notreallytravelling

 Waiting for the shuttle in Istanbul I thought I would check for any useful hints on arriving at Tashkent Airport. Worst airport in the World cried some, had to call the Embassy to have them come and retrieve my passport from immigration, they took all my money because I didn’t fill a form in correctly, bag thieves everywhere, they made me pay $500 to enter the country, the taxi driver pulled a gun and demanded all our money. By the time I was sitting at the departure gate I was really wondering if I was doing the right thing, but then I got some soothing texts from back home (thank you) and met a party of British teachers on their way back after the summer holidays and felt the anxiety level lessen. The boarding process was eye opening as large parties wanted to sit together so actual seat numbers were totally ignored, this caused complete mayhem of course. Is it always like that? You would have thought the airline would have made the process less anarchistic, but what do I know. Eventually the overworked flight crew settled every one down and we left, only an hour late though that meant instead of a 1.40am arrival it would be 2.40am.

Arrive we did and upon deplaning and waiting for the bus I couldn’t help noticing the heavy military presence bearing sub machine guns (Kalashnikovs?) then alighting from the bus we were herded into a glorified shed where it was everyone for themselves for immigration, no queueing, waiting in orderly lines, oh no. I got my stamp with a grunt and then it was baggage claim, sit and wait, sit and wait. Where’s my bag, Moscow? Budapest? Nairobi? This was the second time ever that I have had to check my quite small bag, never again I vowed. Eventually it came and with fear and trepidation I approached Customs with my duplicate forms and you know what, I passed, welcome to Uzbekistan , enjoy your stay. So proud. Exiting I was confronted by a massive crowd of greeters and hustlers. No, no thank you I don’t want to get in your taxi, my hotel is picking me up (well I hoped they were, I sent two emails), attempts were made to grab my bag, I was surrounded, and then, there he was, the man with the Mr Tim, Silk Road Hotel sign. The relief.

Sped through darkened Tashkent with the Super Moon above and then hotel, easy check in, offered a beer at the 24 hour bar, whadya mean, its four thirty in the morning! Slept the sleep of the Gods until 6.00am when someone started pounding on my door, Oh Rude Word. Cat napped until about nine and went for breakfast, then took a nap. Went for a short stagger down the street and came back, another nap.

That was about it for my first day in Tashkent. I changed some money, 50 UK pounds ($75.00) and received 190,000 Uzbek Som in 1,000 Som notes. What ever am I supposed to do with this stack of notes four inches thick? A charming young lady called Anastasiya advised me where to get an Uzbek SIM for my phone, but when I got there the shop closed at three o’clock, try tomorrow. I went to a grocery store dominated by the biggest display of loose biscuits (cookies) I have ever seen, don’t they go stale and soggy? I bought some chips (crisps) for eight cents. Sat by the pool for a while but it seemed dominated by rather large, sunglassed men with their families (or not) and judged it expedient to sit at the back on the grass, if you get my drift.

Drank tea (Erin).

Tomorrow the serious business will be taken care of, booking trains, hotels etc for my adventure around Uzbekistan and  also visiting Embassies to get more visas.

I will let you know how it goes.

Not the greatest start to the day, awoke to massive thunderstorm and torrents of rain. Breakfast was bread, honey, cheese and olives with the ubiquitous tea. Then to the hotel lobby where my guide was waiting. Sensible person first checked my shoes, they were approved. Off into the countryside, low hills, mainly sunflowers in the fields, few cows, some goats, this not the tourist route we did yesterday. The road is washed out in places, rivers of mud flow over the tarmac, we follow farm vehicles.( I am live blogging this rather than trying to do it from memory, it seems to be working out.)

The track up to the Hill 60 Memorial.

Arriving at Memorial.

Great Uncle Joseph Hopson. I added my own tiny poppy.

A view of the Hill 60 Memorial.

Time to leave.

http://www.nytimes.com/2014/06/27/world/europe/gallipoli-world-war-i-campaign-laid-ground-for-national-identities.html?_r=0

 

More mud on the track.

There is much press in Europe about the 100^th anniversary of the start of World War One. In the American press and media, barely a mention. I wonder why this should be. Names like Ypres, The Somme and Verdun are part of the British psyche. Lines of poetry such as:

“Stands the church clock at ten to three?

And is there honey still for tea?”

Or

“There’s some corner of a foreign field that is forever England”

are well known and much loved and quoted.

In America, not so much.

Two weeks ago I found myself in London with my Niece, Sophie, and we visited the Tower of London where there is being created a vast Memorial to those who died in that War. Over 800,000 ceramic poppies are being arranged in the moat, a huge undertaking by over 5,000 volunteers. We both found the scene quite moving.

Leading up to……..

Here I am in the Dardanelles, previously known as the Hellespont (!), which as every English person knows is the sight of one of WW1’s major engagements, Gallipoli. Previously I had thought that the word Dardanelles referred to an area, of land. But no, it is actually a Strait connecting the Aegean Sea with the Sea of Marmara. (no more geography, I promise).

Getting here was comparatively easy, up at 5.30am, the tour bus picked me up at 6.30 and off I went with a busload of Aussies and Kiwis who both share some splendid epithets for Brits and Americans, so I kept my mouth shut. Five hours later we arrived at Eceabat, on the banks of the Dardanelles. A quick lunch then we were of on a tour of the ANZAC landing grounds of Gallipoli.

Four hours later we returned to the lunch spot severely chastened, heart broken, dazed, tired and emotional. Hundreds of thousands of lives were lost during the campaign and it achieved what again? As far as I could determine, nothing. We visited ANZAC Cove where some of the troops were landed at night, in the wrong place. We saw the Nek, where a naval bombardment was mistimed, allowing enemy forces to regroup and repel the attack. They were all so young, as an Aussie friend back home remarked “They were just babies”. There were fourteen year olds amongst the Allied forces.

Enough from me for now, lets see what tomorrow brings.

Oh, I am off for tea because, yes, there is still honey.

Sophie and the poppies at the Tower of London.

One of the many Memorials.

Lone Pine War Cemetery.

On the highest hill in the area.

Anzac Cove Cemetery.

There is one benefit to travelling solo and that is to be spontaneous and so early on New Year’s Eve I decided to go to Chartres. Checking the web I saw that trains left regularly from the Gare Montparnasse  which I had discovered while exploring the surrounding neighborhood so armed with shoulder bag, coat and scarf off I went. Again, buying a ticket was a breeze, there was a British flag above a booth in the ticket office so I headed for that and with a minimum of fuss I was on my way. Had time to buy a baguette with ham, cheese and tomato, hung around the indicator boards waiting for the platform to be announced and joined the surge of passengers when it was it was divulged. I grabbed a seat upstairs for a better view, seats comfortable with a retractable table, foot rest, clean windows and a very tiresome Brit’ trying to impress a much younger Asian woman. Shades of Phnom Penh for those of you with long memories. Off we went, gathering speed through the suburbs which, I have to say, were a bit grim. Reminded me of those tower blocks in Moscow featured in so many movies.

Out into the flat countryside, green, low single story farmhouses, water towers dotted about, rain streaming across the train windows. Stopped at unknown towns, Epernon, I wonder what people do there, Maintenon, I thought that meant “soon” when translated, who knows. Woods, not really forests, but fairly large woods, with mistletoe growing on the trees in great clumps. Ah, talking of mistletoe it is one of the main reasons I wanted to go to Chartres. Been reading these books see. All about ancient times, pre Roman, Roman and post Roman. It seems, say the books, that back down the centuries the Druids major site in Northern Europe, apart from Anglesey, was centered among the forests around Chartres and the vast amount of mistletoe that grew there. When the Druids were wiped out the locals built the cathedral on the site of the mistletoe groves. Good story anyway. 

I arrived in the town of Chartres and stepping outside the train station it was clear what route to take. The cathedral completely dominates the town, rising up with its two spires, one from 1160 and the other from the early 16th Century. I was warned in the guide books that the town would be extremely crowded, it was, by me. There were two or three other tourists who got off my train, that was it. I ambled up mainly deserted alleyways, found the town square, found, incongruously, an Indian restaurant. There was a small market in the main square but hardly anyone about, it was cold and raining, and it was New Year’s Eve, which might explain the lack of people.

The cathedral was everything I had expected, huge and looming over the small houses round about, some of which appeared to have been there since the Middle Ages. There is no point in trying to  describe the truly unique blue stained glass windows which were created in the Twelfth Century and then the secret of their creation was lost, even to this day. There is a project underway to clean the dirt and candle grease of the Centuries off the interior and so far the results are stunning. There seems to be a certain amount of controversy about this cleaning or restoration. Some feel the resulting blinding whiteness of the stone somehow detracts attention away from the stained glass. I liked the result, no matter that we cannot imagine, or know, how it looked upon completion in the Mid Twelfth which is the point of all the work. Maybe the following photos will help you make up your own mind.

One incident remains in my mind. The interior is so vast that one has to sit down frequently just to realize the enormity of it all. It was on one of those breaks, sitting looking at the grandeur of the organ pipes high above me that I saw two, obviously, local women coming towards me, clearly on some kind of mission for the upkeep of the cathedral. One of them was carrying an enormous basket. They got closer so I could peer into the contents of the basket. It was full of MISTLETOE. Maybe there is some credence to the previously mentioned story

Back view

three storey flying buttresses

The choir, cleaned, unlike the rest of the interior.

windows