Norway Road Trip Logistics

As pages of my “Journals and Notes” are finally getting dry and readable again, I am ready to give you an honest report on our ‘summer’ trip to the Arctic Circle and beyond.

If you show anyone with a trace of travel DNA in her/his blood a photo like this – maybe even without clouds if you can dig one up – the most probable answer sounds like this:

“Oh, Norway, so beautiful! I need to put it on my Bucket List.”

The next question naturally is “HOW?”

The majority of our American friends would likely be coming to this country on a cruise ship. Encountering on three different occasions these behemoths landing on Norwegian shores and disgorging thousands of people I can confirm the American accent definitely prevailed. Following the cruise ship travel format indeed simplifies the planning and logistics of travel to a remote country such as Norway.

But the photo of a multi-story cruise ship moored in a village of Geiranger with barely 250 inhabitants illustrates well certain limits on privacy and quality of life this travel style may impose on both residents and passengers alike.

150+ cruise ships carrying about 300,000 visitors in 4 months season combined with tens of buses waiting in the ports to take passengers on the narrow two-lane winding roads to 2-3 popular view spots for a selfie may make interactions with locals quite uneasy.

Dancing between buses and big camper vans you realize with a certain level of guilt that no matter what your mode of transportation is your very presence also contributes to the overcrowding and you really should as quickly as possible hightail it out of there.

Having established our summer base in Prague where we have a car, just one-day drive away from the southern shore of Norway, it was logical for us to opt for a road trip.

Between mountains and fjords and lakes; the enchanting empty road on Senja Island

This offered a more independent alternative providing freedom to select the places we wanted to see, when we wanted to see them, and flexible length of our stay in Scandinavia. In addition we hoped to get some relief from blazing hot summers Central Europe has suffered lately. We would simply move north through the marked places on the coast of the Norwegian Sea

and occasionally veer inward to the fjords all during what would be an average pleasantly warm Norwegian summer. When we finally reached a place beyond the Arctic Circle called Narvik (the ring marked with the letter H) located sufficiently Further North than we’ve ever been, and only then

we would turn south through Sweden and, with peace of mind that “mission was accomplished” we would come back to our Prague base.

“Mission accomplished” meaning that we finally set foot in the last two European countries we had not visited so far.

Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.

Beware of simple plans. Or as an old Yiddish adage says, “Mann Tracht, Und Gott Lacht.”meaning, “Man Plans, and God Laughs.” Or in our heathen version: Mother Nature pisses on your plans, literally with rain and more rain.

Even the start date of our trip didn’t go according to our plan. A 3-week delay was caused by an unfortunate (but luckily injury free) slow head on collision with a Slovenian Mail truck driver, sidetracked by reading an engrossing text message. After our car was finally repaired we were able to stuff it with all necessities for our trip and…

announce our departure on Instagram, (where else?) with a celebratory jump on our Czech family’s farm. Such important travel influencers we are! 😜

Opening of our travel to Norway could not have been more spectacular! After a day of driving through Germany, we spent the night in Denmark and then boarded one of those humongous ferries plying the waters between continental Europe and Scandinavia. It was a misleadingly sunny day when the blue color of the sky competed with the blue color of, no, NOT the waters of

the warm Mediterranean, but the unexpectedly turquoise water of cold Skagerrak, the strait between two relatively cold Seas, Baltic and North.

Despite doing our homework, browsing the websites, reading guide books, and talking to friends, we kept stumbling. Norway is a whole different breed of travel animal.

Meeting some Italian travelers with favorite Lonely Planet guides

Norway has some peculiarity in the community of European countries. It is a member of NATO but not a member of EU but to make it more complicated, does belong to the group of the countries which fully adopted Schengen Agreement. Norway also has their own national currency, called a crown like other Scandinavian countries we visited, Denmark and Sweden which are now part of both EU, and NATO.

Nevertheless, despite these somewhat confusing differences and the many borders we crossed in our 5-week trip, nobody asked us to present our passports, national or international driver’s license (with exception of international ferries), and car registration papers. As we are apt to do anywhere in a new country we withdrew some cash upon entering, but didn’t really get a chance to use it. Cards are queens, cash is not king! We were well aware that Norway was not a budget-friendly travel destination and it would be difficult to keep our expenses at least under some control. But at some point during our trip we just had to forget about any budgetary constraints and hope our credit cards will be accepted and take the load. (Automatic gas stations for example only take debit cards.)

Even though everyone speaks fluent English, the Norwegian language could pose a challenge, especially on websites buying ferry tickets and such. Norwegian, originating from Old Norse being a North Germanic language is related to English and German, but only inasmuch that one feels one can recognize a word or two here or there. (Can you guess “rød eple”? = red apple).

The Norwegian affinity for simplicity is well reflected in the names of local places.

The absolute winner is a small town, or rather a village, on the westernmost tip of Lofoten Islands. First mentioned in the historical sources as “Aa” in 1567, it had lived happily ever after till 1917, when the Norwegian language reform changed the letter “aa” to “å”. Since then the village name on maps and road signs is simply:

75 km, not people, there are actually exactly twice as many: 150

Is it not something? And for the next place on the record list you do not have to go too far. On the neighboring island of Andøya is the place with the name 100% longer and it is “Bø”!

Bø with a Dancing Barn for Vikings? No, it says: Children playing. Drive carefully.

I hope there are no Lofoten tourists visiting Wales on the other side of the North Sea. They do have a village with a name:

“Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch”. Yup, it is ONE word. Look it up, it’s fun!

Norwegians are what you typically visualize as “tough cookies”. Very much into outdoors, no matter how bad the weather. “There is no bad weather, just bad clothes”, must have been invented by Norwegians. It is not just the descendants of sturdy Viking Men but Viking Women and Children running around freely in all weather conditions.

You can not imagine how many bicyclists, how many SINGLE FEMALE BICYCLISTS, completely soaked through leaning into the wind we would see on the narrow roads of Norway. I am sorry for not having any photos, but we were embarrassed taking their photos from the comfort of our car in pouring rain. Those ladies do have my admiration! Their toughness projects into their way of communication. Kind, straightforward without wasting time talking too much. If they talk, they do not complain. Probably there is not much to complain about? Happy with the government and taxes? Husbands? Annoying Americans? Who knows. They didn’t say.

It is a pity Norwegians don’t deal with their high cost of living in the similar streamlining manner. Norway is a rather expensive country, probably the most expensive one we have ever visited. Most surprising is the high price of gasoline, in spite of Norway sitting on an ocean of oil

Oil Museum in Stavenger

under the North Sea from which they keep pumping for the last 50+ years. With prices of gas reaching US$10+(NOK100) per gallon /$2,5 per liter at the pump, we definitely did not feel like we were visiting some sort of European Emirates. You would think their salaries must be much higher then, but after all the taxes they pay (uncomplainingly) they really aren’t. They are not grumbling about taxes because they value the quality of their education and healthcare. Being a teacher is a respected and well paid profession, we heard. How refreshing is that?

And then there is the cost of transportation. Thanks to the remarkable diversity of Norwegian landscape with sky-reaching mountains, deep and steep valleys, river crossings, and a myriad of fjords (there are over 1,000!) building and maintaining a well-functioning highway network must be wildly expensive. To pay for such a system, certain portions of highways, many of the large beautiful bridges

taking you directly from one super

long tunnel to another super-super long tunnel, are tolled. There are over 1,200

tunnels in a country with slightly more than 1% of the US population. Some are small and even unpaved but some are really really long, and they must have cost a fortune to drill through typically granite mountain ranges. The longest one of all is the 24.5km (almost 15.5miles) long Lærdals tunnel which was built in just a bit more than than 4 years. It was opened in the year 2000. Building a tunnel of this length, technical expertise, and price tag can be undertaken by very few countries in the world.

There are no toll gates, just a traffic sign reminder of how much you are being charged. Since you pay, you get some entertaining bang for your buck with a lot of innovation in lighting keeping drivers attentive throughout their long drive.

The further innovation in limited space in fjord country are multi-arm underground tunnels connected via round-about interchanges, thus pushing the engineering limits even higher!!!

All Norwegian registered cars are recorded in the countrywide digital collection system which scans each vehicle license plate on highways and invoices the vehicle owner monthly. Foreign registered car owners are encouraged to pre-register their car’s

license plate online before intended trip to Norway and to pair it with preferable method of toll payment like a credit card. Strangely this electronic system is so slow that we only started receiving credit card charges after our return. If you don’t register your car online, the process is similar to collection of speeding fines in EU countries. In case you get a speeding ticket in another country they will find you in European data base through the license plate or rental car agreement and send the bill to your home address with extra processing fee added. Don’t ask how we know!

The toll charges through the EPASS24 app are used on selected ferries as well. Unfortunately, some private ferries do not participate, making the boarding process on them a little bit longer, but still efficient.

Ferry rides, while frequent, comfortable, and often very scenic, are not very cheap. There must have been certain political pressure to do something about their rising cost as the government made a few ferries transporting less than 100,000 passengers a year free of charge starting this July 1. Since we often travelled off the beaten path we happily benefited from this service.

One of our major geographical accomplishments on this trip, crossing the Arctic Circle, happened on a longer ferry journey connecting two small coastal places

Kilboghamn and Jektvik on the beautiful National Highway 17. The captain of our ferry made an announcement and took

us a little bit closer to the shore so everybody on board could take a photo of the marker of this geographical curiosity.

Driving in Norway is remarkably safe (we have not seen a single traffic accident), but also exceedingly SLOW. While roads are of good quality and well maintained there are only a few 4-lane median divided highways in the whole country. We mostly drove on 2-lane undivided roads with legal speed limits of 80km(50 miles) per hour when out of towns and villages, and 50km(30miles) per hour whenever you can see a house on the roadside. It does not sound too bad, if these limits were not frequently lowered down by another 10 or even 20km(12miles) per hour whenever Norwegian Agency for Traffic Safety, or whoever is in charge of setting speed limits, decided there is additional danger to public such as a mild curve ahead, or a roadside restaurant (no matter if permanently closed). After including short stops for driver change behind the wheel, filling the tank, refreshment stops, etc. your average speed is barely hovering above 60km (less than 40 miles) per hour reminding you more of a snail race.

Slowly but always a changing view

Those speed limits are strongly enforced. But do not think that there is Highway Patrol or similar law enforcement agency doing it. As a mater of fact throughout our whole trip we have not seen a single man in uniform (with exception of US Air Force staff in northern Norway participating in some sort of military exercise). How is it enforced then? There are many cameras installed alongside the roads working 24/7 and we heard scary stories of hefty fines imposed for speeding ($3,000 for reckless driving!). Driving over the limits is not tolerated even by an insignificant margin. No wonder that smart phone apps warning of cameras are very popular. But even if you do not have a smart phone, all cameras are openly advertised few hundred meters (yards) ahead by a visible warning traffic sign. It results in driving public’s respectful compliance with speed limits and if you are still caught on camera, you can hardly use excuses like “But I did not know!”

Not surprisingly free street parking in towns is very rare and not paying your parking fee carries fines almost as harsh as speeding.

There are still a few cool railroads operating in Norway and we planned to ride the most famous:

This rail line is on the list of the most beautiful train journeys in the world and is one of the leading tourist attractions of Norway. The train runs from the sea level at the end of one of the arms of more than 200km (125miles) long Sognefjord, all the way up to the high mountains ending at Myrdal station. Unfortunately the early morning we reached Flåm Station the weather forecast was for a colosal rain storm so we opted to visit just the station and take a few pictures of Mila for our granddaughter.

But you may be more interested in how we spent our nights on this trip.

The sleeping arrangement was not very easy considering our style of travel. Even with mutual agreement about the direction of our drive, we were not quite sure WHEN and WHERE we will be by nightfall. And night falls late here. During the first half of our trip we drove through the Fjord Land at the peak of the summer tourist season. When and where to find a roof over our head was quite difficult because everything but the most expensive hotels was booked up. We were glad to have borrowed camping gear for this trip to have a place to sleep when other options couldn’t be found.

Tent camping can be a pleasant experience

when the tent is dry and reasonably warm. Thanks to this summer’s extreme (wet and cold) weather we did have many opportunities for hard testing this travel model and our conviction to camp, which I thought, and frequently proclaimed, I love. If, after all of our chalenges, the Norwegian camping experience did not break our spirit, the credit goes to my wife’s ability to sleep through anything on an inflatable 2” mattress floating in the pool of water with 72km(45miles) per hour gusts of wind bending the tent poles.

This certainly confirmed that the borrowed tent which proved to be an excellent sleeping device in deserts of Namibia for our friends does not have to necessarily provide for uneventful nights in summer days of Norway. On the positive side we learned to improvise a lot. After the first rain we bought a waterproof tarp at the nearest IKEA to prevent water seeping in from the bottom. As a result any water coming into the tent from the top had no way of leaking out.

Recognize the Ikea bag in the trunk?

Similarly when night temperature started dropping towards 0 degree Celsius (32F), you knew how smart you were taking your fur coat and a fast gas cooker with you. It helps boiling your hot drink or favorite soup within a MINUTE!

After our sleeping bags proved to be no more

than our grandkids’ theater prop, we acquired in another IKEA store (it looks like this company makes tons of money having their stores strategically placed all over the country for the benefit of camping travelers) a large goose-down comforter. The warm cover kept our feet toasty enough to feel in the dark of the night how high the water level in our tent was creeping.

We also learned how to pack up all of our camping gear super fast no matter how much water was inside the tent, how to be able to move quickly in the dark from the tent to our car seats and to adjust the same seats beforehand to a comfortable sleeping position in case such necessity arises.

We also became quite innovative in finding places where to dry our camping gear.

We discovered early on how to read carefully weather forecasts by the hour for the nearest possible location using the Norwegian app called YR. Alas it proved it was not always reliable and we paid dearly for 2-3 catastrophic prediction failures. After all of this, it is a miracle we still like camping and we might even want to try it again on our planned Patagonia trip next year!

The simple Norwegian camping cabins are quite a good alternative.

You just have to plan ahead and know when and where you wanna be at any given time six months ahead when all cabins in Norway are usually fully booked. Since it was not our case, we managed to snag one only twice.

How pleasant it is to listen to the pouring rain outside even if your luxury is only a bunk bed with no ensuite bathroom. Add a sound of a hot soup bubbling “mijotée” in the cabin’s kitchen (just an electric plate) and your life is suddenly nearly perfect.

Hotels and AirBnBs were a big step up to recharge our batteries and dry all our stuff . There were not as many as we hoped to find, specially in the Far North. Their ridiculous prices reminded us of the Japanese hotels during Sakura season. But we will never forget our stormy 3-nights in a Bergen Marriot,

A stormy night in Marriot Moxy

one amazing life saving recuperation night in the beautifully restored farm house

facing a very soggy golf course after the worst rain-wind storm near Trondheim,

or a wonderful week spent in an elegant AirBnB on Lofoten. They all provided a dry asylum when we needed it the most!

Eating and cooking on the way was also a new and different experience. I do like cooking both indoors and outdoors. Since my youthful mountain trekking years I cooked on a portable gas cooker. An easy foldable table I bought just before we left upgraded my moving ability as my years of cooking while sitting on the ground with my legs crisscrossed are long gone.

Notice fresh blueberries picked at this marina campsite and our blue tarp drying

Smoked salmon or trout were our favorite but we were less enthused by dried cod.

Though on few occasions we splurged on a nice restaurant meal and tried excelent bacalao and other cod dishes.

Bacalao
Cod

We met a friendly young chef who inducted us into the marvels of Norwegian sea weed with a special tasting.

We could discuss with him the finer points of Norwegian cuisine and express our surprise how few mushroom dishes were offered with great abundance of mushrooms popping up in the rain.

Homemade (and handpicked) chanterrels and eggs made at a well equipped common camp kitchen.

The importance of having tools for making our food and drinks has become apparent even more in sparsely populated northern Scandinavia. The idea that we could always find at least a small coffee shop with decent cappuccino and fresh croissant north of Arctic Circle has never really materialized.

The true mark of civilisation

Even those rare ones we could find were closed after the season ended on August 15 or they rarely stayed open past 3pm.

We only felt truly back to ‘civilization’ as we know it when we reached the cute, old, sun lit town of Lund in southern Sweden on our way back!

At the end our estimated trip length nearly tripled. Instead of 4,000km we were shocked to find our final tally was 11,500km (over 7000 miles).

We felt very lucky to have had a comfortable car as a vehicle and a shelter this rainy summer in Norway. Truth be told ideally one should have a small van with two beds or a small camper (the big ones are too tough to drive on narrow roads). Not only are the Norwegian camps catering mostly to campers, but there are many free parking areas dedicated to campers with basic amenity such as toilets. Often they prohibit tents.

Sleep with a view

Lastly it is legal to park your van or camper most places by the side of the road and spend the night and you will see lots of travelers do that on any pull-outs by beaches or fjords.

Maybe next road-trip? What says you, Mila?

In Awe of Kyrgyzstan’s Nature

Indeed, and with a renewed hope for the planet. Following the news one is apt to believe the Earth is on the brink of collapse. The glaciers are melting, the oceans are choked with plastic, rivers dead and forests infected. No wonder young people are depresed and without hope for the future.

They should come for a week to Kyrgyzstan, trek in the pristine nature of the mountains, wade through mountain streams and eat fresh fish from the lakes. Yes, there is an occasional eye sore of plastic refuse on high mountain passes left by the many truck drivers and there are traffic jams in the capital but all in all this country is Nature’s Paradise.

Worshiping at Jeti Oguz

And people live in harmony with nature and animals. Seems like the nomadic blood of their ancestors still flows through their veins unabated and calls them to the summer jailoos in the mountains.

While grazing sheep and cows are the main contributors to the economy it is the horses that are the love and pride of every Kyrgyz male. It is true that horses occasionally complement the menu of this carnivore nation at the family table or restaurants. This is a habit more common here than in the West but it is still relatively rare among the line after line of beef and lamb culinary marvels you can usually select from the menu.

Horses are everywhere and everyone has them. And rides them. It is a hobby. It is a right of passage. They naturally learn riding like crawling and walking.

Born in the saddle

It is something they are born with in their DNA. They ride them as they manage their sheep, goats and cows. Those people are for me like Central Asian version of American cowboys. Watching them makes me feel like being back in the American Wild West. How could it not with a backdrop like this?

One afternoon we followed the river to a small village to our homestay. We stopped by a footbridge that leads over the fast flowing river.

It is late afternoon, time to bring herds home.

My Kyrgyz cowboys are doing their job with grace. They do what I see my wife doing whenever she is around horses. Touching them gently on their heads above their nostrils, hoping to mount them and ride them away into the wild. Is it not funny to think about your wife in those terms?

Cowboy Volod: “See you at the local joint later tonight?”

My wife: “Or maybe at the animal market in the morning?”

Horse area at the Karakol market

When planing our trip to Kyrgyzstan we had hoped to be in Karakol on a Sunday to be able to experience their weekly animal market. And wouldn’t you know it, we arrived to this pleasant town on the shores of Issyk Kul on a weekend.

We love markets anywhere in the world. People are busy doing what they do at a market – buying, selling, meeting their friends and don’t pay much attention to foreign visitors soaking it all in.

Sheep corner

It is essential to get to the market early and we had a good warning from a traveller we met who missed most of the action. So we got up at the crack of dawn and found that the market was indeed already in full swing when we arrived. Many people have brought their animals from afar and some spent the night at the site.

It was a cold morning after a rainy night. The surrounding mountains were sprinkled with fresh snow. What a setting! With two crazy travelers gleefully lost in the see of animals and people.

Tradition and modernity – smartphones are common

There was a lot of action.

Frisky stallions
Nursing colts
When in Rome… Mirek checking the fat content of the “tail”

It was, by and large, a men’s affair

but occasionally women were involved as well.

There was a considerable quantity of animals gathered, but surprisingly we saw very few sold.

Fast money counting skill we did not manage to acquire

We would have stayed till the last animal was loaded up again, but our stomachs reminded us we didn’t have breakfast so as a bonus for getting up so early we loaded up with freshly baked bread on the way back to our hotel.

It was to be expected that spring weather in Kyrgyz mountains will be changeable and rain possible. We were actually pretty lucky with the weather and never got wet or hindered in our activities.

The one day we decided to go on a hike to Atlyn Arashin valley it was sunny, but weather didn’t prove to be the issue.

There are certain bitter elements in our travels which had been and still are an integral part of our life together. We never traveled in groups, relying mostly on each other, if I disregard traveling with our kids when they were growing up. Our children now travel on their own to the mutual relief of both generations involved.

For many years, we have managed to find a a good balance between our interests and abilities in physically demanding disciplines. I preferred mountain trekking and scuba diving and my wife horse back riding. Rafting was fun for the whole family. As the years went by the balance was exposed to the test of time. After my back surgery which led inevitably to my retirement I suddenly had to face the fact that my lovely wife could still be jumping like a foal around me over the mountain streams and easily dealing with rough rides in the 4×4 vehicles, some of them old enough to match my age.

It all came crashing down around my ears as we boarded one of those former Red Army vehicles to get us on the unpaved valley road above the tree line for a hike amongst the peaks. The road reminded me more of a training site for old T-72 tanks than a road.

Terrain full of boulders, with remnants of last winter’s avalanches, and potholes the size of our house’s living room.

Avalanche blocking the road

My best intentions got a forceful reminder that my dreams may have survived those 50 years since I first tried to come here, but my back and surgically stiffened spine are way too fragile for this adventure and think otherwise.

It was a bitter moment of recognition that my time of hiking with sixty pounds heavy backpack (half filled with essential bottles of beer) is long gone and finally over and I had to let it go.

We sent the driver back with half his fee and started walking slowly

by the fast-flowing mountain river enjoying flowers and green meadows and chirping birds.

We walked over a bridge to the first human dwelling,

while our guide flew his drone.

On the other side the verdant spring has reached the high summer pastures where a few cows were contentedly nibbling on fresh grass.

The majestic peaks with snow still plentiful on their steep slopes were watching quietly over the herders taking care of their animals and summer gardens.

To my big disappointment, I realized I could get no closer to the mountains. I could not make it any further and we had to turn around and walk back down to the first village to call a taxi for the rescue.

Next time up only in a chopper, oh my!

Golden Eagle Hunt

In our cozy yurt by the shore of Lake Issyk Kul, we slept soundly through the pelting rain to wake up in hopes of a dry morning. It was vital that the weather cooperated as we were to have an important meeting in the village of Bokanbaevo. With a man, my wife has dreamed of for a long time.

In this small village on the south shore of lake Issyk-Kul there are thirteen men practicing the ancient custom of hunting with Golden Eagles. They will do a demonstration for a small fee for the curious in the nearby fields. Easily arranged, thinks our guide. But then my wife drops a bomb. She has no interest in a tourist show. She wants to ride with the hunters into the mountains on a real hunt.

“The Impossible we do immediately, Miracles take a little longer, maximum till the next day, “ is the oft-proven motto of our Begaly.

Rainbow after the storm

As we poked our heads out of the yurt his beaming face meet ours. The rain has stopped and we are to meet one of those Magnificent Thirteen.

It feels like we are in a movie. Our meeting is set at a dilapidated gas station where we wait for a few minutes. We don’t know what our man looks like. We lean against our car and eye every vehicle driving by with raised hopes. Then a beaten up Mini Daewoo with broken windshield, back seats sold for spare parts and car doors impossible to close stops by the side of the road. A lean man, dressed to the nines like a model from a gentlemen’s fashion magazine AND in riding boots steps out, shakes our hands, and beckons us to follow him. We drive through the narrow unpaved streets of the village and stop at a modest unassuming family house where the gentleman keeps, feeds (fresh chicken only), and trains his darlings, three Golden Eagles.

As he goes to fetch his horse we notice something brown in the back of his car.

Patiently waiting

Under close supervision of his wife the Eagle man unceremoniously drags the bird out of the car and…

We get the first inkling of the size of the eagle

… ties him to the car

then perches him on the wall, head covered by a leather cap

where he waits for the hunting team to assemble:

The hunter with the leather glove for the heavy “weapon” on his arm, the assistant with sharp eyesight to identify the victim in this crime; and my wife with an alternative harmless gun – her trusty iPhone.

All accomplished riders, they mount their horses at once

and disappear down the village road and into surrounding by fields towards the mountains in the background.

We, less than accomplished horse riders (may we dare call ourselves media supporting team?) are left behind but in no way do we give up our participation in this quest. We will be, at least discreetly, following in our LandCruiser, observing from behind and offering any (un)necessary help, if God forbid, the hunters ask for it. Meanwhile, our guide assembles a small drone with a camera.

We drive behind the hunting party about half a mile ahead of us on the country roads but

even with a 4W drive, we can not follow them up the first rocky hills as they press onward on their horses.

Yet we can still observe their dramatic adventure at least on the drone display.

At the top, they dismount and leaving the horses to graze, continue on foot.

There is no common language to communicate in anyways so the group proceeds in silence to the steep edge for the unobstructed view of the immense blue lake. But all attention and awe is reserved for the giant bird, one of the largest, fastest, and nimblest raptors in the sky. In olden days these faithful birds would bring the prey to the hunter to help feed his family, especially during the lean winter days.

Close Encounters of the 1st Natural Kind

The eagle gets a short glimpse of the surroundings with his cap removed

It is touching to see the close relationship and gentle caresses from the hunter
Stretching his wings

After he had a chance to stretch his wings the cap goes back on and everyone scrambles over the uneven floor looking for potential movement in the sparse vegetation. The assistant stops every now and then throwing a rock down the hill or calling out immitating an animal.

As the hunting party crosses a steep terrain on the other side of the mountain range the hunter’s assistant catches a glimpse of a jackal on the slopes below covered by boulders and brushes. Not more than one, maybe two hundred yards away from him. After a quick exchange among the party members, the hunter clears our Golden Eagle’s vision by removing its cap and releases it. My wife, an accomplished iPhone camera-woman, without missing even a blink of her eyes, starts recording the whole action so this hunt can be saved, if not for generations to come, then at least for us! And here it is:

This short version of the hunt’s video is not National Geographic quality, but for Iphone it is pretty good.

The released Golden Eagle majestically descends down the mountain slope mercilessly eyeing the jackal, who is now running for his life….but to no avail! The Eagle moves silently to the jackal from behind, his sharp claws chopping into his furry neck. Then, in the critical moment, the jackal luckily slips from Eagle’s sharp talons. while our Eagle continues on its flight path, the jackal somersaults multiple times completely out of control, before his body gets out of our sight.

While the Eagle circles above the search party scrambles down through the scree and bushes looking for the injured jackal. In the end, unfortunately, the recovery search for jackal’s body is not successful, yet the hunters are strangely elated. We find out only later that this is the first ever real hunt of the young eagle after three months of training with a stuffed fox.

The excitement is even bigger when they realize the whole hunt is de facto recorded and can not only be studied carefully for future training but shared (and bragged about) on Facebook!

Golden Eagle back on his master’s arm, the hunting expedition returns to the horses.

Adrenaline still runs high as they mount their horses and descend

down to the rim of the deep ravine where the LandCruiser is waiting.

A congratulatory bottle of beer is what all actors of this drama, our young Golden Eagle, all hunters, poor jackal, all of them deserve!

The love and pride on the master hunter’s face…

Last photos are taken

and we leave deeply grateful that we could come face to face with such a magnificent creature and experience firsthand this age-old tradition, part of the life of local people for thousands of years.

What is more, we are now invited to return any time in the future and STAY with the family, as this mutual experience of the Golden Eagle’s virgin hunt forged important and powerful bonds.

See Kyrgyzstan and Die

Some 60 years ago I tried to get on any hilltop in the neighborhood and later, with my college buddies, further on beyond my neighborhood into the world. Our beyond was limited by the thin wallets of student years and the impenetrable Iron Curtain era of Big Brother governments. This lethal combination pushed many of my hilltop climbing dreams into the memory files marked NTH (Never To Happen). Such was the unfortunate fate of my dream to trek the Tien Shan Mountains of Central Asia, as the very un-friendly administrators of the now-defunct U.S.S.R. didn’t give us the necessary permits.

I was lucky that some of those NTH dreams were double filed in another drawer as well, the drawer called NTF (Never To Forget). It had been a long wait… but here I am with my travel buddy/adventure partner/wife re-hashing one of those NTF dreams, one of those never-to-die. You can see us arriving in the early morning hours in a cab from the last Uzbek railway outpost city of Andijan to the only open land crossing border post to Kyrgyzstan.
From Uzbekistan historical paradise with the fingers of its eastern arm tickling the flanks of the mystical Shangri-La of 20,000 plus foot high peaks, difficult to cross passes,

and breathtaking colorful lakes – the land of 40 tribes: Kyrgyzstan we walked into a teeming mass of people jostling for position in front of two grim immigration officers. “You are foreigners, you are our guests, please go before us.”

After another short cab drive, we are in the City of Osh. We have 24 hours before our guide with his Land Cruiser reaches us from the capital Bishkek. Looking at a map and consulting with our hotel staff we decide to hire a taxi for a ride to the nearest village towards the mountainous south.

Exciting first, yet soon disappointing. Because further south there beckon the ranges on Tajikistan and Chinese borders. A short bargaining session ensues over a greasy meal and a pot of tea in a local joint. Our side is full of fast, and extremely enticing US$ arithmetics (all in my rusty high-school Russian, mind you!) and the driver employs Oscar-nominated quality moaning over rising gasoline prices. In the end, we triple his scope of work and double the price. The driver has never been there and does not know the condition of the road, but once a local confirms it is asphalted, he caves in. The deal is made and without further ado we jump in the car and the driver presses the pedal to the metal.

“Go South, young man! Go South!”, and
“Push as close as possible to the border!” so we can see the highest peak in this area.

And after plowing through endless herds of sheep, goats, and the occasional horse going to the summer pastures and getting over the 11,650ft (3,550m) elevation mountain pass,

Beginning of a trend where every mountain pass has to be photographed.

the plains below us finally opened up to the view we came to this country for.

OK, it was me; my wife came here mainly for horses, people, Golden Eagles, and yurt interiors.

The first sight of the second highest* summit in the Tien-Shan (=Heavenly) mountains, the massive Lenin Peak 23,405ft (7,134m) high, from the road leading to the Chinese Uyghur Province (another still impossible-to-get permit and visa required), was indeed– heavenly.

*The highest Tien-Shan mountain, Jengish Chokusu, formerly known since 1946 as Pik Pobedyi (Victory Peak), is 24,406ft (7,439m) high. Located in an inaccessible area of the Kyrgyzstan border with China.

Artistic view of it on a stamp issued in 2000

You may now think: “Mission accomplished!” And on the first day, no less. But there was so much more to be seen and our fabulous guide/driver/fixer/soon-to-become-friend Begaly, who showed up on the dot the next morning, made sure to prove it afresh every day: another mountain range, another mountain lake, another mountain pass, another waterfall, valleys, canyons, rivers, yurts, horses, Golden Eagles. Just you wait!

From now on we were zig-zagging across this country as it was slowly waking up into the beautiful spring after a long cold winter and two-year nightmare of the COVID pandemonium.

The mountain lakes enchanted us with their beautiful colors and clear waters.

Sary Chelek Lake

The shores ringed by wild apple trees in full bloom made us

jump with joy

Wild tulips

over so much beauty, as flowers of all kinds and colors winked at us from fresh green grass..

Flower or Fairy? Flower Fairy!

I could not help but take a (skinny) dip, as it was customary in my younger years, in no matter how freezing any body of water.

With melting snow in the mountains, the waterfalls were gaining strength.

The weather in the higher altitudes could still be cold and not every day dawned with blue skies but pastures and meadows were exploding with colors.

Kara Javadz (= Black Woods)

Poppies mixed in on the edges and popped up at the sides of the roads.


Even where the land was barren on the lake shores, lake colorful water with the help of dramatic cloudy sky and sun delivered.

To make the landscape come alive there were horses to be seen everywhere.

It was Song Kul (Song=Last Kul=Lake), that was the tricky one. It is a high alpine lake situated at an altitude of 3016 meters in central Tien Shen Mountains. Till the last moment we were not sure if the mountain pass will be open and as it was we were only the second car to pass.

The windy steep road over the Thirty-Two Serpentine Pass (another 3,000 plus meters high) still held some sun

Made it over the hump! Thank you Begaly and car!

But on the other side things deteriorated quickly.

The iffy bridge over the fast flowing river

Ominous clouds with rain turning to snow rolled low.

Yet our every positive guide pressed on in hopes of sun breaking through at the lake.

Ksenija photographing the horses

It wasn’t quite sunny but for short moments the clouds lifted enough so we could see the lower layer of the ring of mountains even if the lake stayed steely gray. And the first herd of horses has made it up to their summer pastures, while summer crowds were still far back.

Mares with their foals as I try to approach them – you can see me between horses and the Song-Kul lakeshore

On the way down on a different road we could not miss the opportunity and visited a yailoo (= summer pasture) with two yurts and local shepherd family.

Husband, wife and young daughter were taking care of large herds of 1,200 sheep, 200 cows, four horses and a few dogs. Cordially invited for a cup of tea at five and a tour of
their two yurts, one perfect traditional hand made from felt and the other a now unfortunately common new plastic Chinese import.

The traditional yurt ceiling free of internal supports provides for pleasant and spacious
ambience.

Comfortably seated we were served many local snacks. Some of them I tried, while my wife bravely partook of all. Our conversation proceeded with help of hands, fingers and other bodily extremities, my rather laughable Russian and my wife’s, as per usual, magically discovered gift for the rudimentary version of the local dialect.

In a friendly atmosphere of mutual understanding, photos of other family members were presented.

In a few moments it was established that on our family side we still had one unmarried daughter. On their family side, the big family guy, clearly a successful herder with remarkable resources, indicated his younger brother was still lookingng for a suitable match for life. We were just a little taken aback when pater familias started without hesitation a serious negotiation on the size of the dowry. What amount was I keen to entertain as the father of a daughter of obvious beauty, fluent in English, with good education, decent cooking experience, and possibly willing to relocate to the groom’s homeland?

I could not convince him while he upped his bidding in numbers of sheep and cows that both my wife and I could not legally represent our sweet child in this contract. It came as a shock for the eager and well-meaning brother of the potential groom that our non-negotiable stance was that personal contact between the bride and the groom was a pre-requisite for further progress in this matter. In spite of his clear disappointment we parted on very friendly terms.

Better luck finding a match for their little one!

We took from this visit a very strong desire to try this traditional accommodation at the first possible opportunity. And it was served to us on a silver platter when we reached the southern shore of Lake Issyk-Kul. Here we discovered a number of yurt camps.

The yurt of our dreams, old farts that we are, had to have one important element: a rarely offered private bathroom. Lo and behold our all-knowing Begaly had heard about a newly opened establishment and there we drove as the sky darkened.

No matter the season hadn’t officially opened yet, no matter we were the only guests, they welcomed us with open arms. We were taken through a grove of apricot trees

and given a tour of a beautiful King size bed yurt villa exquisitely furnished with homemade elements. (Oh, please, no Chinese crap smuggled across the border two mountain ranges away!), with heating, latest 2G level internet,

and grand reveal of en-suite private bathroom with running cold and HOT water AND western FLUSHING toilet!!!

As it started sprinkling, my wife was offered a special blanket made of wolf pelts. A home made dinner was thrown in for good measure.
Not a chance to refuse such an offer!

Dinner and breakfast were served in a large yurt where I was kindly offered (to accommodate my spine’s limited flexibility) as a special favor a straight-backed chair reducing the necessity to criss-cross my legs according to the local custom of sitting at a low table. It was our dream come true scenario to be remembered for the rest of our traveling days!

So perhaps the title should be changed to See Kyrgyzstan and sleep in a yurt!

To be continued…

Uzbekistan’s Silk Road Splendor- Part II Samarkand

The fast and comfortable Afrosiyob train brought us from Bukhara to Samarkand in the evening.

There are all levels of trains and they cover the whole country well. The fancy business class is cool and all, but it is also fun to take a regular train and share a welcome cup of tea with friendly Uzbek travelers.

In vain we searched for the downtown bus and then negotiated a ride with the driver of a beat up taxi to our little hotel close to Registan. Thank goodness for any and all remnants of Mirek’s school Russian! Yes, you can operate with simple English, but fluent Russian is spoken by everyone. After we dropped off our bags and took a look at the lovely green courtyard and colorful furnishings

Traditional Uzbeki hotels have their unique charm

I made Mirek go out again. We walked a few minutes to Registan, the heart of Samarkand, as I couldn’t wait to see it all beautifully lit in a flood of golden light, just like in the many pictures I saw.

I nearly started crying when I beheld the gaudy light show with loud music. To each it’s own, I guess, but I don’t appreciate this kind of “artistic licence” with world heritage.

Cheapening the elegant crowning achievement of Islamic architecture
Even worse close up

The next morning we met with Anora, our guide for the day and I was still traumatised and refused to go back. We took a taxi instead to Bibi Khanum mosque. It is still impressive today, but in the 15th century, it was one of the largest and most magnificent mosques in the Islamic world. We started our guided tour by walking through the Siyob Bazar where my soul was soothed by the lovely colors of first spring fruits; orange apricots, red cherries, unripe green plums

and mounds of luscious strawberries

The blue-green tiles of the domes beckoned

and a goofy boy in a blue shirt with green eyes smiled at me and all was good with the world again.

In the back Mirek and Anora discussing life. Her husband left her when she was pregnant with their first child to become a bus driver in Moscow and never came back, taking all her gold wedding jewellery along.

Walking around the enormous mosque we heard plenty of stories. Guides love legends and tales. We were told the well known story of Bibi and the impudent architect who demanded that she allowed him to kiss her on the cheek in order to finish the mosque in time for her husband Timur’s return from war. The kiss left a permanent stain and the architect lost his head when Timur found out. It is in truth Timur that built the mosque in honor of his wife Sara Mulk aka Bibi Khanum (really just a honorific title of “Lady, Khan’s daughter).

A miniature painting found nearby. It might not be Bibi and the architect, for the wings and all… Call it poetic license.

Perhaps this is a good time to say a few words about Amir Timur, because Samarkand’s biggest treasures are inextricably connected to this larger than life figure. He was the first ruler of the long and ilustrious Timurid dynasty. He is going down in annals of history as one of the most ruthless conquerors (killing an estimated 17 million people) and at the same time a huge patron of the arts (even if many of his artists and architects were captives brought from afar).

Did you know he had a red beard?

Timur (Iron) or Timurlenk (Timur the Lame) anglicized as Tamerlane was born on the steppes close to modern day Samarkand as a Turkified Mongol. He was quite tall but indeed lame in his leg with a withered arm due to injuries. (Sustained either stealing sheep or in battle – take your pick.) That drawback did not prevent him from conquering the world atop a horse

Amir Temur’s statue in Tashkent

and taking many wives. Many were widows of rulers of conquered lands, killed by Timur. It was customary to take on the harem of the enemy you defeated. Nobody asked the ladies, but I guess they thought it was a pretty good alternative to being raped and slaughtered.

Beautiful Bibi was one such case and she became Timur’s most favored wife. It did help that she was a direct descendant of Genghis Khan which solidified Timur’s leadership legitimacy. So you see there was much more to picking from the harem of defeated enemy than just a conqueror choosing beautiful spoils of war for himself. In general women, married to or taken as concubines by high powered leaders were always of high birth themselves and offered alliances and diplomatic powers to the men. They had wealth of their own and built and endowed mosques, schools, and hospitals.

Ode to Women, Park of Tigers, Samarkand

For anyone interested in this subject I recommend a fascinating book: The Secret History of the Mongol Queens: How the Daughters of Genghis Khan Rescued His Empire by Jack Weatherford, about the impact and legacy of Genghis Khan’s daughters and Mongol queens.

For the arial view of Bibi’s mosque,

View of Bibi’s mosque from Hazrat Khizr mosque bellow the mausoleum

we climbed to the mausoleum of the former president Islam Karimov. Here is another of the controversial leaders, ruthless communist authoritarian and the father of Uzbeksitan independent nation. The many devoted visitors there and especially school children on field trips most likely subscribe to the latter notion.

Nearby lays the important Shah-I-Zinda necropolis where many of Timur’s female relatives have been entombed. Normally quite keen on graveyards of all sorts, this one somehow failed to impress. Rather than trying to remember the nieces, wives, and even Timur’s wet nurse, we enjoyed people-watching.

As was a daily occurence we were again besieged by members of a school trip for a group photo.

I quickly took advantage of the situation and asked for some portraits. Every girl was keen to have hers taken and they enjoyed seeing them on my iPhone screen.

Uzbekistan is a riot of colors and patterns. Somehow, magically they work well together.
And can be quite stunning in black and white.

Timur himself is NOT buried there. He wanted to be buried in a simple structure in his nearby home town of Sahrisabz but since he died in winter during his military expedition to China and passes were snowed in they put him to rest in Samarkand. He is interred in a mausoleum that was originally intended to be the tomb of his beloved grandson and heir apparent Muhhamad Shah who died young just two years before Timur. It then became a Timurid dynastic mausoleum.

And what a splendid place it is. The outside is just another one of the pleasing brick-tile combos, but it would eventually inspire the glorious Taj Mahal, built by Timur’s descendants who established the Mughal (the very word a corruption of “Mongol”) dynasty in India.

But, oh, the inside… a breathtaking shimmering blue and gold jewel box

cocooning a collection of different sarcophagi from the male Timurid line. Remember, the ladies had their own individual pretty mausolea at Shah-I-Zinda?

It is one of those places that defies description, one simply has to experience it. Preferably without the crowds and loud guides. If I was in charge I would prohibit all guided tours. Explain anything you want outside and then let people just savor the harmony of the space and the deep sense of history. People come here to pay respects.

and say a prayer.

If there was one thing that I absolutely wanted to see in Samarkand it was Ulugh Beg Observatory. He was the grandson of Timur the Great but loved astronomy and mathematics a bit more than conquering and pillaging.

Sixty astronomers and mathematicians were invited to work at the observatory and the celestial measurements they obtained were extremely accurate. Don’t ask me how, there is of course a perfectly logical explanation, but despite going through the excellent museum on site I can not explain any of it. Still, wow, to do that kind of astronomy in 15th century without powerful telescopes and computers and space probes!

The model of the observatory.
The magic of big brainiacs. And I mean it, because they did dabble much in astrology, too.

The observatory was destroyed by Ulug Beg’s own son soon after he had his father killed on his pilgrimage to Mecca. Very pious, these guys, really!

The rediscovered and restored remnants of the underground part with the stone sextant

Married for the first time at 10, Ulugh Beg became a governor of Samarkand at 16, after his own father’s death. He had 13 wives and lots of enemies. When did the dude find time to build observatories and universities?

The University I am talking about is his madrasah in the Registan complex that was known as one of the best universities of Muslim world. It transformed what was medieval Samarkand’s large and vibrant commercial centre where camels unloaded their precious Silk Road cargo into educational center as well. Ulug Beg himself taught astronomy there.

Ulug Beg’s Madrasah on the left , Sher-Dor on the right and Tillya Kari in the middle

So we have come full circle. After initial evening disappointment I did return to Registan and not only once but thrice: once with the guide, once with Mirek and once by myself. At different times of day with the sun illuminating different parts of the three buildings it revealed many faces and hidden corners.

Upper floor of inner courtyard of Ulug Beg’s madrasah

Opposite Ulug Beg Madrasa an early 17th century governor Yalangtush built its near mirror image – the Sher Dor madrasah. The facade is striking (and memorable) for the two lions/tigers/fantastical cats and human-faced suns chasing two deer that guard the portal, an unexpected return to pre-Islamic Zoroastrian symbolism.

Daring indeed as Islam prohibits depictions of animals or human faces. To get away with it we were told the lions were seen as symbols of students with a hunger for knowledge, the deer as knowledge and the sun as enlightenment. There are also reverse swastikas, which symbolized abundance and fertility in ancient times.

A live grapevine growing inside, another contradiction as Islam prohibition drinking of alcohol

To enclose the square in pleasing harmony, Yalangtush had a third madrasah built on the ruins of a mosque constructed by Bibi Khanum.

The intricate interior of the huge qubba (=cupola), a symbolic representation of the vault of heaven where stars, leaves, and flowers spiral into eternity.

Because of its lavish interior, swathed in golden leaf, very much reminiscent of Timur’s mausoleum, it is called Tillya Kari (“the gilded one”). It was to become the city’s main mosque.

We were glad to have structured our trip starting in charming little Khiva and culminating with the lavish Samarkand instead of the other way around.

With the foreign tourists scarce, the interactions with local families were precious.

Leaders with Confidence, one and all!
In their Sunday best.

Before saying goodbye to Samarkand we should not forget to mention the friendly encounter with some special Servas people. For some of you who have been following us from the beginning of our empty nest adventures you might remember our stays with Servas members in New Zealand and Australia. Servas International is an organization that brings together people from around the world to promote peace and understanding.

After many emails exchanged and 2 year delay in our arrival to Uzbekistan we finally met up with Anatoly and Irina who in turn introduced us to their Servas friend Rafik. It felt like we were a living poster child for the international (and local) peace and understanding as Anatoly was of mixed Armenian and Russian ancestry, his wife was Tatar and Rafik Tajiki.

With Rafik, our generous host

We spent a lovely afternoon at his fruit farm being plied with food at a traditional Uzbekistani or should we rather call it Central Asian feast. The table was overflowing with sumptuous homemade dishes that magically appeared from the kitchen, hidden to our eyes and occupied by the elfin hands of Rafik’s wife and daughter-in-law.

A wonderful send off to the last part of our Uzbekistan travels to Tashkent and Fergana valley.

Land of Ice and Infinite Raw Beauty

Iceland, we have done you wrong! Please forgive us, we will sing your praises, in repentance, forevermore.

CLICK ON THE VIDEO of the Skogafoss Waterfall !

Iceland was never high on our Bucket list.

So true for Iceland!

And there were good reasons for that. Firstly, it was, like other Scandinavian destinations, always exceedingly expensive. Secondly, it became excessively crowded, peaking at 2,3 million visitors in a country of only 360,000 people.

Well, not anymore. In this crazy 2020 year of travel, Iceland was empty,

Immense parking lots devoid of tourists

like every other country around the globe. Except that Iceland was incredibly successful in fighting COVID-19 and hence poised to open up to tourists first.

And your intrepid crazyparents were on the first flight from Prague to Keflavík international airport on June 17th.

Despite much trepidation (will the flight go, or the airlines file for bankruptcy first, will they let us in…?) our one and only plane was met with efficiency and speed. After two quick COVID swabs, yes, unpleasant, but free and totally worth it, we were in.

For once Hertz was there, the only rental company opened at night. The girl at the desk was so excited to see us, her only customers, that she gave us a triple upgrade.

And off we went into the late sunset, or actually early sunrise.

That’s the thing, with June days so very long we could drive to all late hours of the night on totally empty roads.

The few local cars we met, whizzed by, or overtook us immediately, stupid tourists following the limit signs.

Well, not only were we forewarned about the speed traps, more importantly, it was lambing season and the sheep moms with their cute little twin babies often wandered into the road.

Our plan was to drive the main Ring Road or Route 1, the only road that goes around Iceland.

Theoretically one could drive its mere 1,332 km (828 miles) in a few days, but with the awe struck photographer on the passenger seat the stops were exceedingly frequent. How could they not be?

We added two days on the Snaefellsnes peninsula and minimized our Reykjavik stay to one last day. A few extra days would have been good, but then, aren’t they always?

Never have we slept so little on any of our travel explorations because even when we finally got to bed, it was impossible to close our eyes. The show outside of the panoramic windows was ongoing and ever-changing.

Just when you would think that the sun has finally set in a blaze of pinks and purples and oranges, there would be a burst of sun rays from the clouds or fog and the sun would start rising again.

Despite the catastrophic weather prognosis of 10 days of 80% rain, the Norse gods smiled upon us and all together we only had two days of drizzle.

We had plenty of sun and dramatic clouds often chased by cold blustery winds.

One day there was even a record-breaking 24 degrees C (75F) which to us seemed a good time to peel off our puffy jacket layer,

while the tough Viking descendants stripped down to shorts and spaghetti straps. No wonder…

5C=41F

As the country’s name denotes we did expect plenty of ice, but found the presence of glaciers so close to the road astounding. It would have been cool to take a super Jeep and go walking on the glaciers, but even with a short hike one could get really close.

For those of you who haven’t met a glacier up close, there is often a lot of black mixed with white, especially nowadays with global warming and pollution.

The one place that was top on my Iceland list was the Glacier Lagoon (Jökulsárlón)

and especially the unique Diamond Beach at its mouth.

I was looking forward to spending some creative fun time photographing the many pieces of ice on the black sand. Alas, this was our one day of rain, so the stop was very short.

Still, a few fun shapes emerged from the shots taken from under the umbrella.

Ice Salmon?

or

Big Haired Ice Lady sniffing perfume on her wrist?

Snow and ice for sure, but what really surprised us was how green Iceland was. From the large swaths of green pastures

munched on by sheep and horses to moss-covered glacier-fed stream banks, glorious green was jumping at us.

And there were many different colorful flowers. Some were tiny, brave, alpine flowers growing in tough rocky conditions

and some were surprisingly scarce radiant Arctic poppies.

The biggest surprise was seeing the enormous areas of blue and purple lupines by the sides of the roads or creeping up the mountains.

Lupines are a nonnative plant, considered by some an undesirable invasive species. It was introduced in the 1970s to help combat soil erosion. When Vikings came to Iceland from Norway in the late 9th century, they found a land so thick with woods they could only explore it by ways of rivers. Very soon they managed to cut all the trees down to build their homes and keep them warm in the long winters. The few forests of trees now standing were replanted only some 120 years ago.

Weeds or no, lupines are an impressive sight that we enjoyed again and again.

Now, where are the famous Icelandic waterfalls, you might wonder and why have you kept us waiting? Well, I guess the waterfalls are an Icelandic cliche, but honestly, they were indeed exceedingly beautiful and each unique, so we never tired of them, even though we are not real waterfall chasers. There are hundreds of waterfalls, small and big, gushing off of the side of mountains and canyons.

Gulfoss waterfall

Because of the sunny weather we were treated to rainbow shows in many places.

Skogafoss waterfall

Yeah!

Some waterfalls show two different faces, front

Butter cups of Seljalandfoss

and back

Seljalandfoss waterfall cave

Some are easy to get to, like Godafoss, where the pagan gods’ statues were thrown into the water, if not oblivion, after the switch to Christianity.

Others demand an early morning hike, like Hengifoss.

Halfway up

We have to share all this wild beauty with just a few other travelers, and it feels like we are back in the golden olden days when travelers were few and everyone actually talked to each other and asked for advice on closed roads and opened coffee shops.

Comparing notes is helpful indeed because sometimes road signs have not been removed after winter.

And the roads have not been repaired either… still, we bravely press on and after a lot of bouncing, we arrive at Detifoss, the most powerful waterfall in Europe.

I guess that is enough waterfalls for now. Then there are other phenomenal sights like geysers and more.

Saving those for the next installment.

Romanian Rhapsody in Blue

Through futuristic sunflower fields sown thickly with sleek New Age wind mills we slipped into Romania. On small country roads, only occasionally passing a horse and cart loaded to the brim with fresh hay, we sped towards a tiny village of Plopul on Sfante Gheorghe arm of Danube. There we had arranged for a private boat tour and a stay at a restored traditional house. The house was absolutely charming in its authenticity and simplicity except for a crucial detail: it did not have the promised air conditioner. With mosquitos descending with the evening we hightailed it out of there. “No worries, there are plenty of other accommodations on Booking.com,” I said as we turned towards the bigger village of Murighiol. “I am not booking anything until I see it,” my husband was adamant.

Well, let me tell you, only at the height of Sakura season in Japan did we have such a hard time finding a decent bed. I will spare you the crazy details of being turned away from guest houses that showed availability online to people not calling us back with directions to their place. The first night we ended up in a ridiculously overpriced old communist resort where an International conference of Fisheries was in its final stages with a “traditional” music group performing. With the secure knowledge of the air conditioner humming away in our drab room and an introduction to excellent Romanian dark beer I was able to join in the festivities with a few rounds of kolo circle dance. Afterwards I transferred my enthusiasm to killing some nearly frozen mosquitos on the ceiling of our room. Do you know what is the most effective way of their extermination? You take a bed pillow and you throw it up at them with all your might. Compared to a hand or actowel, the large thick pillow surface prevents their escape.

The next morning our search for accommodations continued. It was only through an accountant at a very fancy resort kindly calling her friend that we got a cute apartment at a place that was actually sold out. Our disappointment continued with surly slow services, and mediocre food, including the boniest fish in the world. When we recounted our frustrating experiences to traveling Romanians, they had no good explanation.

“It is the Delta,” said a young chap on vacation with his family. “We don’t get treated any better. Please do not let this spoil your Romanian experience. You will find it much more developed and tourist friendly anywhere else. ” And he was right. At the end Romania was our favorite Balkan country and the Delta, too, redeemed itself at the end.

I absolutely fell in love with the sweet little white and blue thatch covered village houses, many dating back centuries and some beautifully restored. Folk architecture of perfect proportions with lovely hand carved details. In our wanderings through the countryside we came across white and blue churches, too, with gleaming cupolas and golden altars.They were quite a richly adorned apparition in otherwise poor Delta villages.Turns out the blue communities are the descendants of Russian-Ukrainian Lipoveni, the dissenters (Old Believers) from the Russian Orthodox Church, who in the 18th century wanted to escape the persecution of their sect.

But it was the early morning boat trip to the Delta that sealed the deal. To avoid the tourist trail and explore the smaller channels we first drove a good way on the banks past old homesteads and haystacks to the edge of the water. As we climbed into our small floating boat all the troubles were forgotten and our hearts expanded reveling in Nature’s beauty. We soon turned into smaller and smaller channels Some were so narrow we had to watch for reeds and grasses hitting our faces. We saw water snakes and otters, but it was the abundance of bird life that Delta is famous for that had us transfixed. We were in good hands with our naturalist guide Alma, who seemed as excited for every even small encounter as us. The Danube Delta is where river Danube after flowing through nine European countries ends its journey and flows to the Black Sea. It has the third largest biodiversity in the world (over 5,500 flora & fauna species) spreading over 5,050 square km offering a sanctuary for birds, fish, and animals. Even for non binocular clad non birders the bird encounters are easy and frequent. From small colorful bee eaters to large white tailed eagles birds abound in the quiet of the morning. There are around 300 bird species – and among those, we saw flocks of pelicans, cormorants, wild ducks, geese, storks, herons, ibises, and swans. The Delta is a pleasant resting stop for the migratory birds.  It was especially joyous to observe proud papa swans protecting their young by puffing up and patrolling the waters. Did you know nearly 30 bird species mate for life, amongst them three kinds of swans? Listed as a UNESCO World Heritage Site 60% of the Delta is protected from human development and indeed we encountered nary a human being except for a few fishermen. After an exciting day in the Delta appetites are sated by all fish specialties: sliced, diced, smoked, pickled, fried and rolled into phyllo dough. How lucky we have been with the weather! Looks like some rain is coming in. Leaving the Delta it catches up with us just before the Moldova border in the town of Braila on the Danube River. We watch the bride and bridesmaids quickly ushered into a limo and are left with the umbrellas just (singing and) dancing in the rain…

Spectacular Sumba Surprises

It doesn’t happen often, but I am rendered speechless. I don’t even know where to begin. Sumba has proven to be much more than we hoped for- our kind of Travel Paradise.Still replete with old traditions and original village architecture, vast tracts of untouched beaches and unspoiled nature, yet dotted with a few good hotels with hot shower and cold AC. Just enough to make an exploration base and wash off the grime and sweat from the whole day exploring on dusty roads. No Western tourists, (we met less than a dozen in our 8 days on the whole island ), yet a modern 4 wheel drive car with a safe driver, working AC and a decent suspension. And a fabulous local English speaking guide, Yuliana Leda Tara, personable, sharp witted and funny. She made us laugh and she laughed hysterically at our lame jokes. Together we spend many, many hours in the car on some surprisingly straight and good roads and then some pretty curvy and bad roads. Oops!One of the few expats we met (it looks like there are also less than a dozen) said, “One time I drove my family to camp on a beach. It took me 2 hours to go 8 km. But it was worth it!” Yup, totally agree! There are very few cars on the road, but plenty of other traffic, including crazy motorcycle drivers, most of them helmet free, sometimes transporting strange loads, like huge bamboo poles, stacks of bricks or live pigs.

When we would hurl towards yet another one overtaking on a blind curve, we would scream and Yuli would say,

“Old men drive slowly, young fly.”

To which Mirek would reply,

“You have no old drivers on this island. They all die young.”

When an ambulance would pass us by hurriedly, we would ask,

“Why don’t they use the flashing lights?”

“Oh, they only use them if someone is dead.”

And Mirek would say with his typical sense of humor,

“Why? He is not in a hurry, he is dead!”

Then Yuli would howl with laughter and translate for the driver. Then they would laugh together and come up with an explanation,

“We need to know if someone is dead, because there will be a big funeral with free food for everyone!”

Since we first laid eyes on our first sumptuous Sumba ikat weaving, we wanted to go and meet the weavers. I have coveted a particular shell encrusted woven Sumbanese tapestry for some years now. I saw it in the research collection of the Threads of Life Gallery in Ubud and was immediately besotted. I took a photo of it and vowed to find another one. In their public sales gallery I also read the interesting life story and saw a picture of Sumba Queen and weaving legend Tamu Rambu Hamu Eti and said to myself, “One day I want to meet her.”

Stay tuned to see what happened.

So, it was the weaving that enticed us to Sumba and we were prepared for the quality and beauty of this still widely practiced craft, seriously verging on major art. But we were certainly unprepared for the quality and beauty and variety of Sumba beaches.I mean, we just came from some seriously spectacular beaches on New Zealand and Australia but wow, these beaches are something else. Coupled with the fact that there is usually no one else on the beach, but an occasional fisherman or a kid looking to supplement the breakfast offering of rice and water spinach. For miles and miles and miles.

While we never tired of beaches we were in serious danger of getting a traditional village overload. The first one we came to was a surprising travel back in time shocker. Prehistoric megalithic settlement-live! All the museum dioramas and artists renditions in history books we grew up on were coming to life all around us. In a reverse culture shock we strolled around while furtively looking around the back to see where Indiana Jones might emerge from.

After a while the novelty would wear off and yet, just as we said no more villages, no more bloody tombstones, we would come upon another one, a perfect village set perfectly over a lagoon and we would stand there dumbstruck all over again. For a relatively small island the variety of landscapes was astounding. In the drier East Sumba we climbed up to a plateau and a golden savannah opened in front of us. Any minute now we were expecting a giraffe or an elephant popping by. Sorry, just freewheeling falcons and wild horses.In the wetter West Sumba there were rice paddies galore. As we arrived just after the end of the Wet Season the rice harvest was in full swing,

yet some padis were already planted anew and flooded or growing fresh young vibrantly green stalks.

While Sumba is sparsely populated, along the roads there was plenty of life. I am not sure whether there are more horses, buffalos or pigs on Sumba, but cumulatively there are likely more than the human population. Horses are very important to the Sumbanese men and there is a famous Pasola event, that brings together the best and the fiercest of horsemen. Some call this racing and spear throwing, blood drawing orgy a thinly veiled excuse for tribal warfare.

The buffalos are tremendously important not only for farm work but especially for sacrifices. New house, new wife, dead relative, buffalos are to be sacrificed. Pigs were everywhere, under every house in the village. Big potbellied sows walking around jauntily through the village and across the road, little piglets playing together. Dogs, chickens and roosters rounded the picture, and in the absence of toys they were constant play toys for the boys.In fact children on Sumba are likely one of the last free range kids in the world. In the whole time we were there we have not seen one single toy. Not even made out of wood. Sticks, stones, flowers, shells, sand, water. Typically they are also not mollycoddled, they work and help, too. Herding buffalos, washing horses, carrying water, wood and younger siblings. They go hungry at times and they are poor but they cry little and laugh a lot. Is it because they don’t want anything? They do not even know what to want. Outside of main towns there are no TVs, no advertising, no stores, nothing to buy. A few simple stalls here or there by the side of the road sell petrol by the bottle, some tomatoes or a few bunches of bananas. You bet those kids never complain when they get a bowl of rice and on a lucky day some dried fish on top of it.With the houses dark and hot, all the life is lived outside. There is a lot of sitting around on the front porch and watching the world go by. Or Happily waving at us as we pass by.

I think Sumba has the best light, that bathes everything in a special glow. With not a single factory on the island and few cars it could be the lack of pollution? I can’t explain it. It also has fabulous clouds. Maybe it was the tinted windows on the car that made them pop. You be the judge.