Couple travel – Crazy Parents Travel

Patagonia‘s Carretera Austral

August 8, 2023August 8, 2023 by ksenija+mirek olmer

for Old Farts, Wimps, and Road Trippers–in short us.

Google Patagonia and your main hits will be of mountains and more mountains with a tiny colorfully clad hiker or two looking to the horizon.

So what is a couple of wimpy old farts to do? Plan a road trip and pick up any and all hitchhiking hikers on the way.

If there was ever a proof that 3rd time is the charm just look at our Patagonia trip. After we had to run from the initial Covid outbreak that caught with us in Argentina en route to Patagonia we had to cancel plans again when Ksenija contracted a mild Covid case in Benin, West Africa a year later and her tests kept showing positive long after.

But as another saying goes, after having had a door slammed in our face twice, we were able to find not only a silver, but gold lining to our Patagonia cloud.

In January and February of 2023 we were able to allocate a whooping 8 travel weeks to Patagonia both in Chile and Argentina and add on additional fascinating destinations, we never thought we will get to in our wildest dreams.

The first half of our Patagonia and Beyond adventures was spent on the road trip on Carretera Austral (= Southern Way) also known as Ruta 7 – an ultimate driving route in Chilean Patagonia.

It has everything an ideal road trip should have: Scenic winding roads, expansive vistas, small towns, tall mountains, deep lakes, icy glaciers and adventures calling. We drove it nice and slow all the way from Puerto Montt to Villa O’Higgins and then back with plenty of detours on the way. All in all instead of a straightforward 2500 km (1550 miles) we clocked 4000 km (2500 miles) on our rental car. Most all of it on unpaved surfaces. With only one tire busted. On the way we met interesting locals and fun hitchhikers, both enriching our Chilean experience tremendously.

Peat collector by the side of a long stretch of empty road

The official start of the Carretera is in Puerto Montt and that is where we picked up our rental car. Here was our first stroke of luck or good travel karma. Ask and you shall receive, ask nicely and you shall receive an incredible upgrade. Picking up our reserved compact rental in a small, empty car rental office we noticed a new 4 wheel drive parked out front. With the help of Google translate we asked the friendly lady at the counter if she could upgrade us to that car. A quick phone call to her boss later she beamed a happy yes. And we sure needed that high clearance vehicle for all the dirt roads we bumped along.

Our second travel karma was even more incredible and highly appreciated. The Travel gods conspired with the Weather gods and gave us sun and more sun and minimal rain and winds. Winds are a huge challenge in Patagonia, people on hiking trails and vehicles on roads are easily overturned by gusts of up to 120 km/h (74 mph).

Right off the bat we started making detours and even backtracked a little to enjoy the gorgeous landscape of the Chile Lake District.

Jumping for joy in front of Volcano Osorno

Then it was to the first of the many ferries. January is of course South America’s summer, but after our freezing Norwegian summer trip the year before we knew to come prepared.

I am not sure which toad trip saw us on more ferries, Norwegian or Patagonian. The Patagonian ferries were definitely much much cheaper, but also much more nerve-wracking as they were fewer in operation and it was either difficult or impossible to make reservations ahead of time.

Big chunks of the Carretera were connected by ferries, many quite small, affording a nice opportunity to chat with the few travelers making their way on foot, bycicke, motorbike or car in those backwaters.

As a matter of fact the Carretera road trip made us really nostalgic for the traveling years of our youth. Patagonia is probably the last place on earth where hitchhiking is a safe and accepted mode of transport. What is more people still talk to each other, comparing travel notes instead of hiding behind their smart phone screens.

Waiting for the morning ferry and sharing our breakfast supplies with one of the many hitchhikers we picked up on the way

With lots of space in our comfortable car we made it a rule to always pick up hitchhikers, though at some (very smelly) point Mirek amended the rule that we only pick up girls or couples. The idea being that showers are more frequent when girls are present. We even picked up some couples multiple times and took them to places they couldn’t get to other ways. Or drove them around different campgrounds to settle in a decent one with warm showers. There were fun conversations to be had with young Israelis just out of their mandatory army stint, and less fruitful hand and foot communications with local youth who by and large did not speak much English.

The best times were with seasoned travelers who travelled for a long time and long distances. We also always offered a free coffe break, a drink or a dinner. It didn’t make a huge dent in our budget, but made a difference to the camping hikers living on trail mix rations. We were once those hikers ourselves.

We introduced this lovely Dutch couple to pisco sours

And they paid us back by washing our car.

While some other Patagonia destinations are becoming very popular (and expensive) Carretera Austral was just perfect for our taste. Remote and difficult enough for a limited amount of visitors, yet civilized enough that a gas station, a decent bed and warm food could be found without too much trouble, and without breaking the bank.

A romantic view from our little cabin window at the very end of the road

So don’t believe the over-exaggerated internet posts or pay for hyper-inflated travel agencies. You most certainly can drive it yourself. And you also don’t need to take a crash course in Spanish. As everywhere in the world the locals appreciate an effort to string along a few Spanish words and they will reciprocate with a valiant effort to string along some English words or call over someone that can. Smiles and fingers are still a recognized international language.

With a spiffy traditional dancer at a local festival

Seeing that indeed we are old farts and wimps with bad backs and knees we didn’t do much hiking and lived vicariously through the hiking adventures of hitchhikers we drove long distances.

The one hiking exception was the tortuous unexpectedly long search for Cueva de los Manos (cave with ancient hand prints). The cave itself might not have been worth the climb but the otherworldly landscape and views with the addition of some flying saucers certainly was.

We would have probably given up if it wasn’t for our Dutch hitchhiking couple that kept their pace slow and encouraged us all the way up a and down.

Even without hiking we did get quite close to the tall mountain peaks and admire many a spectacular mountain view.

A few times Ksenija managed to find a horse to take her up the mountain trails.

That is always so much fun. Even more so when one gets to visit the local homesteads.

Lasso demo at the sheep and horse ranch in the mountains of Futaleufú

Training for the local horse competition in Aysen

The wonderful combination of lakes and snow-clad mountains we are well familiar with from the Alpine regions is on steroids in Patagonia. The blues and greens of the lakes in combination with the high snow clad mountain peaks is just breathtaking.

Lago Jeinimeni Parque National Patagonia

What is more we absolutely feel under the spell of glaciers. They are massive and not marred by the gray film of dirty pollution so often found in other places.

The milky green of glacier water is quite a unique color.

Can you spot the blue blue of the Ventisquero glacier?

The clean rivers of Patagonia are also fascinating with their fantastic colors in powerful currents.

If the river happens to be less colorful and hence called White River the swaths of purple lupines give it the necessary punch.

Too old for serious class V rafting on the famed Futuleufú River we instead tried our hand at flyfishing for trout with a private guide.

Mirek listening carefully to the instructions on a tiny island in the middle of the river.

Despite seeing plenty but not catching any, we had a wonderful day.

We might have not caught fish ourselves but we ate plenty, especially salmon.

Shared by his friendly and generous family, our neighbors at a cabin site.

We would be remiss to not mention that many of these dazzling sights were part of a chain of national parks established by an extraordinary individual Douglas Tompkin. American businessman, conservationist and founder of outdoor equipment and clothing company North Face.

In the 1990s Tompkins and his second wife, Kris bought and conserved more than 2 million acres (810,000 ha) of wilderness in Chile and Argentina. Subsequently it became the largest gift of private land to Chilean and Argentine people and biggest philanthropic land conservation project in the world. This donation became the core of National Parks in Patagonia. The last phase sadly was completed by his widow after the accidental death of Douglas from hypothermia in a kayaking accident on Lago General Carrera close to his home.

We tried to visit as many of their parks as possible even if we just drove a short distance from the entrance.

For old farts like us short educational trails were god sent to get a taste of diverse nature from giant ferns to giant burdocks

to giant trees.

Ancient alerce trees, relatives of giant sequoias

Even for non-bird-watching people without binoculars the frequent encounters with woodpeckers were fun. Sadly we did not manage to see any pumas, but guanacos were often loitering close to the road.

As impressed and inspired as we were by the work of the Thompkinses, we were also disappointed and worried about the future for lack of upkeep and continued government involvement. An interesting new documentary Wild Life is just out that sheds more light on the inspiring couple, and the long difficult fight to reach the goal.

For a very different and a bit more touristy experience we stopped at the Marble caves, swarming with young crowds, beer joints and restaurants. A little taste of what we could expect when we fly out to the second part of our Patagonia adventure.

Initially we were not planning to push all the way down to the last outpost on the Careterra Austral. But we were glad we did. It is a tiny little town with very few visitors, but those that come are young adventurers share fascinating stories of crossing by land and boat from Argentina.

Time to turn around and retrace our steps with different detours and a 20 hour ferry ride to Chiloé Island.

Did we sometimes wish we had a magic broom instead of a car? No, we really are ultimate road-trippers and enjoyed every bumpy mile.

Norway Road Trip Logistics

October 4, 2022October 6, 2022 by ksenija+mirek olmer

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

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.

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.

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,

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.

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.

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.

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?

Of Birth and Death and Life in Kyrgyzstan

August 2, 2022August 2, 2022 by ksenija+mirek olmer

The view from our homestay’s dining room

As we walked up the steps to our homestay in the village of Arslanbob, we heard a baby cry.

A black clad grandma was holding a baby swaddled in layers of pink. Her face showed concern and frustration. “May I?” I asked with a smile. To my surprise, she handed me the baby and I put her on my shoulder and started the baby dance that I have practiced to perfection with many babies, my own and others. (Long time ago for many years I worked with new mothers, helping them breastfeed and master other mothering skills).

Soon the little bundle burped and instantly calmed down. The baby’s mother walked out of the house, startled to find her daughter in the arms of a stranger. Her mother-in-law said something to her, presumably about the baby calming down in my arms and the mother looked at me with friendlier eyes. Our guide came up and translated. “It is our first grandchild,” explained the granny. “It is a miracle. We have waited for her for 15 years!”

As we stowed our bags in our guest room, I noticed that the women were getting ready to leave. “Where are they going?” I asked our guide. “To the baqshï – traditional healer. The baby doesn’t eat well and cries too much.”

“Would it be acceptable if I tagged along?”

The women had no objections and we all piled into a beat-up car with a cracked windshield. I sat in the back with grandma, holding the baby, while the mother was in the front. It seemed to me that the baby didn’t quite belong to the mother, but to the family as a whole. Soon the narrow road through the village came to an end.

We had to cross a stream by foot on a rickety footbridge

and then walk up to a house. We were welcomed and ushered into a spacious room with floor seating. Immediately an assortment of food was piled up in front of us. The mother passed the baby to the healer.

I gestured to my phone and was so pleased when I got permission to take photos. You see, if I could do my life over I would have wanted to be an anthropologist. I just love learning about people’s traditions, beliefs, and cultures.

Truth be told it is a bit hard to learn about a culture when you don’t understand the language. Not that many words were spoken during the ritual that was part medical examination. After a quick Muslim prayer

I watched intently the healer’s strong, steady, skilled hands probing the baby (checking fontanel for dehydration, tummy for obstructions) and then bringing out various powders and ointments to put on the baby.

Blessing with an ancient turtle shell – certainly a pre-Islamic shamanic tradition

But it was her face that mesmerized me. She had an open face with the kindest smile. I would have gladly put my body and soul into her hands.

But then she asked the mother for a sterile razor blade and while pinching the skin started making tiny little cuts on the baby’s back. That was not something I was quite ready to see, though different ways of “letting blood” to take out impurities is a method used in many cultures.

Luckily the baby barely whimpered and quickly calmed down when put to her mother’s breast where she fell asleep.

There was no payment from our side but in the end we all received a different scarf as a parting gift from the lovely baqshï.

With my new scarf carefully tied by the grandma

I really wished I could have asked her some questions or offer some breastfeeding advice and if I had had a woman guide I would have been able to. Still, I was very grateful to have had been afforded a thrilling glimpse through the small window into the local culture.

On the other side of life’s journey we had many opportunities to encounter not funerals per se, but burial traditions. Again one could see some remnants of pre Islamic traditions. In the near total absence of historical architectural monuments and only very simple village architecture we were fascinated by attractive graveyards scattered throughout the countryside.

They always had a nice view but were rarely connected to a human settlement. But then Kyrgyzis were true nomads for much longer than sedentary people.

In the olden, nomadic times people were buried on the way, wherever death overtook them. Some more important people would perhaps get a tomb, possibly in the shape of a yurt, that would in time become holy shrines – mazars.

These days skeletal ironwork yurt graves offer rest to family members in their favorite traditional dwelling.

Many tombs were adorned by a crescent moon. The crescent is not only Islamic but also a symbol from earlier times, of light at night.

Some others displayed the five-pointed star, a distinctly Soviet symbol.

As most were constructed from adobe (mud and straw) bricks

they were in all stages of deterioration, looking like sand castles eroded by Mother Nature and Father Time.

Some had handcrafted pictures and names, but the newest ones followed an uncanny Russian tradition of exact likeness etched in polished marble.

The exact likeness could not be attributed to the traditional bal bals, anthropomorphic sculptures made from limestone and granite.

From 6-12th century they were probably carved memorials to the honoured dead. Their production and reverence ceased with prevalence of Islam which prohibits figural depiction of people.

The majority of population in Kyrgyzstan declares itself Muslim, but except for the South close to Uzbekistan border we felt the country was more secular than its neighbors. There were no grand mosques and we heard no muezzin calls.

The only woman we saw in a real hijab was this stunning fishmonger.

Lucky for us she had no problem posing for pictures.

The other item for sale: kurut –dried yogurt balls

Speak about stunning. This beautiful girl Zarina was the niece of our guide and she gave us a private concert on komuz, a traditional string instrument, while her mom cooked us a delicious lunch.

Visiting Begaly’s family was such a treat. Mom and dad were lovely as well.

And we even got invited to his sister-in-law’s birthday party.

While many women wore loosely tied scarves, some men wore traditional kalpaks. As it used to be with all traditional clothing clothes or hats were not just for protection from elements but also immediately explained someone’s status in society: noble or serf, married or unmarried, etc.

For example in the past when a Kyrgyz boy was 12 years old he would wear a kalpak with green embroidery, this would change to a blue kalpak at the age of 24, a brown one at 36, beige at 48 and black at 60. If a young man was looking to get married he would wear a kalpak with red decorations.

Our guide Begaly with his kalpak on a throne in Skazka (Fairytale) canyon

In case you were curious kalpaks are made with a traditional material – felt, made from wool, plentiful around sheep.

Even we recognized this man we met in the village of Arslanbob as an Uzbeki because of his square hat.

Not sure this gentleman has any symbolism in his clothes. He was impeccably dressed, eating lunch alone in a roadside restaurant and before he left I asked him for a portrait. I wish I had a chance to ask him some questions, but he seemed in a hurry.

This cool guy was one of a team of four salt miners, we met on a quick detour to an old salt mine. He insisted on gifting me this piece of salt rock.

Sometimes the encounters are fleeting

A gorgeous girl holding a platter of freshly baked goodies.

Sometimes we get a chance to have real conversations as with this Dungan lady, the owner of the best coffee shop and a little hotel we stayed at in Karakol. Dungan are Muslim people of Hui origin that left China. They are especially known for their delicious cuisine. Because of her fluent English we had over the course of a few days some lovely conversations about food, traditions, family, and life in general.

It is a bonus when one can have a free flow of ideas that enrich an encounter.

But sometimes words are not needed, generosity and kindness speak directly from one heart to another.

Great grandma and her great granddaughter at our first homestay. Sweet memories!

We might say goodbye to Kyrgyzstan, but we will always remember the wonderful people we met.

In Awe of Kyrgyzstan’s Nature

July 25, 2022July 26, 2022 by ksenija+mirek olmer

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.

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.

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?”

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.

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.

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.

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

July 19, 2022July 19, 2022 by ksenija+mirek olmer

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.

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.

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

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

July 13, 2022July 15, 2022 by ksenija+mirek olmer

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.

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

jump with joy

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

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.

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.

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 III Tashkent & Fergana

June 8, 2022July 5, 2022 by ksenija+mirek olmer

There’s more to Tashkent than meets the eye, I am sure, but there were only two things on our list during our short stop in the capital: Tashkent Metro and the Museum of Applied Arts.

First was the cheapest private tour we ever undertook. We bought a ticket for like 15 cents and just rode the metro, stepping out at different beautifully decorated stations.

Someone had done the work for us and posted an extensive blog about all the most interesting stations including a handy map. Thank you, Google and Cynthia!

Credit: https://www.journalofnomads.com/best-metro-tashkent-photo-guide/

A nice passanger seeing us study the map told us that the metro had been extended and suggested we ride all the way to the end. So we did.

Mirek catching the metro back from the last station

We like to ride public transportation on our travels (well, one of us really does…)

The Gafur Gulom metro station named after G’afur G’ulom, a famous Uzbek poet, writer and translator.

That one of us takes special joy and pride in figuring out how to buy a ticket and read the map. The other one likes to observe the people and make up stories about who they are and where they are going.

Grandma, Mom, and daughter leaving Alisher Navoi station going to buy tickets for a performance at Alisher Navoi theater?

The majority of people were dressed in Western styles, certainly all men. Women showed more diversity, but we saw no covered faces.

Texting her friends? First time meeting her pre-arranged husband? Going for a magazine fashion shoot?

Or just looking for lunch options?

We definitely couldn’t miss the Kosmonavtlar metro station built in 1984 in honor of the cosmonauts of the Soviet Union. Luckily one can now take photographs of the station which was prohibited until recently as the station was designated as a nuclear bomb shelter.

The blue ceramic medallions on the walls feature some of the historical figures of space dreams and legends and greatest pioneers of the Soviet space program, such as Yuri Gagarin and Valentina Tereshkova, the first man and woman in space.

Twin Russian girls in front of Valentina Tereshkova, the first woman in space. Still kicking at 85 and in Russian politics no less.

Some stations were very contemporary.

Beruniy station with crystal chandeliers

And some really harkened back to the communist era with their red stars decor.

We preferred the more folksy decorations with colorful ceramic panels of country life.

One could spend the whole day riding the metro, but we did want to make it to the State Museum of Applied Arts before closing time. The building itself is interesting as it was originally a palace of a rich late 19th century Russian diplomat Polovstev, adorned in colorful oriental decorative style by his male Russian-Uzbek lover. Ah, if those walls could talk!

Unfortunately, for once no one could be found to talk and guide us through the museum. For a while, we pretended we were part of a British tour bus group, but then decided we will strike it out on our own.

I have already waxed poetically about spectacular suzani embroideries, so let me just mention a few of the other 4000 exhibits on hand.

There are exquisite lacquer boxes

Detailed miniatures

Intricate wood carvings

What is fantastic looking at these masterpieces is knowing there are people here and now that still have skills and know how to do this with their own two hands and simple tools.

A good place to find them is Fergana Valley and that is where we headed next. We jumped into the train and immediately made new friends. A lovely group of ladies traveling for days to get to a wedding in Kyrgyzstan.

When we told them we will cross over the border too, they immediately invited us to the festivities. Alas, we were not going to get there on time as we were planning to make a few stops on the way.

We jumped out in Kokand. It is a tiny place and certainly not able to compete with the Big 3 on the Silk Road, but we had it all to ourselves, not counting the guest soccer/football team that stayed in our small hotel, preparing for the weekend tournament.

Kokand was situated on major ancient crossroads of two trade routes and at the end of the 19th century Khudayar Khan built a huge royal residence with 113 rooms set around seven courtyards. The ruler wanted his mother to live in one of the palace’s grand buildings, but she refused and set up her yurt in a courtyard.

These days only a few rooms remain and only one is in perfect condition.

The Kokand Friday mosque is luckily very nicely restored and inviting with a large green courtyard that has a 300ft (100m) long iwan supported on 98 gorgeous slender columns.

Some of the original carved redwood columns, brought from India are still there.

We knew Fergana valley was famous for silk weaving but we were not prepared for what we found in one of the small one-man workshops in the mosque.

Iridescent shimmering hand woven and tailored silk coat

It took our breath away. Nothing ever anywhere after or before has been so close to perfection. As the proud weaver turned the coat it caught the light and the surface undulated into different patterns. Mesmerizing… Like swimming underwater in a tropical sea. Wow, just wow!

The chain-smoking wood carver on the other hand couldn’t be bothered to even look up from his work.

There was a small museum, too, with two other visitors, students from a local University that delighted in being able to practice their English and of course take a picture.

They gladly explained the strange wooden implements found exhibited.

Weeell, they are part of this ensemble.

It is a cradle-potty chair combo for little babies.

No need for changing diapers in the middle of the night. Scroll back and try to guess which is for boys and which for girls! The thing is, while this is an interesting ethnographic exhibit, many mothers, including our female guides are still using it nightly. (now that is also why I prefer female guides).

We were doing these stops on the alternative, longer way from Kokand to Margillan with the craziest, fastest, and friendliest taxi driver. We called him Oscar(chik) and he called Mirek (E)mirek. He had nowhere else to be, so he was happy to stop on our way and a few hours drive turned into a whole day of fun and exploration. With a break for lunch at the best shashlik place (our treat of course).

He spoke great Russian and about 10 words of English, despite his sister being an English teacher. But he was sharp as a tack and kept doubling his vocabulary every 20 minutes while laughing and gunning his car down country roads. “Oscarchik smart,” he would say tapping his finger on his forehead. “How do you say…”

We had a communication snafu as I kept insisting that he has to take us to Rishtan’s famous ceramic workshop of Master Rustam Usmanov while he kept advocating for a ceramic workshop of a different guy. Turns out he was talking about Usmanov’s son.

Rustam and his son at the gates to their workshop

Both were most welcoming and took time to show us the whole process. I was a bit apprehensive before coming as I was worried about it being too touristy. We were the only people there and every piece they had in their huge production was a masterpiece. When we bemoaned the fact that we traveled with a small carry-on only and couldn’t buy a whole set of dishes they GIFTED us a little pomegranate vase.

It is Margillan that is the center of silk weaving. We asked our Oscarchik to first take us to the local market but only a few stalls with silk could be found.

Most of the market was cheap Chinese mass-produced clothes.

The visit to the Yodgorlik Silk factory was a disappointment. It is supposed to produce enormous amounts of hand woven silk but most of the looms were abandoned. As elsewhere we found girls jumping to do work only when a tourist poked their head in.

Still, we soon had fun taking portraits of the girls.

Remember the eyebrows? Definitely unmarried girl!

We finally said goodbye to Oscarchik in front of Margillan’s Ikat House Guesthouse.

It was a carpet-studded homey place and immediately we felt like in the good old days of young travel with interesting travelers from all parts of the world hanging out and sharing experiences and tips. Especially cherished was the discussion with a group of young Russian motorcyclists. They left Russia for a long trip anxiously awaiting Putin’s May Victory speech afraid he might conscript young men. Tentatively at first and then more freely, they expressed their opposition to Putin and the war in Ukraine.

Our last stop in Fergana Valley and Uzbekistan was in the city of Andijan.

The city has a famous historical figure to be proud of as it is the birthplace of Babur (=Tiger in Persian). He was the great-great grandson of Timur and ascended to a much diminished throne of Fergana at the age of twelve. Following a series of setbacks, he finally succeeded in laying the basis for the Mughal dynasty and became the first Mughal emperor.

Babur is considered Uzbeki National hero

We had another important reason to visit Andijan. Through the power of the internet and Instagram, I got connected to Gulkhumor, the owner of Inter progress School, teaching children foreign languages.

Of course, I promised we will visit them. I thought we would pop in and say hello to the students.

Who was I kidding! We were treated as VIP dignitaries, starting with a big bouquet of fresh flowers.

With Ghulkhumor (L) and her head teacher

Speeches were delivered and the children in their Sunday best prepared songs, dance, and recitations in English.

Parents were invited to this event of the year.

Countless selfies were taken

And invitations for tea, dinner and overnight stays extended. Alas, we were bound for Kyrgyzstan border the next day. But what a farewell to incredible Uzbeki people!

Saying a final goodbye to Uzbekistan with this fun oldie, but goldie couple. Is it time to change our name to CrazyGrandparentsTravel? Nope, but it is time to cross the border to Kyrgyzstan! See you on the other side.

Uzbekistan’s Silk Road Splendor- Part II Samarkand

May 27, 2022July 7, 2022 by ksenija+mirek olmer

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

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).

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

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

Madeira – The Little Island that Could

March 2, 2022March 7, 2022 by ksenija+mirek olmer

… Surprise, Deliver, Enchant, Redeem.

When our long longed for Patagonia trip had to be cancelled for the third time, not many easy replacement presented themselves in wintry February Europe. At the end it was a choice between Oman and Madeira. Madeira won because I remembered our dentist telling me once that he dreamed of moving to Madeira and opening a dental clinic there. Did I mention we really like our dentist?

Funchal airport is considered the most difficult European airport to land. Note the flag of the autonomous republic of Madeira.

While it is easy to fly to Madeira’s one and only Cristiano Ronaldo Madeira International Airport directly from Prague it most certainly isn’t easy to land. While our landing was a bit cramped with one wing dipping into the sea and the other scraping the nearby hills, we only realized how lucky we were when we talked to other travelers. We arrived on Monday afternoon but all flights on Sunday and Tuesday were returned or rerouted because of high winds.

And high winds there were. We did look at the weather report before we flew out and were so taken aback by basically 7 days of predicted rain that we paid no attention to the wind. Luckily the high winds also scattered the clouds some, so the first few days it rained just at night and we had great skies for photography.

While Madeira is well known for its subtropical climate and warm sunny weather it was a foggy forest up North that I was most interested in. After a great big breakfast in our cosy B&B we drove up to the hills of Fanal first thing in the morning.

Just a quick stop at the viewpoint of

and hard break for some out-of-nowhere itinerant cows

Bundle up, it is foggy and windy, indeed.

Ksenija nearly blew over by the sheer force of the wind

Mirek worshiping the hundreds of years old laurels

I have seen superb photos of these gnarled Madeira trees in a magazine once and they didn’t disappoint in real life. Clutching my iPhone with frozen fingers I was more than excited for wonderful iconic images of our own. Every day for the rest of the week I debated whether we should go back, but the first impression was so special and strong I didn’t want to disappoint myself.

On the way down the sun started to break through and we soon went from this:

to this:

Sunbathing under a giant foxtail agave flower

Certainly, the sea is not warm enough for swimming in the winter, but still great to admire.

Or through the many flowers at Arco de Sao Jorge

As you can imagine getting up to these viewpoints isn’t easy no matter what but especially in a car with a MANUAL transmission. The roads are not only narrow but so steep that I had to fight the thought of failing breaks numerous times a day while driving down and close my eyes when the trucks or buses were hurtling towards us on the uphill. Due to Mirek’s many years of driving in crazy places around the world, we escaped unscathed.

One of the few roads we didn’t drive – it was closed for reconstruction.

It would only take about 4 hours to drive all around the island. The island of Madeira is a temporary dormant volcano about three times the size of the U.S. island of Nantucket, twice the area of the British Isle of Wight, and slightly larger than Singapore island.

It has a fantastic network of roads and unbelievable multitudes of new tunnels that make travel easy. But it also has many deep canyons and ridge roads and portions of old coastal roads that one can still drive. This means fun old narrow one-way tunnels and sometimes a free car wash when you drive under a waterfall.

Now, if you are not lazy old farts like us you have another network to explore. There are more than 1,350 miles (2,170 km) of levadas that you can walk and many people come to Madeira for exactly this purpose. Levadas are irrigation channels used to bring water to the fields in olden times and many do so till today. But they also offer great exercise and views and some people return each year to walk different ones. There are books and apps and guided levada tours.

We only did a short little levada walk on the last full day of our stay but it was so pretty and full of colorful flowers I was sorry we hadn’t considered doing more.

We probably would have if we didn’t have a few days of pouring rain in the middle of our stay. So we did some inside activities like the Whale and Wine museum, not both under the same roof.

Yes, Madeira is the home of madeira (wine).

We did skip the native son Cristiano Ronaldo’s Museum. The closest we came to this soccer idol was parking in the garage of his CR7 hotel. I did make a fool of myself asking what CR7 stands for. That’s how much I know about soccer: zilch, zero. (Just in case you, too, are on my team, it is his initials and his jersey number.)

That meant we had to go to the marina of Funchal, the capital. To our surprise, we found there a perfect replica of Cristopher Columbus’ Santa Maria ship.

The famous ship and one of the many rainbows of Madeira

Turns out Columbus spent a little time on Madeira, more precisely on Porto Santo, the small island next to it. Long enough to get married and sire his only son. And learn about navigation from the charts of his father-in-law.

45% of a quarter million of inhabitants of Madeira live in the capital, so you can imagine it is pretty dense. Not to mention that pre-Covid nearly a million tourists came in and most stayed in Funchal or close by on the Southern sunnier beaches.

Houses climb up the hills from the port in all directions

We didn’t spend enough time in the old town to give you a proper report, but it does have the historical charm.

The sad part was that we encountered a small group of Ukrainians protesting the start of the war.

At that point, none of us knew how truly horrendous it will become.

It certainly made the rest of our trip soberer and we felt guilty enjoying the simple luxuries of free life.

Speaking of old, not much of old is left on Madeira outside the historical center. Even the further-flung villages mostly have fancy new houses, some built by Madeirans working hard in other EU countries

Tiny spruced up traditional house with a fancy large new one in Santana

or owned by foreigners and foreign retirees. life is very affordable for those, but that, unfortunately means the service industry salaries are kept very low. We had quite a lot of conversations with the young people who all dream of leaving for England or the World.

The sweet cook from a restaurant in Funchal who came to toast us and chat with us. His girlfriend just dumped him so he needed a pep talk.

As a traveler, I have always loved the Portuguese the best. but Madeirans are even a notch above in their friendly, kind, and welcoming ways. From free drinks to free room upgrades they couldn’t do enough to make us feel at home. Our B&B ladies were absolutely darling, our day trip jeep driver was willing to answer any and all personal questions, our car rental attendant made sure we got the best car on the lot.

One evening we were driving “home” when we noticed a beautiful new quinta vacation compound. We stopped to ask for availability. Turned out they were just getting ready for the grand opening the next day but of course, we had to come and try some of their homemade Madeira wine. We ended up staying for an hour talking and laughing with the family and of course, they invited us to the grand opening, too.

We would be amiss not to mention the yummy food. Again, we were plied with huge amounts of side dishes and or extra seafod in our Portuguese version of paella “because we like you”. When we returned for our last meal to the same local restaurant, where they pointed out the local policeman having his dinner and beer, they must have doubled the seafood again.

Madeira is often called The Flower Island and rightly so. Even though the high season and the Flower Festival are held in April or May, already in February flowers were blooming everywhere. From tiny roadside flowers to grand tropical birds of paradise

and clivias there are swaths of color brightening the lush green of the island. The land is at a premium so terraced vegetable gardens are clambering impossibly high and banana plantations are squeezing around the homes.

Many public and private gardens be on for a tour. We managed only one, the Monte Palace Tropical garden, but it was a great relaxing morning excursion before our flight out. At times Madeira reminded us of California or Hawaii, and this garden visit surprisingly brought us back to Japan and the Japanese gardens that we love so much.

They say when life gives you lemons, make lemonade. We say when travel life gives you maddening Corona restrictions make Madeira. It will welcome you with open arms, this Little Island that Could.

Hugging Trees Around the World

November 13, 2020November 14, 2020 by ksenija+mirek olmer

Ksenija and Mirek hugging a giant maple tree in Prague’s Kinsky Garden

What I miss most at this isolating time of Covid is hugging people. Can’t say that it is quite the same emotional high, but hugging a tree

Mirek hugging an oak in Pruhonice Castle Park

can indeed be very calming and grounding. Even if I don’t often feel compelled to hug a tree,

Ksenija hugging a giant eucalyptus in Wooramel, Western Australia

I like shaking hands with a tree – touching it’s skin. Every tree has a different bark, some are wrinkled and calloused as a hand of an old wise grandmother,

and some smooth as a trembling young bride’s hand waiting for the wedding ring to be slipped on her finger.

Bamboo has the smoothest skin of all.

Wait, bamboo is not a tree at all, but a grass. Though it grows in bamboo forests.

I can’t prove that trees have souls, but they definitely have faces and they keep looking at me!

Planting a tree is the ultimate sense of hope for the future. You hope your grandchildren will sit in it’s shade when you are long gone.

Mirek sitting under a giant linden tree, traditionally planted in the middle of European villages.

If you need shelter from a sudden storm, a tree can help.

It is the big trees that take our breath away. Some are so tall

that you look up and up and not see the top.

Some are incredibly wide and it is hard to know where roots end and branches begin

Look closely at these roots! They form a living tree bridge

Tree roots can build, but also destroy

Ten years ago on our first of many trips to Cambodia

Trees make a home for birds and… monkeys

A baby long-tailed Balinese Monkey, Monkey Forrest, Ubud, Bali

Orangutan in Bukit Lawang, Sumatra, Indonesia

No matter what season, trees are always beautiful.

SPRING

The most famous spring trees in the world are blossoming Sakuras (cherry trees) in Japan. We made a sakura pilgrimage and chased the blossoms south from freezing Hokkaido.

First buds in Miyagaoka park in Sapporo, Japan

A kimono clad sakura admirer in Goryokaku park in Hakodate, Japan

SUMMER

As spring turns into summer, the trees give us the sweetest gift – their fruits. The joy of our childhoods are inextricably linked with picking cherries. I can’t help but wonder with a sad stab in my heart, will our grandchildren still have a chance to experience this delight?

A Monet like carpet of red poppies under South Carolina trees

Autumn with its glowing palette of colors and falling leaves is my favorite season.

AUTUMN

We came full circle experiencing the autumn vibes in Japan. There is no place more magical than a Japanese garden with the many different kids of Japanese maples changing colors.

WINTER

With snow comes the quiet reflection of winter (and joyous shrieks of kids).

One of the most famous woods poems written was Robert Frost’s Stoping by Woods on a Snowy Evening. Watching the woods fill up with snow while your horse gives his harness bells a shake is fun, I am sure

but so is driving through the woods on a snowy road, with snowlfakes falling and miles to go before we sleep.

Trees welcome the sun in the morning

and rock it to sleep in the evening

Whatever the season or time of day go ahead and hug a tree and you can also tell it your deepest secrets.

But mostly when it comes to trees or anything else in life… Stay curious!