RedSonja Goes Home

After ten months living abroad, traveling through Eastern Europe, the former Soviet Union and even parts of the Middle East, it's finally over. Tomorrow, I'm going home. Although "home" is still a fluid term for me, since I am starting law school in a city I have only visited once, briefly, I am looking forward to being back in the U.S.

On the other hand, I am not looking forward to a future of explaining that Kyiv is not in Russia, that Ukrainian is it's own language or any number of questions regarding world geography. Although I expect law students to be smarter than the average American, even bright Americans have continually shocked me with their ignorance of the rest of the world. In other words, coming home will likely entail some degree of culture shock.

Living abroad has confirmed some personal suspicions - I will never be the kind of person who is happy staying in one place. Already, I am planning my next escape at winter break and an international internship for next summer. Hopefully, my career will lead me abroad and allow me to continue my slow, but methodical adventure across the globe.

Ivana Kupala & Goodbye

Tonight, my last night in Kyiv, we went to the outdoor, ethnographic museum outside of the city, Perehovo, to celebrate Ivana Kupala, a traditional Ukrainian holiday celebrating blossoming of nature (really an old pagan holiday). The museum itself dates back to Stalin's era, lying on a large territory, with homes and churches transplanted from all regions of Ukraine (as part of an attempt to salvage Ukrainian culture that would have otherwise been decimated by Stalin's five year plan).

In any case, we expected a fairly mellow and uneventful evening. Traditionally, women wear flower wreathes on their heads and men drink "samohonka" (moonshine) until they find the courage to jump over the bonfire. Not sure when the festivities would begin in earnest, we wandered off the beaten path to find some blossoms suitable for wreath weaving. Suddenly, we noticed a large crowd of people ambling down the path near our clearing, led by the President of Ukraine, Victor Yushchenko.

Of course, chaos ensued. We joined the crowd, clamoring to get a better glimpse of him, following him to the pile of wood and branches that would be the evening's bonfire. Although he had an extensive security detail, it was still shocking to be able to stand so close to him. (Kinda makes you understand how his poisoning was made possible.) We spent the next hour or so waiting for events to begin, but his presence made anything other than standing around, trying to get a picture of him impossible.

Of course, in typical Ukrainian fashion, we got totally and completely lost on our way home, since "remont" closed down several streets and clear signage has yet to come to Kyiv. We finally made it home, about an hour later, which gave me plenty of time to take one good, long last look at Kyiv. Although living here has exasperated me at times (ok, often) and made me long for home, I will miss its sullen faces, uneven sidewalks, lively markets and musty smelling metro.

Azerbaijan is Absurdistan: Caucases Pt. 3

The night train to Baku was surpisingly painless, although my standards have gotten pretty low since first moving to Ukraine back in September. Despite having tickets in an SV kupe (first class), our compartment looks like a regular kupe, only without the top bunks. Amazingly, we still have to pay for sheets and there is no toilet paper in the WC.

Having heard horror stories about long delays during this particular trip, we stocked up on tomatoes, cucumbers, fresh herbs, dried fruit and lavash at the market in Tbilisi. For entertainment, we bought some chacha (Georgian hooch) and homemade Georgian wine, both of which were awesome and helped pass the time. Despite long delays at both borders, totaling about 5 hours, we made it to Baku on time, around 9am the next day.

By the time we woke, a couple hours outside of Baku, the topography was totally different. Gone were the short trees, shrubs and vineyards of Georgia; we were quite clearly in the desert now, with yellow dust as far as the eye could see. The views from the train primarily consisted of dense networks of oil and gas pipelines of various dimensions and sparsely scattered squat houses.

Although I had been warned about pollution in Azerbaijan, mostly from Soviet petro-chemical factories, I did not expect to see the extent of garbage and litter strewn everywhere. As soon as we crossed the border, the Azeri passengers started tossing empty bottles and other unrecyclable materials out the windows of the train. By the time it was light out, it was apparent that this was an acceptable disposal method, since the first few yards on either side of the tracks looked like a junk yard.

Baku itself is a bizarre mix of Soviet and Arab worlds and unlike any other city I've visited in the FSU. Many people continue to speak Russian, although the younger generations clearly prefer English as their second language. Aesthetically and culturally, it is a far more interesting city than Yerevan and Tbilisi, from the Middle Eastern influenced architecture to the oil rigs visible out on the Caspian.

Gary Shteyngart's Absurdistan is a hysterical illustration of the former-Soviet, Azeri and Western oil conglomerate fostered mess of bureacracy and capitalism. The ancient ethnic rivalries and cultural expressions of endearment - "my father is your father, my mother is your mother, there will always be water in my well for you to drink..." Amusingly, Shteyngart is spot on, as many, mostly taxi drivers, called me "sister," particularly when trying to get a few extra kopeks out of me. Talking with Armenians and Azeris talk about each other and the disputed territory of Nagorno-Karabakh wasn't quite as funny as the Sevi/Svani rivalry in Absurdistan, but is also pretty accurate.

Our first day in Baku, we wandered around old town. Unlike other Soviet cities, the old town in Baku is in nearly pristine condition, consisting of cobblestone streets, two story stone buildings with spectacular, engraved wooden doors and lacey, stone sculptured moulding. The focal point of old town, the Palace of Shirvan-Shahs, consists of several domed apartments, as well as a mosque and hammam (baths). Unlike the Arab style domes found in Egypt, these look like a smaller scale of those at Taj Mahal, with architecture that looks more Indian, than Arab. The enitre old town is surrounded by a tremendous stone fortress that still stands, nearly 40 feet high.

The other gathering place in Baku, is the centrally located Fountain square, surrounded by the main commercial district, including retails stores, bars and restaurants. A nearby market is a tourist trap selling overpriced chachtskis, such as the glass tea cups and blue glass discs painted with the Turkish eye that is supposed to bring good luck. There are actually many similarities between Turkey and Azerbaijan, and it seems that Azerbaijan looks to Turkey both commercially and culturally, which may be attributed to their shared linguistic roots. Azerbaijan is also a moderate, secular nation, although officially the state religion is Islam, although you wouldn't know it, walking around Baku.

Although we were only in Baku three days, we ventured out of the city for a couple day trips, only one of which could be deemed a success. Our second day, we took a marshrutka to Sumqavit, the third largest city in Azerbaijan, only about 30 minutes north of Baku. The main attraction, for us, was a cemetery that allegedly contained victims of chemical poisoning, including disabled and deformed children. Ultimately, we found a cemetery that may or may not have been the one we were looking for, but was horrifying nonetheless.

Although it was not limited to children or victims of the chemical factory, it had been abandoned for over a decade and was overgrown. Disturbingly, many graves had been destroyed, headstones toppled and sarchophagi pried open. Our taxi driver explained that the homeless were responsible for desecrating the graves and sometimes robbing the dead out of desperation. At one point, I realized I was very nearly standing on what I recognized as a human child's rib and pelvic bones. While it may not have been the site we were looking for, it was a sad insight into the poverty that faces Azerbaijan.

The next day, we traveled to Quobustan, 70 kilometers south of Baku, where 45,000 year old cave engravings were discovered just 10 years ago, in the process of exploring for oil and gas. Amazingly, the cave etchings remain out in the open, protected only by the isolation of the preserve. Distinct drawings of men, women, animals and boats are visible to the naked eye and, since they are protected only by a piece of string, intended to guide your path, they are at arms' length.

Upon arrival, we learned that Thor Heyerdal, a famous Norweigan explorer, whose museum in Oslo we visited back in January, traveled to Baku and postulated that the Vikings traveled from Scandinavia to Azerbaijan, based on virtually identical ship relics found in both locations. Our guide insisted that Vikings originated in Azerbaijan during the middle ages (800ish A.D.), rather than the other way around, but none of the Western archaeologists who have come to visit the caves have supported that theory. Even common sense dicates that the significant differences in physical appearance between the Azeris and Scandinavians render this theory unlikely.

Just 17 kilometers from the caves lies a site that is truely remarkable. Down a dusty road and up a steep hill, we got to see the bizarre phenomenon of mud volcanoes; crevices in the earth that spurt cold mud due to gaseous pressure building below. Our guide warns us not to get too close, since the crevices extend through to the crust of the earth, about five kilometers down. From a distance, they look like lumps on top of a plateau, but upon closer inspection, the crevices that ooze gray goo are not just at the peaks of the miniature volcanoes, but dot the entire surface of the plateau. At times they burp and hiccup, sending globs of mud into the air - their flatulence is fairly hysterical, and even the guide and our taxi driver were laughing.

In the afternoon, we went to the local beach for Bakunians at Sixov. The weather was hot and dry, and the Caspian was an inviting turquoise color, but the two oil rigs out in the distance made we inspect the water carefully before wading in. Surprisingly, although the Caspian is closed off to other bodies of water, it remains a salt water body and is filled with an enormous amount of crustaceans - every ounce of sand is littered with sea shells ranging in size and color.

That evening, we sought to find one of the traditional Azeri dishes, plov (pilaf), rice with dried fruit, nuts and meat, since few restaurants in Baku prepared it. Luckily, our last night in Baku, we were directed to a charming restaurant in old town, and finally had a delicious plov of lamb, apricot, plum and chestnut. With appetizers of stuffed peppers and a spinach/egg cake, we finally had a shashlik-free meal, and a nice end to our strange journey.

Even though it was early, we turned in after dinner. Absurdistan is exhausting, and the entire trip through the Caucases involved a lot of shlepping and, on my part, arguing and haggling in Russian with taxi drivers and hawkers. After ten days, even I had reached my limit and was ready to go home. There is something to be said for the brand of exhaustion that comes from defending yourself (trying not to get ripped off) in a foreign language for 16 hours a day.

Although I am far from done with the FSU, it's certainly possible to overload. I am looking forward to a week of rest before I head back stateside.

Getting to Tbilisi is Half the Battle: Caucases Pt. 2

Getting from Yerevan to Tbilisi is a bit of a challenge. Although trains are the ideal form of transportation virtually everywhere else in the FSU, the trains in the Caucasus are a different matter, as lines to Russia and Ukraine are closed since they go through the disputed territory of Abkhazia between Russia and Georgia. In fact, there are only two ways to leave Armenia - by plane, or via border with Georgia, since borders with Turkey and Azerbaijan are closed due to ancient animosities.

As such, we determined to hire a driver to take us from Yerevan to Tbilisi, an option recommended by a friend of mine who had done it before. We haggled with a few drivers and even made arrangements with one, but the next morning, when we were set to leave, he did not show, so we ended up with a toothless Armenian who spoke broken Russian and drove a rusty Lada. Obviously, it was going to be a great day.

Initially, everything was fine as we drove through the picturesque countryside. As we approached the border, about 3 hours into the trip, the cabbie explained that he couldn't take us across the border since he didn't have a valid passport, but that he wanted $100 anyway. After a lot of arguing, I ended up givinghim the money.

We crossed the Armenian border without too much hassle, alhough my father's e-Visa got some attention. The Georgians, on the other hand, didn't seem to care at all about Amerikanskis. Although many cab drivers offered to take us theremaining 60km for $40, we were done paying out the nose anddecided to take a marshrutka. Big Mistake. The marshrutka's bouncingnearly took our teeth out, while the lack of ventilation threatened tosmother us. Plus, the driver seemed to stop as his whim, doing somegrocery shopping along the way.

The marshrutka finally dropped us off by a Metro in Tbilisi, about an hour afterwe first crossed the border. Luckily, we found a currency exchangeand figured out how to buy tokens for the Metro, although none of the signs are in Russian or English. With some help from locals, we made it to our Metro stop and then on to our hotel. Unfortunately, local signage is exclusively in Georgian (virtually all of the Russian signs have been removed), so getting around has proved to be a challenge.

That evening, we indulged in Georgian cuisine at a restaurant on river, where we ate khachapuri (gooey cheese bread), phkali (vegetable/nut paste), tomato, cucmber and herb salads that put American produce to shame, and ground lamb kofta cutlets, seared on the traditional Georgian clay pan (kitsi).

The next day, somewhat refreshed, we began our tour of Tbilisi. Starting at the Rustaveli metro, just down the street from our hotel, and continued down Rustaveli, the main street. Similar to other Soviet-style boulevards, the wide street continued for several kilometers, linking several main squares. The parliament and other government buildings stuck out, true to their Socialist Realist form, although they were now adorned with Georgian flags, a charming series of red Maltese crosses on white background.

We met a friend of mine for lunch, who is living in Tbilisi for the summer, interning with a local NGO as part of her Masters. It is always interesting to get an ex-pats point of view, and she shed some light on Georgian popular opinions regarding Saakashvili (a dissapointment) and Russia (a sworn enemy). She also suggested we try to meet up with some locals, since homebrewed wine and chacha, traditional Georgian firewater, are best homemade.

In the afternoon, we visited the Tbilisi sulphur baths, which consisted of a very middle-eastern looking, blue-mosaic structure that contained both communal and private baths. Evidently, a personal scrub-down is also available, but my friend warned me that both the masseuse and the client are totally naked during this procedure, which struck me as a greater level of intimacy than necessary with a masseuse.

Since men and women are seperated in the communal baths, my father and I opted for a private cabin, which consisted of a giant black, granite tub that contained hot, sulphur water, plus showers that poured hot and cold sulphur water. A small private living room outside the bath area looked like an oligarch's den, with plush leather couches and green, blue and red mood lighting. All in all, it was a bizarre experience and both of us noted that our skin was exceptionally soft afterward.

The rest of the day was spent wandering the Old Town, although it is quite touristed and there were few local Georgians around, except cab drivers. There are many old churches and even a synagogue, but the area was suprisngly desolate and, as usual, the streets poorly marked.

Today, we ventured to Gori, the birthplace of my favorite dictator, Joseph Dagashvili (Stalin). An hour's drive out of Tbilisi, the town centers around the bizarre museum, buillt a few feet from Stalin's childhood home, which is maintained to this day. A tour of the museum led by a member of the local staff, proved to be fairly entertaining, especially since she acknowledged that some key figures (Trotsky, Bukharin, to name a few) were mysteriously absent from the chronology of Stalin's life.

Although the majority of the exhibits consisted of photos and portraits, they also included "gifts" from the various republics, including rugs from Azerbaijan, Turkmenistan and Uzbekistan, that were essentially woven portraits. Amusingly, the gift shop below sold Stalin t-shirts, key chains and lights, although I ended up walking away with a miniature bust, that I hope to use as a paperweight during law school.

This evening, we are taking a nightrain to Baku, which I expect to be a typical Soviet experience. Luckily, the main market in Tbilisi is across the street from the train station, so hopefully we can get some homebrewed wine, chacha and fruits and vegetables for our trip. Rumor is, the train has a tendency to run late, so it never hurts to have an extra meals' worth of food.

Anyway, as a whole Georgia was an experience. I can't even imagine what Azerbaijan will entail.

Armenia - Caucases Part 1

The airport in Yerevan is somewhat shocking. A space age orb decorating an otherwise modern facility, there are no hagglers or livestock to greet you when you arrive, much to my surprise. Although Armenia's economy has improved at roughly 10% per year over the last decade or so, the majority of the country remains agricultural and improverished.

Unlike the Baltics, once you clear customs, various, shady looking men mutter "taxi" in your direction, although they are less aggressive than the Russians and Ukrainians in Kyiv or Moscow, for whom spotting (and fooling) marks has become a revered national pastime.

Yerevan shares many traits with other cities in the FSU: poor infrastructure, casinos on every corner, the occasional "strip klub" and a populous armed with cell phones. Armenian cuisine consists of shashlik (Russian/Ukrainian for kebab in Turkish, khorovatsi in Armenian), served smothered with raw onions and cilantro, served with a spicy, tomato sauce (adzhyka). Yogurt, garlic, eggplant and various herbs are staples and combined into interesting salads that accompany the grilled meats.

Last night, we had a particularly extraordinary meal at a local restaurant, with long tables of Armenian families drinking wine and vodka, eating khorovatsi and grilled peppers, tomatoes and eggplants with "zelen" (mixed herbs). The band played traditional Armenian folks songs and ballads, as well as the occasional Soviet hymn. Armenians seem to be spirited and enjoy life. As a whole, they are much friendlier than Russians and Ukrainians. They even smile at you when you make eye contact, a rarer encounter in Ukraine or Russia, except maybe with children.

On an epicurean level, Russia and Ukraine should grateful for Caucasian influence, since the flavors of the region have greatly enhanced the staples of cabbage, potato and sausage that formerly dominated Slavic cuisine. For the last half century, shashlik and adzhyka have become ubiquitous, found as far as the Baltics.

Although Yerevan is very typical of the FSU, it is not experienced the deluge of money (oil) encountered in Ukraine and Russia, and, to that extent, has fewer obvious oligarchs, expensive cars, opulent restaurants and boutiques. Captialism is growing in tiny, baby steps and Armenia has a long way to go.

Our first day here, we made our way up the Cascade, a mile high series of steps leading to a Soviet monument and near a park where Mother Armenia (similar to Radiyna, the "titatnium bitch," as she is jokingly called, found in Kyiv). Mother Armenia scowls over the city, glaring at the Turkish border and the former prize of Armenia, Mount Ararat. Although Mount Ararat, the alleged site of Noah's Ark, is only about 50 miles from Yerevan, across the Turkish border, hostilies between the two countries have meant the border is closed.

Although Armenian might very well resent Russians, they hide it well, particularly since their greatest account of suffering was the Armenian genocide by Turks from 1915-1923. The local Museum of Armenian Genocide contains a powerful exhibit and explains that the opportunity for ethnic cleansing arose from Woodrow Wilson's League of Nations' further meddling with international borders, resulting in the annex of many Armenian territories to Turkey. The result was the decimation of the entrie Armenian population, numbering into the millions, in historical Western Armenia, what today is approximately half of modern Turkey.

Yesterday, we visited the Vernissage weekend market, near the main square, which sells gorgeous handmade rugs (the main reason my mother agreed to come to Armenia) as well as other Soviet tchatchkis, like old medals and propoganda posters. We spent half a day there, yesterday, wandering through stalls, eyeing everything from rugs to jewelry to household items and tools. At the end of the day, my mother had her rug and I had an Armenian t-shirt.

Today, we took a side trip from Yerevan to th Gegehard Monestary, a pristinely preseved religious site dating from the 4th century. It continues to funciton as a monestary, practing Armenian Orthodoxy, which has some slight differences from the Ukrainian, Russian and Greek Orthodoxies with which I am familiar. Namely, we saw the use of animal rituals, which
struck me as pagan in origin.

Behind the monastary, families brought sheep for slaughter as a sacrifice, then prepared and fed to parishoners, particularly strangers, since the idea involves bringing outsiders into the community. Also, men outside sold doves for parishoners to bring into the church, hold during prayer and then release in order to bring their prayers and hopes to God.

As a whole, Armenia was certainly worth the visit. Onward to Tbilisi tomorrow and more then.

Perfection: The Lithuanian Dumpling

After a crazy night bus from Tallinn to Vilnius, we arrived at 6am, bleary-eyed and disoriented. We get some rest at a hostel for a few hours before exploring the city, but I'm quite sure that all my travelling has disintegrated my immune system, since I am congested and feel like I have cotton balls stuffed in my ears.

Later, we begin our exploration. Vilnius is far more Soviet and Eastern European than Latvia and Estonia, although, linguistically speaking, Lithuanian is closer to Latvian than any other language. Despite this, the northern Baltics seem aesthetically Scandinavian, with wispy, willowy spires and narrower streets, while Vilnius is home to more traditionally Catholic domes and wider boulevards. Vilnius was the capital of the Polish-Lithuanian Empire and the center of the city is marked by a castle on a hill, unlike Riga and Tallinn, which were always small port cities.

Before I digress - there is the matter of the Lithuanian dumpling: a divine concoction of mashed potato mixture filled with meat or mushrooms covered in a cream sauce. Essentially, heaven in the shape of a delicate torpedo. Although I did not find Vilnius' architecture particularly interesting, these dumplings made me want to move to Lithuania, forget about law school, my friends and family and open a dumpling shop.

All in all, the Batlics were quiet and sleepy, particularly compared to Cairo, which is possibly the most abrasive city I have visited. That said, spending some time in a civilized society is refreshing from the pushing and shoving you experience even in the FSU and back home.

Tallinn is Vowels and Vodka

More so than Riga, Tallinn forces you to rethink how the Baltics ever could have been part of the Soviet Union. Although it is similar to Riga, full of cobblestoned streets and short, pastel homes and churches, the city has more of an ethnic Russian presence, which somewhat explains last month's upset regarding the removal of a Soviet monument.

Estonia appears to have synthesized the Scandinavian traditional of socialist leanings while integrating Russian culture and cuisine into it's Finno-Ugric roots. Really, it makes you wonder if this is what communism could have been ~ clean and organized aesthetically and little economic disparity, but holding close to it's affinity for cheap vodka and garnishes of dill and sour cream.

Estonia's Finno-Ugric roots make wandering around Tallinn even more fun, since pronouncing an average street name turns into a a vowel-filled tongue twister. The streets of old town center around a main square, where concerts play on weekends. Today, we were treated to the bizarre sight of adolescent girls riding unicycles onstage to ethnic Estonian music.

Tonight, we are off to check out some of the local bars. We are only in Tallinn one night, before we head to Vilnius, the city where my grand-uncle went to law school, beginning a long tradition that probably won't end with me.

More later.