a raincoat in the pouring rain with a Bosnian chick who speaks literally no English was like a first date from hell. Thank god we were at a concert, I could just buy her drinks, dance with her and enjoy the music.

It is difficult to go to a concert and dance and drink for 12 straight hours. We often found ourselves exhausted and sitting around enjoying the view, lost from her friends and struggling to communicate! I asked a girl next to me for the time at one point, and ended up meeting another half American at school in Iowa named Irina. As beautiful as Irina was, her male friend Bronco was more interesting. He was from Novi Sad, a bit older and spoke perfect English through his drunkeness. He loved meeting me and for some reason and wanted to tell me all about his thoughts on the war, which was a nice surprise after my experience with the victims in Sarajevo (the morning I left a procession of police-escorted coffins rolled through the center on the way for reburial at the Srebrencia memorial service, while residents lined the streets with arms outstretched, openly weeping).

Bronco was stationed in a Bosnian town called Benaluca during the war, which he loved because the ration of women to men was 12 to 1. Of course you must understand that this ratio existed because all of the men and boys were fighting or had been killed already. But it is still interesting that he loved it enough there to abandon the army and run around with Muslim girls - he is Christian Orthodox (Serbian). From Bronco's perspective, the war was an unnecessary tragedy. He described at length how well the older generation of the united Yugoslavia had been living for decades. Until of course they agitated for independence. "They [Bosnian Muslims] had a good life! Why this nationalism!" So I suppose it is a serious split in basic ideology. I mean, you have to admit that when Bronco explains that the Muslim populations began a small guerrilla war, supplied and encouraged by other Muslim countries (I don't know if this is true or not, but it is a common belief), you start to understand Serbia's desperation to keep things together. He did not deny horrible things had happened, Bronco simply wishes the Muslims had never wanted to break away. I don't agree or condone Serbian actions, but I am starting to understand both sides.

At a certain point I ended up alone at the concert, tired and wondering what the hell I was still doing there. I left around 4:45am, the castle still brimming with people.

So I have finished my Balkan tour, and will head to Budapest tomorrow for a few days before visiting my brother in London. I will really miss this part of the world, it has been a blast - and you didn't even hear about Croatia where I met an Aussie who looks exactly like my old friend Matt and we took some Norweigian girls out on the town!

I am desperately in need of some good old rest and relaxation, which I will get in London. My life is like a long, fantastic dream these days.

Ain't nothing in the world like a big eyed girl
To make me act so funny, make me spend my money
Make me feel real loose like a long necked goose
Like a--oh baby, that's a-what I like!
-Big Bopper

Man Down

Sarajevo, Bosnia
Let me begin by telling everyone that my brother and his girlfriend are fine after the London attacks, and I am safe and quite happy in Sarajevo, Bosnia. I hope that everyone else's friends and families are safe as well.

I am now without my wingman, my ace, my Chino cabron, and travelling alone is different in many ways. We split up last week in Ljubljana, Slovenia and I have since been down through Croatia and on the island of Hvar. It didn't take long to make friends almost everywhere, and there is so much to tell I could write for hours. But Sarajevo is a more intense and interesting story than the leisure of Spielberg and Madonna's yachts on the Dalmatian Coast. I will tell just one lively story of regret from the islands to cheer everyone up, and maybe get back to that later. Saddened by the events in London,I'd rather talk about the tragedy in Bosnia because the 11th marks the tenth anniversary of the Srebrenica massacre here where over 9000 Muslims were slaughtered in front of their families in one town. Even the head prosecutor at the war crimes tribunal at the Hague is saying she will not attend because they have yet to arrest Mladic or Karadzic (former President)...

Under a temporary bout of insanity I passed on a golden opportunity on the morning of July 5 on the Croatian island of Hvar. I had the chance to get naked with a girl before I even knew her name, Sarah. Allow me to explain. I knew Sarah for just 10minutes. I met her in line for a Jadrolinija ferry ticket back to the mainland when she laughed at me for missing my 6:30am boat due to an irresponsible night of 4th July driking (I met some Americans from New Orleans and NorCal) and a subsequent failed attempt at setting my alarm clock. Naturally I was explaining all this to the lady who spoke no English and would not let me transfer the ticket. But I digress... Sarah and I walked along the waterfront talking,and then she promptly jumped into a boat along the dock. "Where are you going?" I exclaimed. "Don't leave at 1pm with your new ticket," she replied. "We can get naked at the nude beach on the next island and you can leave at 7pm." (But I just bought another ticket and I need to catch a bus to Sarajevo!!!%$%@%) Ahhh, you only regret the things you didn't do.

Armed with bread, cheese, cherries, and peaches from the lovely morning market in Split, Croatia (former summer palace location of the Roman Emperor Diocletian) I hopped on a bus along the coast for the 7 hour journey to Sarajevo, Bosnia. On the bus I met Igor, a Sarajevo resident now going to school in Akron who recently gained US citizenship. Good conversations followed and I began my education of Bosnia while staring out at turquoise rivers and green mountains.

I am still confused about the history of Yugoslavia and even the current political structure. Paddy Ashdown is the high representative here appointed by the international community to be Bosnia's benevolent dictator. His sweeping powers allow him even to fire the president, which he has done twice already. But the mix of Orthodox Serbs, Muslim Bosniaks and Christian or Muslim Croats is inherently combustible, each with their own leaders and a rotating presidency system. It is a fragile peace in most places outside of the main cities.

In Mostar we stopped, and I witnessed the lingering evidence of the war ten years ago. I have never seen evidence of urban warfare like Mostar, the second largest city, buildings strewn with mortar and bullet holes and badly damaged roads from raging street battles. I would guess that it probably only compares to something like Jenin, West Bank, or perhaps Baghdad. Mostar was the front line between Bosnian Muslims and Christian Croats, and the city is still divided by neighborhood along its river, where even a famous Turkish bridge that once symbolized peace and harmony was blown up. It's still easy to spot the Croat side - a large cross looms on a nearby hilltop. Ironically, these groups first fought along side eachother against invading Serbian units after both countries declared independence. But ethnic tensions and economic disparity throughout the country, no longer reigned in by Tito's brand of communism, erupted in cities and villages all around.

Sarajevo is a similar story, under siege for 3 years during the war. Igor recalled staring out the window of his grandfather's apartment building when a rocket exploded in the window above him. The Serbian army simply surrounded this georgeus city of 300,000 in a beautiful valley, and from the tree lines and Jewish cemetary above, bombarded its inhabitants from 360 degrees of hills with tanks, rockets, snipers, and mortar fire.

I took a tour of the tunnel the army and townspeople built under the UN-controlled Sarajevo airport (only for humanitarian aid to both sides) to smuggle in and out people and supplies and weapons from the northern part of Bosnia. There we were shown a video of the seige and how the people coped, and later I was driven through "sniper alley," where the worst of the damage to buildings like the Parliament along the river is still visible. Even the Hoiliday Inn, once the comfortable refuge for attendees of the 1984 winter olympics, stands completely burnt out, a large concrete skeleton. I often wonder about the UN and what they are truly capable of or obliged to do in these situations.

There are photo galleries, cemetaries, and museums all around, including the mine museum (landmines are a gigantic problem now, with next generation cluster mines littered across the country and slowly being cleared.) It is hard to imagine how people went on with their lives and settled back in with their neighbors in divided towns. In Sarajevo over 10,000 were killed until the UN, NATO, and international community finally took a side (after Srebrenica and the shelling of Dubrovnik and evidence of genocides they finally had to). And yet after the holocaust were we not all taught "NEVER AGAIN?" My father recalls Nobel laureate Elie Weisel standing up in front of President Bill Clinton and boldly challenging him to take action in Bosnia. It is only the west's lack of action that causes traces of resentment here.

But you should not have an impression of Sarajevo as a dangerous, ugly place. Yes, there are terrible scars, but they are rebuilding with international help and a permanent EU police presence (EUFOR). It is one of the most beautiful places I have seen. The center of the Muslim-dominated city, the Turkish Quarter, is lovely and romantic with fountains and bazaars and winding streets with cafes and United Colors of Benneton. For 2 bucks you buy a chevapa, a pita overflowing with diced onions and spicy sausages, no sauce. All the houses, with mosques interspersed frequently, line the valley and are roofed with red tiles, making for a pretty postcard picture against the backdrop of green mountains.

At the Jewish museum - also still used as a sephardic synogogue - I learned about the population of 12,000 jews (pre-WWII) who settled here after the Spanish Inquisition and even more throughout the balkans. Today there is one ashkenazi and one sephardic synogogue for a community of just 700. Many left or were wiped out by Hitler. But the Jewish history here is rich, and evidence of jewish culture in buildings and cemetaries and shops is widespread. It was heartening to learn that the jewish population endured the siege and fought right alongside their Muslim brothers against invading Serbs.

I have met wonderful people at the [sub-par] hostel, including a Canadian girl who invited me to a party tonight with her friend who works for UNICEF here, and a group of Quebecans speaking a brand of French I have never encountered and cannot understand! But the Aussies, Japanese, Brits and many Americans are all here as well, and there is much to see. Last night we all went to a great brewery for liters of dark beer and tasty sausages, led by two young Irishman determined to live up to their reputation.

This city is intense, but wonderful and very relaxing at the same time. The locals are warm and there is a feeling of safety that does not exist in most American or other European cities. Still, underneath the surface, you can sense some lingering ethnic tensions and can see that people are still living in homogenous neighborhoods. Eastern europe, and particularly the Balkans, continue to simply knock me on my ass with startling surprises!

I miss many of my friends and family at times like this; it is difficult to be away from home during a tragedy. But know that travelers are a family as well - you make friends very fast and learn about eachother and yourself. In ways that are not possible at home, I am utterly content.

HAPPY 21st BIRTHDAY ERICA!!!

Happiness is a Warm Gun

Lubljana, Slovenia

Under a cloudless red-rimmed sky and a scorching sun, we watched a selection of the most beautiful women in Eastern Europe idle by until dusk, relentlessly tantalizing us with their tiny bikinis while we alternated between sitting at cafes drinking local brews and shots of rakkia - plum brandy - and playing catch and taking dips in the river Danube with our latest group of friends. Only the night before, Scotty and I sat at Martha's Pub in Novi Sad, believing it was our last night together after 4 months, toasting to and drowning our memories away in heavy shot glasses of aqua absinthe. We recalled the good times and bad, the company we've kept and the money spent, the tourist traps and lucky discoveries, the tales never to be retold and the friendships forged in minutes. (but I then decided to go with him to Slovenia the next day!)

Gazing out along the river in Novi Sad from this man-made paradise beach on a river, or from the Petrograd fortress that rises above it nearby, we could hardly believe we were staring out at ruins. A local kindergarden teacher on a bench in the city center recounted to me her memories of hiding in her river-front home while NATO war planes destroyed the city's 3 main bridges. "It was a dangerous time here." Aside from the provisional barge bridge that sill stands today and the pillars of those destroyed 6 years ago, you can hardly tell anything happened in this city of 300,000. The objective of the bombings was to cut off "supply lines," although if you talk to people here they will laugh at that idea and say it is all just politics. Roughly 10% of the population are students, out of school since last week and partying on the beach like Pauly Shore during Spring Break 1991. This place is a serious challenge to the good looks and fashions of Plovdiv. I will return. Hey Chino, I cried across a perfect beach, "define heaven."

Our companions in Novi Sad were a group of university students recently liberated for summer but not yet returned to their homes in Bosnia. They were perhaps the most friendly and welcoming bunch yet, and the one Jewish member of the crew, Jaelco, was delighted to meet me. More important than the beers we drank together or the stories shared were the conversations about what we as Americans so terribly misunderstand and mis-learn about the wars in this region. Slavisha and Alexander enlightened us a bit during our walks to the beach, shattering all assumptions and the small factual education I had acquired. The fact is, the simple notions that world media outlets create of Serbs slaughtering Muslims or entire communities raging against others are absurd. Each village was a different story; Serbs against Muslims, government troops against Christians, Muslims against Muslims. Slavisha and his family fled to Hanover, Germany until 1993. He and Alexander were reunited only by accident after they found eachother studying in the same town, Novi Sad, 7 years later.

So we were embraced by a group of Bosnian university students, and what followed was 2 days of drunken revelry and certainly one of the finest nights of my trip at Club "Sterija." While the talented local gypsy band Absolutno Romantico belted out traditional Bosnian and Serbian tunes and original favorites - a solid drummer and two talented guitarists finger picking and strumming hard rhythms - a Sunday evening evaporated while a packed club sang along. I sat alone (Scotty passed out earlier from a rough day on the beach) in the corner with a group of Bosnians that gather each week to sip Montenegro white wines and take in the atmosphere. Each song was a new experience, as the crowd cheered and Ricky or Slavisha or Alexander or Banir or Jaelco explained to me its meaning or what was happening; e.g. "that girl over there just declared that she will run naked through this club if you do not play her favorite song!" When Ricky's girlfriend Dragona was mentioned in a song, he raised both arms straight up in the air in recognition, smiling like an idiot. Just when I least expected it, and 3 bottles deep in wine, the band made an announcement honoring the presence of the American "Fox" and apologized for not playing any Jimmy Hendrix for me. We all toasted repeatedly to the crowd of kuchke. Please excuse the language, but what a fuckin awesome time.

Talking to Binar was one of my favorite conversations, another Bosnian who had been working in town for the UN and EU for the past 7 years. He is currently working for the EU Police Mission, helping monitor police work in the area since the end of the most recent conflict and stressed out by the 26 different nationalities and languages he deals with. Underpaid and underappreciated, he found it hard to believe that UN positons were so highly sought where we come from. The grass is always greener I suppose.

It's been nice to finally begin encountering a majority of young people that actually speak decent English. The girls I meet at the bar for instance, though quiet, are usually the most fluent. People may still hate the American government, but they cannot deny their envy of many of the other fortunes and systems we have been blessed with and their frustration with the difficulty of attempting to visit our country. There is absolutely zero feeling of danger in this area, and Serbia has exploded up my list of top destinations to return to. Our week in Serbia was fantastic.
After Novi Sad Scott and I went back to Belgrade to catch a train through Zaghreb to Ljubjlana, Slovenia. This town, Ljubjlana, from which I am now writing, is more or less like travelling to Interlocken, Switzerland. Upon arrival through picturesque, if rainy, Julian Alps, we met a very cool girl from western Canada, Christine, who toured the city and castle and bunked up with us for the night at a hostel. Christine is on her way to Spain for a summer intensive language program - I am jealous - and helped fill us in on what it's like in her hometown of Vancouver. She is also a talented athlete, and I am now fairly knowledgeable about a sport that gets little attention at home, but that is played very seriously in over 40 countries: Ultimate Frisbee. Did you know it was invented in the late seventees at a highschool in New Jersey!? I've only played for fun, but I experienced Mardi Gras in New Orleans a few years ago with part of the Michigan team, who helped school me on how to throw the disc, but who also drank too much and their habits have hurt the team's performance...Perhaps one day it will be accepted as an Olympic sport.

So we three walked the city and toured the castle. The castle has been transformed into a modern art museum upon original roman ruins. It would be the perfect place to take a girl, with make-out points and a "drip room" with sound effects where an original well once stood. We took pictures from the tower and watched a 3-D film while wearing dorky glasses, about the history and archictecture of the city. The film was fantastic, except it rushed to the credits without telling you what happened when Slovenia went to war with Yugoslavia after declaring independence and being invaded in 1984! I believe they have only been independent since 1991. Their cultural history is very impressive.

Scott and I spent today in Bled, an Alpine glacier lake town outside of the city. It is simply gorgeous. We paddled out to the Church of the Assumption on an island in the lake's center, and ate Chinese food and drank some beers at some local spots when the daily onslaught of rain began. Tomorrow I will go to soem famous caverns outside of town - some of the biggest in Europe - before heading back east to Zaghreb and south to the Dalmation Coast.
On a final note, I just want to wish our dear friend Anika the happiest of weddings this weekend. She was none other than Scott's prom date, and the first of a series of friends soon to be married. Mazel Tov!

Crusaders in Belgrade

Belgrade, Serbia

I never thought I'd be in Serbia, but here I am (we say this about most countries we hit these days). Today we arrived overnight from Bucharest and settled into a highschool hostel in the center of the city - the kids are out for summer I guess. How can I put this...we stink. The flies were upon us on the train in today, and it made us crack up knowing that we probably didn't even realize how dirty we must be. We have been wearing the same clothes for far too many days and are having trouble finding laundry services. Today I put on my last clean pair of boxers!

Our first friends in Serbia turned out to be a few Americans staying at the hostel, part of a group of 45 college students from all over the states on a summer mission for Campus Crusaders for Christ. They showed us around a bit to the main areas and pointed out the Parliament building, the former police and security offices which still stand half in ruins from our American smart bombs 6 years ago, and the old post office once used as Nazi headquarters during WWII (underneath there is a secret tunnel running all the way to the Danube.

It's funny explaining to people what we are doing here. The answer is we are not sure ourselves. They are here to talk to poeple about their feelings about Christ; we are here because an awesome bartender in Plovdiv, Bulgaria told us it should be included in our trip. And we have to then add the customary tale of two life-long friends saving up money after college to quit their jobs and tour the world for a while before life gets too serious.

The rest of our stay in Bulgaria, on the Black Sea, was nice but uneventful. Just relaxing on beaches and staying in private apartments of old women who pounce on us at bus and train stations for business. They never speak english, they're just adorable old people who escort you through town with your big backpack to their homes for a cheap place to stay. Not a bad business! Varna was unexpectedly cool; we spent the day there while waiting for a train connection, getting our last glimpses of the Black Sea.

Bucharest was a more exciting time, the capital of a country we planned to skip (everyone said skip Romania) but it just made more sense to go there to get to Serbia. I'm glad we saw it. A northern Italian man at the train station in Ruse, northern Bulgaria, tells me that the Romanian economy is growing at 8% a year. Isn't that approaching Chinese levels!? What is the US at, 3.5%? (Klaffky?) Mercedes and Hummers are not infrequently spotted in Romania. The wealth is there. After a couple days wandering the city, visiting the Peasant Museum and major squares, and staying at a hostel in a fancy neighborhood of embassies and government buidings with very sweet girls working and begging us to see more of their country; well, I really like Bucharest! It is broad avenues and bars and clubs, schwarma and pizza cafes and parks and cheap theatre and opera. It reminded me at times quite a bit of Beunos Aires. The only sad part is that the former communist dictator (executed on national tv Christmas Day 1989) uprooted a lot of the traditional neighborhoods and architectural relics, leaving a bland and scarred bloc-like feeling to much of the city. But the People's Palace (parliament) he built is impressive; it is the largest office building in the world after the Pentagon. I would like to return to Romania and go north, touring the mountains and Transylvanian architecture, and perhaps Moldova, which is now independent?

So that's all for the moment, not much to report. We are eating well and seeing the battered part of the Balkans (although you wouldn't know it from the main cafe and shopping areas of the city). The people are very friendly. We get the same standard reply as every other country when we inquire about thoughts on America: "we love your people; we hate your government." I think tomorrow we might try and locate what remains of the Chinese Embassy.

"AZIZ!"

Plovdiv, Bulgaria
Yesterday we bumped into a group of about 7 Peace Corps volunteers stationed in small villages around Plovdiv. They had all gathered to run a week-long day camp for Roma (gypsy) kids in town, children who rarely get that kind of attention and have that kind of fun given their poverty and the racism and lack of opportunity they endure. Naturally Scott and I fast became friends with the PCVs over some good Bulgarian beers on the main shopping street, and we went out with them all night.

I think perhaps my brother's friend Elena may be the only person who can truly appreciate what we witnessed last night (a native of Plovdiv), because it involved a local superstar. Let me explain a bit:
Aziz is sort of a Prince or Michael Jackson type of celebrity in Bulgaria. His music is extremely popular and he has a good voice, so I can't judge him badly there. Bulgarians really enjoy music that is a fusion of Bulgarian folk and remixed techno. The videos are melodramatic and very funny. But Aziz's image is ridiculously feminine - glitter, high heels, beaded skirts over tight cut up denim capri pants - all this even though he surrounds himself with huge bald bodyguards with no necks and beautiful women. If you see his poster, it looks straight out of Zoolander.

Anyways, we went to a club last night to see Aziz make an appearance on the campaign trail (he is now running for office of some sort). Forget any kind of platform or speech, the guy arrived at 1 am and walked into a dancing club crowd also containing 7-9 Americans not knowing exactly what to expect. He danced in the center of the club singing his songs (terrible dancer) to the delight of the locals. The women love this guy, you should have seen the wall of cell-phone cameras surrounding him. So he came, sang his songs, shaked his ass, and Scott and I left a little early!

We're now in Sozopol, a small beach town on the Black Sea in the east. We took a nice train ride across the country after very little sleep and rented a cheap apartment in town from an old woman who speaks no English. I think we'll hit a couple towns along the coast (although it is very quiet here before high season) and maybe one more destination before leaving Bulgaria.

I know this is just stop number 1 in Eastern Europe, but I think it needs to be said that what Americans grow up thinking about this area of the world is embarrassing and uninformed. Our education in American classrooms is based entirely on ancient history, modern wars, and communist legacies. Oh, and of course fear of most places beyond western Europe. Not knowing what to expect, I imagined we might stumble upon Soviet era gulags or anti-American armed gangs just past the border, not the undiscovered supermodels and seaside restaurants and resort towns. Contemporary classes need to be introduced immediately.