Tuesday, January 2, 2024

Travels in the Western Balkans




It was time to move on from the familiar embrace of Hungary and to explore further afield. Transitioning from home into the unknown, entering that liminal space, is always a curious blend of excitement and trepidation - as we move from certainty and stasis to fluctuation and adventure. 

And thus it was time for a road trip! Given the relentless European summer heatwave, my duffle bag is half empty, music is downloaded, and my nostalgic peanut butter and jam sandwich is ready for the long drive ahead.  

Várpalota, Hungary to Trogir, Croatia (via Zadar, Croatia) is 675 kilometers. Trogir to Split is a short ferry or a 27 km drive away. Trogir is the more tranquil of the two. Both are stunning - architecturally and in terms of landscape. From intensely ornate medieval cathedrals to gorgeous beaches, these two Croatian cities on the Adriatic Sea are superb destinations to explore.  



While the joy of swimming in warm, secluded, protected waters is easy to understand, the grotesque medieval carvings on the 13th century portal of St. Lawrence's  Cathedral in Trogir is baffling. The contrast of the cathedral's sublime, sacred interior spaces with the external deranged iconography is jarring. And maybe that's the very purpose of these otherworldly creatures: leave the external world of materialism, temptation, evil and ego on the outside, as you enter infinite, spiritual space inside the church.                                                                               



I leave Croatia and my travel companions behind to continue my Balkan adventures as a solo traveller -  perhaps travel in its most purest form.  



Arriving late in the evening by bus from Trogir, Croatia to Sarajevo, Bosnia and  Hercegovina wasn't straightforward. The bus terminal was closed, public transport was nowhere to be found, and taxi drivers were wildly negotiating fees at breakneck speed which my sleepy brain was having trouble processing. A persistent yet  amicable driver and I finally connected and we found my hotel in a dark, narrow alleyway next to a river. It was midnight. The very pleasant elderly gentleman who greeted me was the father of the guesthouse owner. As a weary traveller at the end of a long day, I was glad to be embraced by his genuinely warm hospitality.
  
Sarajevo captivated me completely. I simply was incapable of leaving this magical city. Echos reverberating back to its not too distant tragic, genocidal history are undeniably present, yet the city's triumphant and joyous emergence from the collective trauma is hopeful and inspirational - perhaps especially now as we again are confronting these darkest dimensions of humanity. 


One of two hundred Roses of Sarajevo.

They mark a spot where mortar fire killed at least three people during the Siege of Sarajevo between April 5, 1992 to  February 29, 1996, during which nearly 14,000 people were killed, including 5,434 civilians. The fragmentation patterns left by the explosions were later filled in with red resin as memorials to those who lost their lives during the Bosnian War. As I walk about enjoying the city's vibrant post war energy, it feels  important to have these reminders of the pain humanity is capable of perpetrating - as a way of hopefully preventing subsequent atrocities. Sadly, the genocide we see unfolding in Gaza, Palestine these days tells me that we're still not ready to transcend violent tribal attachments. 

                                                              

The unique East meets West vibe of the city - striking me like Budapest meets Istanbul - is a pleasure to explore. In fact  strolling along  Ferhadija Street, one can literally  take a single step and be noticeably transported from a European to an Asian urban landscape, at the point inscribed, "Sarajevo - Meeting of Cultures". 

Taking the Sarajevo Cable car up to Mt. Trebević made for a fine afternoon. Hiking amidst cool, pine fresh trails and the views of the city below are lovely. I had a chance encounter where the forest trail led to a viewpoint from where one could take in the charming urban landscape below. A gentleman slightly limping and accompanied by his daughter were speaking English and I said, "Hello". He recounted how he was a small boy when he was with the first family to be airlifted by the UN out of Sarajevo after his home was amongst those bombed by Bosnian Serbs - from the very surrounding mountains we were now hiking in. It was during the 1992 to 1995 siege of the city that he sustained the leg injury with which he returned to his birthplace for the first time since his childhood rescue. He was one of the 50,000 Sarajevans wounded. More than 10, 500 residents of Sarayevo were killed during that four year period. 

As I am finally getting around to writing this on March 7, 2024 - we enter the fifth month of the genocide in Gaza. I can't help but think of the over 30,000 Palestinians killed by Israeli forces there. The rate and severity of this annihilation is unbearable. Moreover it is totally disheartening and painfully unbelievable how often we need to repeat, "Never again!" The failure of humanity to even call for a ceasefire while 150 Palestinian children are killed every day is a crime so evil that it's unfathomable. The searing, traumatic repercussions of this will haunt us all for generations.  


              

Continuing to hike through the forest, one eventually arrives at the post apocalyptic
scene of the graffiti - covered ruins of the 1984 Sarajevo Winter Olympics bobsled track.



I travelled to Mostar from Sarajevo with a small group organized locally by the excellent outfitter, Meet Bosnia Tours. Mostar is the home of the world renown bridge built originally between 1557 and 1566. It was deliberately destroyed in 1993 during the Bosnian War of 1992 to 1995 during which it's estimated over 100,000 people were killed. 




The 600 year-old Dervish Monastery, Blagaj Tekija just outside Mostar is a sublime and evocative place to reflect on the power of connecting to the sacred whilst reverberations of the terrible history of the region abound. Looking Heaven-wards through tiny, star-shaped, coloured windows, one can perhaps sense the transcendent light which unites all God's creations.






Ever-shifting, strong and contradictory feelings accompanied me throughout my travels in Bosnia & Hercegovina. Waves of sadness, confusion and anger could unexpectedly sweep over me, triggered for instance by a sight of fading graffiti on a war-damaged building.  Alternating emotions of genuine happiness were sparked by pleasant, peaceful and care-free interactions I regularly had with strangers in the streets and in cafés, or during time spent in places of worship. During contemplative periods I had in both a mosque and a cathedral in Sarajevo, I reflected on the messages of peace central to both religions. I thought about how people who had once lived harmoniously together could be manipulated and enraged by extremist political leaders. These warmongering tyrants would exploit ethno-religious differences to further their murderous political agendas. The deadly violence, trauma and destruction finally ended with the Dayton Agreement reached on November 21, 1995 by the presidents of Bosnia, Croatia and Serbia.




From Sarajevo, Bosnia & Hercegovina I travel by bus to Podgorica, capital of Montenegro. With a population of 151,000, Podgorica is compact, easily walkable and totally delightful. In fact the population of the entire country is 167,000. I realize quickly that I must return to Montenegro. My time here was simply not enough to experience all what this land is about. From rugged mountains with mind-bendingly beautiful hiking opportunities, to elegant, walled cities with grand plazas, courtyard cafés and stunning architectural gems, to up-market, sea side villages with ridiculously beautiful mountain views - I was astonished by this tiny country. 






One excellent day trip out of Podgorica consisted of taking local busses to Budva, on to Kotor, and later that night, the bus back to my guesthouse in Podgorica. Walking happily along atmospheric narrow Medieval-era streets, one now finds alongside the many lovely churches, fine Italian seafood restaurants, funky, affordable cafés, friendly neighbourhood bars - and a park for overly pampered stray cats! Adding to the allure of these two nearby cities along the Adriatic, are seaside promenades and nearby jagged mountain vistas. Both are dramatic and delightful places to explore from the capital, Podgorica.    







From the young hotel receptionist, to fellow railroad passengers and in every guidebook and online post, I was told that the Orthodox Christian, Ostrong Monastery had to be visited. It's a truly remarkable place, constructed in 1665 into two giant caves overlooking a cliff face, 900 meters above the Zeta Valley. I join the queue of pilgrims waiting to enter a small, atmospheric shrine where St. Basil's relics are wrapped in fabric and over-looked by a priest. Some tell me that the in fact the miracle of St. Basil is that his body is actually fully preserved under that shrud. What is undeniable, is that one is visiting a revered and holy site. I joined those around me in making the Sign of the Cross, and said a brief prayer, before descending and hiking down the mountain to the train station.  

 
The hike down to the train station quickly turned into an unexpected, at times quite puzzling as the trail was long abandoned and difficult to follow. After the initial, in retrospect, somewhat misleading, confidence-inspiring sign stating "Train" with a red arrow pointing downwards, the terrain quickly became overgrown and with meandering, side tracks that seemed to lead nowhere in particular. An elderly gentleman came by and when awkward yet smiling gesticulations ended, I concluded that I was lost. It was getting dark, and it was doubtful that I would reach the train station in time to catch the next back to Podgorica. I retraced my steps to where I felt somewhat confident I made an incorrect turn. The map apps on my phone were inoperable. 
I finally spot a way marker. It's written in Montenegrin. It occurred to me that using the camera function with Google Translate, I may be able to decipher it. I choose Serbian, and luckily I got back on track and happily worked my way down the steep, wooded trail to the rain station.  As I scramble down to the base of the mountain, I see the graffitied train roaring into the station. I run towards it, but just as quickly as it appeared, the train departs. I sit down, somewhat dejected and say another small prayer. Perhaps St. Basil will come to my aid. Well, a  bedraggled Spanish tango dancer shows up at the station. We happily greet one another, and reralize that our hike down from the monastery to the train station was almost identical. He too got lost, retraced his steps a number of times and took far longer to 

arrive then he had anticipated. Suddenly the uncertainty was replaced by a  happy time sharing travel tales. That another train back to Podgorica was arriving in an hour was a bonus. Thank you, St. Basil!                             

From Pogorica, Montenegro  I traveled by bus to Shkodra, Albania. The record-breaking heatwave was continuing to broil and smother Europe, while at the same time forcing the world to take note and hopefully take action to reverse the climate catastrophe that our collective thoughtless, wasteful behaviour was responsible for. Unable to find my lodging in the extreme heat was not easy. Google Map on my smart phone was useless, as was the map in my guidebook. Asking repeatedly for directions seemed to lead me in circles. As it turned out, the people I asked in the street were generally giving me correct directions, it's just that the building was nondescript with no visible signage or address and I walked by it repeatedly until by good fortune, I asked the baker directly next door, if she knew where the guesthouse was! OK. "All's well that ends well." Thank you, William.

Shkodra is a marvellous city and frustrations surrounding my arrival evaporated quickly. Care-free locals intermingle with happy travellers in busy streets with art galleries, small shops, cafés and outdoor bistros. I especially treasured the easy, tolerant mix of churches and mosques, oftentimes down the street from one another.

  


The lady running the guesthouse mae arrangements for me to travel by mini bus and boat from Shkodra to Valbona to do the Valbona to Theth hike. The ship and drive to Valbona, the day in the  remote mountain village of Valbona, and the astonishingly beautiful hike the following day through the stunning Accursed Mountains  to Theth was truly one of the highlights of my entire journey. But "accursed"? Far from it - the landscape in fact is blessed with eye-popping grandeur.



 


  

Sadly it was time to leave the mountains and continue on to Tirana, the capital of Albania. I had been curious about Albania for many years as for much of the 20th century it was a European country closed to outsiders. In 1946 the People's Republic of Albania was proclaimed and the autocratic/paranoid Enver Hoxha became the tyrannical leader of what became an isolated, totalitarian nation. The population lived in fear of the secret police. Many were tortured and jailed for absurd acts like listening to foreign radio stations. Hoxha was afraid of internal dissent and foreign invasion alike. This led him to install 750,000 concrete bunkers around the country should Albania be invaded. They were never used during his reign. Today many can be found scattered and abandoned around the country, while others have been re-purposed as art museums, tourist attractions, and historic sites. Tirana, like that proverbial phoenix, has risen from the ashes and is in a continual and exciting process of redefining itself as a a vibrant, colourful - literally - modern city where it's inhabitants warmly welcome international travellers. I hope to someday return to Tirana and then travel further afar to explore deeper its charming towns and varied, stunning countryside. Oh how those dramatic mountains beckon. Maybe the daunting name of the range, the Accursed Mountains will help keep the masses away. At least until word gets out, that these dramatic peaks are also known as the Albanian Alps.  


Colourful ultramodern towers and this beautiful Catholic church would have been    inconceivable in Hoxha's Tirana. 



The infamous bunkers - literal externalizations of Hoxha's paranoid delusional inner landscape are everywhere. No longer menacing, a child fearlessly explores a graffitied one in downtown Tirana. 


Bunk'Art is a must-see historic museum and contemporary art gallery converted from a massive, elaborate underground Cold War bunker built for the Communist Party's  political elite in the 1970s. The facility remained a secret throughout its existence. Classless society my ass!
                                               

And by all means - beware of those dangerous, hippy, vagabond enemies of the State! 

 










Wednesday, December 20, 2023

The Saddest Christmas (2023) and Bleakest New Year's Eve (2024)


How to say, "Merry Christmas" while Gaza is being annihilated? How to say, "Happy New Year" when more than 22, 000 lives have been taken by Israel's barbaric genocide? Western media is parroting  absurd propaganda lies that Israel is defending itself against Hamas terrorists. Repeating this dishonest, racist formula only emboldens the vicious, indiscriminate bombing and ethnic cleansing. The horror is live-streamed onto our phones, yet even calling for a ceasfire is reframed as somehow being antisemitism. Since when is demanding an end to human rights violations and war crimes reflecting racism? 

70% of those slaughtered in Gaza are women and children. 

Are they all "terrorists", that nuclear weapons-enabled Israel needs to defend itself from? By non-stop massive, deadly bombing campaigns? Where starving people are huddled together in makeshift tents in "safe places" they were ordered to go to. Whose homes are demolished. Who are being deprived of food, water and medicine. These unfathomable mass atrocities have nothing to do with a "war on Hamas", but instead we are witnessing an  intensification of a seventy-five year-long campaign of ethnic cleansing of Palestinians by a settler colonial, Zionist project intent on replacing the indigenous  Palestinian population with a Jewish-only ethnonocracy. 

Israel has been violently oppressing Palestine for decades. In addition to militarily occupying Gaza for 56 years, Israel has cut-off Gaza from the rest of the world since 2006. It is an isolated, besieged territory. Claiming Israel  has a "right to defend itself" when beleaguered, encaged people resist their captors is simply nonsensical. A conqueror cannot claim self-defence when the oppressed people resist their subjugation. This is not a war between two armies. There is brutal, long-standing, illegal, military occupation confronting a people denied their fundamental freedoms who understandably refuse to be erased. 

Peace cannot come about by  a continuation of Israeli oppression and denial of basic freedoms. Lasting peace comes with justice. Justice means upholding international and humanitarian law, where all people are treated with dignity, freedom and equality.  From the River to the Sea.





In spite of the mind-numbing horror unfolding in Gaza and the West Bank, the good people of Vancouver did not succumb to despair, but instead creatively mobilized on New Year's Eve to express love, hope and solidarity with the Palestinian people as they continue to resist their oppressors and move ever closer to their liberation. It was a powerful, beautiful and meaningful New Year's Eve after all. 






Monday, December 11, 2023

Summertime in Hungary

 

My cousin and I were cycling around Hungary's Lake Balaton in 36 degree heat. Global climate change ensured that our outing was taking place during the absolute hottest month of July (2023) ever recorded - ever since even humans learned how to cycle! As I was visiting from Canada, and because we're both avid cyclists, we decided even though the entire European continent was enveloped in an infernal heatwave, that this was the day to set-out. 

Lake Balaton, Central Europe's largest, is a defining feature in the Hungarian landscape - both the natural, external, geographic landscape, and within, the interior, psychologic landscape. People literally love this body of water. One can frequently hear Hungarians talking about how while they may have swam elsewhere in the world, nothing compares to swimming in their precious Lake Balaton; sometimes referred to as the Hungarian Sea or the Hungarian Mediterranean. Beautiful indeed. 
   
Given the record-breaking heat, we decided to tackle the smaller 85 kilometre circuit (see the accompanying Strava route map) which included a short ferry ride. In addition to stunning sunflower fields, we were able to cool down en route at some  lovely, popular beaches. The wild cherry draught beer (naturally in moderate quantities) was also real nice. 
Next time, I hope to cycle the entire "Balatonkör" - the complete 204 km circuit of Lake Balaton. 




My summer in Hungary - Magyarország in Hungarian - turned out to be quite an active affair which included a week-long hiking trip through Nográd County in northern Hungary. At times we simply walked in and out of Slovakia through the ancient forest straddling the two countries.

I aim to weave a spiritual dimension into all my travels. Sometimes I actively plan this, while on other occasions the sacred unexpectedly reveals itself - allowing me a momentary, luminous glimpse into Heaven on Earth. As such, my heart quickened when I learned from our guide that we were walking in an area near Salgotarján where 18th century hermit caves had been carved out of the basalt. After climbing up the steep slopes and looking out at the expansive landscape from within this cave - for a moment, I understood that I was peering out into the infinite.





On another day of hiking, our small group visited a Buddhist temple.  Now, while I knew of the Hungarian pilgrim-scholar, Körösi Csoma Sándor (at times, he used the Anglicized, Alexander Csoma de Koros), I was astonished to visit an authentic Buddhist Temple in this rather remote region of Hungary in the small village of Tar. Here a Peace Stupa was constructed by the local Karma Kagyüpa Buddhist Community and later consecrated by His Holiness the Dalai Lama to honour the life of the itinerant Hungarian mystic, poet, seeker and linguist, Csoma Sándor. It was he who opened the eyes of the Western world to Buddhism by creating the first ever Tibetan-English dictionary whilst living in harsh, self-imposed isolated conditions in another remote hermitage  cave; this one in Zanskar, in the faraway, enchanted Indian Himalaya.  



Earlier this year I had  been trekking in the Nepal Himalaya and was familiar with Tibetan flags strung across high mountain passes. Seeing them here flutter in the hot Hungarian landscape surrounded by linden leaves and not along glaciated  high altitude peeks, I had a sense of the universality of, and indeed, the need for, their essential message of peace, unity and compassion for all sentient beings.

(The credit for the two photos from this Buddhist community do not belong to me. The stupa in the sunset is from the Group's website and the Tibetan prayer flags were photographed  by my cousin, Magda. In my astonishment to have stumbled upon this reverential place, I was so swept away that I remembered to take only one picture of a sacred text.)




Bús Zsófia was my father's grandmother. Little is known of her, except that she was born on April 14, 1874 and passed away on August 8, 1922. She was born in  Várpalota, the same Hungarian village where my dad was born and where this summer I was visiting with my few remaining relatives. She is my great grandmother. I gathered this limited, preliminary information by talking with archivists and searching birth and death certificates at City Hall. 

One afternoon, whilst hiking in the ancient oak forest with my cousin, she told me that another relative (everyone I meet seems somehow to be "a relative" in this town) recalled stories of how Zsófia was buried in the nearby, abandoned old cemetery. As a little girl she would occasionally visit Zsófia's tomb and was therefore able to describe for us the location of her gravestone. 

We found the overgrown tombstone and began clearing it up. What a totally unexpected, meaningful and powerful encounter it was for me to discover the place where my great grandmother had been resting for over a hundred years. And so the journey goes on  ...


   


  




Sunday, May 21, 2023

A Birthday in Nepal. Or: What's another year, when you're walking amidst a 45 million year-old mountain range?


 




Since my first journey to Nepal in 1989, I have been drawn back to what was  then the Hindu Kingdom of Nepal, and after painful political upheaval, now the Federal Democratic Republic of Nepal - at least a half dozen times. The charming and remote Himalayan villages, the cacophony of Thamel in Kathmandu, the unabashed display of spirituality, including a seamless interweave of Buddhism and Hinduism, the children greeting you with choruses of Namastes - each one a prayer recognizing our inherent divinity - the magic of this land continues to warmly embrace me.

As I live in Vancouver, I reside at sea level. Consequently, even though I am familiar with the signs of AMS - acute mountain sickness - I always experience  some pre-departure anxiety around this topic. I obsessively review the altitude at which symptoms are to first appear (2,500 meters above sea level is the usual threshold) and check whether my Diamox tablets have expired or not - which I take with me like some sort of pharmacologic rabbit's foot, as I haven't had to use them in years. This is all part of my pre-trip ritual, like packing and unpacking a thousand times in an attempt to shave off a gram or two in my luggage. 

Arriving in Kathmandu after a far too long flight always thrills me. The city has of course grown over the years. Some of the changes are positive. The redevelopment after the catastrophic 2015 earthquake is impressive. The artful reconstruction of ancient temples flattened by that horrific disaster is a joy to behold. The increased traffic congestion and accompanying pollution is obviously far less pleasant.  Here I confront one of many inescapable challenges and paradoxes facing the contemporary traveller to Nepal.  While many longtime Western adventurers to Nepal bemoan the gradual urbanization of  the country, complaining for example that development of roadways detracts from the traditional  tranquility of some  trekking routes, I find it selfish, disrespectful and smacking of a type of  "tourist colonialism". Why in the world should children residing in remote mountain villages have to continue to walk for half a day to go to school so one can have an "authentic trekking experience"? 


 


The challenge is not to purposefully bypass modernity, but to ensure that the precious and unique culture, aesthetic and history of Nepal is preserved while not erasing and replacing it with a quick, uninspired  project that lacks soul and integrity.








The itinerary this time was the Tamang Heritage and Langtang Valley Trek. The combining of these two separate trekking routes makes for a wonderful two week excursion. Tamang is next to the Langtang Valley. Tamang is a Tibetan Buddhist region. Walking amidst traditional villages is a richly rewarding experience. As in other parts of Nepal that I have visited, the Tamang people are very hospitable, gracious and kind. The views of the Langtang and Ganesh mountain ranges are spectacular. 




The Langtang Valley was heavily impacted by the enormous 2015 earthquake. The village of Langtang was entirely obliterated for example. Hundreds of lives were lost amidst the disaster. Over the ensuing years, villages have been beautifully reconstructed and the return of trekkers has provided income useful to further the reconstruction. Walking amidst the  mind-bendingly beautiful landscape and chatting with friendly villagers, I couldn't help but wonder how much of the psychological trauma  continued to reverberate in the people's consciousness. I hope that our return to their valley helped in some small way to soften that pain. 




On a much lighter tone - the Snickers momos were an amazingly delicious and creative way to recharge after a demanding day of trekking.






One of the most memorable experiences was to spend my birthday in the Tamang village of Thuman. Participating in devotional chanting (and occasionally sipping yak butter tea and later chang - fermented barley wine) at one of the ancient Buddhist monasteries was an unexpectedly blessed and enormously meaningful birthday gift. Suddenly my notion that all travel is a pilgrimage was again crystallized. 






I felt an unmistakable sense of  connectedness to all which was present; there in that welcoming sacred space - and beyond. 






As I didn't wish to draw attention to myself, I refrained from mentioning my upcoming birthday to my travel companions. Nevertheless, our guide gleaned this information from our passports and later that evening, in the small, family-run guesthouse, our small group of intrepid travellers secretly arranged a surprise birthday party for me. A wonderful and happy culmination of my birthday in Nepal.


                        


The village of Kyanjin Gompa was the final destination of the Langtang Valley Trek.  I did not sleep much the night prior to that last day. Anticipating the early morning 4:30 departure in total darkness to greet the rising sun at Kyanjin Ri  (Nepali for "peak"; elevation 4,400 meters and a 600 meter ascent) made for a fitful night.  The effort was of course well worth it. The view was spectacular. Our supportive banter motivated one another over the rougher patches and the camaraderie deepened with each breathless, slow step.





Back in the village later that afternoon, I notice a lady working at - well I'm not quite sure what she is doing. She continually empties basins filled with crystals while white particles flutter away. A beautiful and enigmatic image. I am curious and smile. She returns the smile and thus I approach her. Before I know it, I join her in her task. Two hours working together ensue and we have cleared all the sacks of salt crystals from the tiny pieces of material that have gotten loose from the bags containing the salt. The bags of salt were transported by donkeys to Kyanjin Gompa village to be used to supplement the diet of local, domesticated yaks. The technique was to empty the sacks of salt crystals into the basin which then are poured out to the ground. As the large, heavy salt crystals fall onto a tarp, the wind carries away the lighter fabric that had broken off from the sacks during the transport by donkey caravan. 




After completing the job, she thanked me for my assistance with a lovely smile while gently caressing my cheek. Beckoning me to her very simple home nearby, she gave me four small roasted potatoes. A precious, serendipitous encounter winds down. Another  unexpected gift from Nepal that will stay with me long after I leave.


  

Returning to the Kathmnadu Valley, I take a few more photographs before I start my long journey home. The magic of Nepal will likely draw me back into her embrace. Hope it'll be soon.

Namaste.