I was recently approached by the Afghanistan Analysts Network from Kabul (AAN for short). The occasion was the news that Czech zoologist Daniel Jablonski decided to examine the forgotten collection of reptiles and amphibians from Afghanistan, kept at the Belgrade Institute for Biological Research – a collection that had spent decades collecting dust. Jablonski was surprised when, going through the collection, he found specimens unknown to the professional public that still represent a significant contribution to science, such as the northernmost find of the yellow-bellied skink (Eurylepis taeniolata). As he himself admits, Afghanistan is the center of biodiversity of certain groups of amphibians and reptiles. And immediately, in May 2019, together with three Serbian authors, he published his findings about the collection in a scientific journal.

Since none of the authors of that scientific paper had ever been to Afghanistan – not even Jablonski, who is a specialist in amphibians and reptiles of Central Asia – the AAN analyst Jelena Bjelica couldn’t help but wonder who actually went there. Who went to Afghanistan back in 1972, hunted down those unfortunate beasts in the God-forsaken deserts and mountains, put them in alcohol, dragged them in jars all around Afghanistan for months and finally brought them to Belgrade.

That’s how she found me. And she wanted the whole story.

Her article "Lizards of Afghanistan: An unknown collection discovered in Serbia”, published on July 30, 2019, says that I introduced myself to her as a then young bird researcher and "an adventurer who had travel in his blood." I told her that the bird map of Afghanistan had been full of blank spaces, and I had wanted to fill those spaces.

Her article further relates how, lugging my backpack, I took a bus from Belgrade to Istanbul, and from there, all the way by land, to Tehran. Finally on July 26, 1972 I entered Afghanistan near the Fortress of Islam (Islam Qala), in the province of Herat.

Indeed, in ten days I had traveled 5,000 kilometers, passing by Ararat, stopping along the way in Tehran and other places, and seeing Mt. Elbrus from the bus window. But all that was nothing compared to what still awaited me on that formative journey of my youth.

Left: Buddha of Bamiyan, which is no longer there. Right: Kabul.

As I happened to be in Kabul on August 19, Afghanistan's Independence Day, I had the opportunity to observe a military parade, the last to be attended by Mohammad Zahir Shah as a monarch. I had no idea that a coup and the overthrow of the ruler was already brewing. In retrospect, now it seems that the Shah and I were the only two people in Afghanistan who didn’t see it coming.

With the AAN 's recent interest in my journey, memories started rushing back. I felt the urge to talk about my almost forgotten travels in Afghanistan in the summer of 1972. To describe the journey of a twenty-seven-year-old naturalist from Belgrade, a completely private and non-hippie venture quite unusual in the times of Tito's Yugoslavia. 

My choice of destination at that time was greatly influenced by the publication of a most extraordinary book on the birds of the Near and Middle East (Les Oiseaux du Proche et du Moyen Orient, Paris 1970) by two famous French researchers named François Hüe and Robert Daniel Etchécopar, with incredible illustrations by Paul Barruel. By the Middle East they also meant Afghanistan.

Of course, that was not all. Given my classical education, the idea of ​​visiting an under-explored country with a rich cultural history was irresistible to me. Especially the land where, like a strange constellation, a handful of Alexander's Alexandrias were scattered towards the east... Also, the very prospect that I would find myself in the presence of Greco-Buddhist monuments for the first time in my life greatly fed my enthusiasm.

As for my decision to embark on a rather uncertain naturalistic research in a distant and unknown country, it should be said that at that time I had just completed my compulsory one-year military training in the Yugoslav National Army, and felt that I possessed enough strength and self-confidence for the greatest journey of my life. 

At that time I was passionately interested in zoogeography, so I thought that a trip from the Bosphorus to the heart of Asia would give me a great opportunity to get to know and truly understand the ecosystems of the steppe and the desert. Until then, I had only encountered its meager, modified fragments on the Balkan Peninsula. In addition, although in my field and mountaineering experience I had conquered almost all off the highest mountain peaks in Yugoslavia, my height record was Mt. Triglav in Slovenia, with an insignificant altitude of 2,864 meters. But out there in Afghanistan, Mt. Hindu Kush was waiting for me, with an average height of 4,500 meters! And I didn't ask myself why the famous traveler Ibn Battuta had called that powerful mountain the Slayer of the Hindus.

My Afghanistan travel itinerary

Of my many ornithological “great expectations”, I will only mention three. The third on my list was my desire to see some spectacular birds of prey, most notably the bearded vulture (Gypaetus barbatus), which I had seen in Yugoslavia only once before, in Macedonia. In general, about fifty years ago, large raptors had already become a rarity in most of Europe. Also, other types of eagles and falcons that I had never seen before were waiting for me in Afghanistan. That's why in one of the two field notebooks I carried, the gray one, I carefully made notes and drew pictures that would later help me identify the yet unseen species of birds of prey in the sky.

And I was not disappointed: throughout Afghanistan, the bearded vulture was the most common species of vulture after the Egyptian vulture (Neophron percnopterus), especially in the central mountainous areas, where I saw it every day. It was somewhat rarer in the lower parts. By the way, the bearded vulture is an amazing, huge bird that feeds almost exclusively on marrow-filled bones. Bones previously gnawed by jackals and feathered vultures.

The most numerous scavenger was the Egyptian vulture, especially around villages and nomadic camps, because it feeds on the worst kinds of waste. Once, in the Ajda Valley (Darya e Ajdahar), two men suddenly appeared in front of me with rifles and a freshly killed Egyptian vulture, offering to sell it to me. With their facial expressions and gestures, they explained that it tastes great when cooked. I immediately remembered that street children followed me and every other foreigner in Kabul shouting "Mister Kachalu, Mister Kachalu!" (Mr. Potato, Mr. Potato!). Accordingly, I believe that these two vulture killers also thought that foreigners were complete ignoramuses and fools worth deceiving in any way. That has not changed even to this day: more recently, I hear that seagulls have been offered for sale in Kabul as wild ducks.

A nomad camp in Afghanistan

My second great wish was to get to know the numerous species of wheateaters (genus Oenanthe), desert-steppe birds with white tails. Central Asia is, in all likelihood, the center of biodiversity of this genus, of which there were only two species in Yugoslavia. Each of the species is very slightly different from at least one other similar species, and it is especially difficult to identify females and young individuals in transitional seasonal plumage. Which is exactly what I feared, as they changed plumage in July and August. Keep in mind that, back in 1972, there were no pocket guidebooks for identification, with illustrations of the birds of Afghanistan or the region. My eagerness to find some extremely interesting species of wheateaters was thus coupled with some very serious problems of their reliable identification.

That's why, as soon as I arrived in Kabul from Herat, I went to the Kabul Zoo, that had a small Zoological Museum. It was founded by the German zoologist Jochen Nittamer, the son of the equally or even more famous Günter Nittamer, curator-zoologist of the Berlin, Bonn and Vienna natural history museums. Nittamer Junior had spent 1964-1966 in Kabul as part of Bonn’s collaboration with Kabul University, and studied mammals and birds of Afghanistan. That was when a collection of birds was created there, the specimens of which were identified by Nittamer Jr. himself.

In 1972, the zoo and museum were curated by two other German zoologists, Günter Noge, an assistant professor at Kabul University and later a long-time director of the Cologne Zoo, and M. Boeckler (I don’t know anything about him), to whom I had previously introduced myself in a letter. They welcomed me kindly and allowed me to examine the whole collection of birds in detail, as well as to use their library.

For two weeks, I studied the stuffed birds of Afghanistan learning how to identify them, alive, in the field. I recorded all of this in my gray notebook, which was always in my pocket. I was kept company by an orphaned child chimpanzee who, while I was studying birds, sat on my lap, holding me in the embrace of his long arms. Thanks to my self-training at the Kabul Zoo and Museum during July and August 1972, as well as the notes and drawings I made there, I was later able to identify as many as eight different species of wheateater in the field. And I have seen them in at least twenty different variations and stages.

Finally, at the very top of my Afghanistan bird bucket list, was my wish to see the Afghan snowfinch (Pyrgilauda theresae), an endemic bird species. It should be said right away that birds easily fly long distances, so compared to other animals and plants, endemic species are relatively rare, such as birds whose total distribution is within the borders of one country. After all, it is the only endemic Afghan bird species. The case is quite different with land birds of oceanic island states where, due to isolation, endemic bird species are much more common. But Afghanistan is the place where biodiversity was born. Besides, isn't the Hindu Kush, the only homeland of the Afghan snowfinch, an isolated high-mountain island in its own right?

The Afghan snowfinch is a grayish-brown mountain songbird that lives in a zone of about 3,000 meters above sea level. It is very similar to the previously known white-winged snowfinch (Montifringilla nivalis), which lives in the summer snow zone of the high mountains in the south of Europe (Pyrenees, Alps, Apennines, Balkan mountains), but also in Afghanistan.

Perhaps a better, more suitable name for the species would be Afghan undeground finch, because the most striking feature of this bird is that it nests in rodent burrows, most commonly that of ground squirrels. Since it builds its nest from hair and feathers deep at the farthest end of the tunnel, we can really consider it a subterranean bird.

Science discovered the Afghan snowfinch relatively late. It was first recorded in 1937, on the Shibar pass between Kabul and Bamiyan, and described under the name Montifringilla theresae in the same year by British Colonel Richard Meinertzhagen (1878–1967). Meinertzhagen was a controversial mix of boastful soldier, skilled spy, adventurer and ornithologist; such combinations are not that uncommon among ornithologists.

At that time, half a cenutry ago, I regarded Meinertzhagen as one of the greatest British ornithologists, who found many new species and subspecies on expeditions to various continents around the world. It has since been proven that he was in fact a fraud, a writer of false diaries and reports, a forger of documents and a thief of stuffed birds from other people's collections. One by one, his false scientific discoveries were exposed. There is only one left that has been verified to be authentic – and it is precisely our Afghan, endemic, underground Theresa’s finch.

But who is Theresa? Theresa Clay (Theresa Rachel Clay, 1911–1995) was a zoologist (but also a member of MI5 during the Second World War) and a thirty year junior cousin of Meinertzhagen's – they had common ancestors in the second generation. She became his favorite, as well as his goddaughter, at the age of fifteen, and after the mysterious death of his second wife she also became his housekeeper, caregiver, collaborator, secretary, confidant and inseparable companion. "Uncle" and godfather Meinertzhagen dedicated many of his false ornithological discoveries to Theresa – but also his only real discovery.

I managed to see the endemic Theresa's finch in several places in the foothills of the Hindu Kush. When on August 8, 1972 I also found it on Sia Koh, a 3,000-meter high mountain pass between Sharak and Jam, it was the then new, unknown westernmost point of its distribution. There was no end to my happiness. As a young man, I believed that with that discovery I had done a great thing for Afghanistan, and for world ornithology.

All the birds I saw and observed in Afghanistan that summer, I recorded in the second, red notebook of my field diary. After that I published an article in French in the international ornithological journal Alauda (Latin for “Lark”). The chief editor at that time was my slightly older friend, the French ornithologist Jacques Vieillard. Like so many explorers, he died of malaria, while hanging around the tropics in Brazil in 2010. Vieillard also had firsthand experience with the birds of Afghanistan, as did some other French and German explorers of that era. Back then, the English language was not as dominant in science as it is today, which is why I chose to have my article published in French. However, now I see that my paper Observations ornithologiques en Afghanistan is almost forgotten, and that today's authors quote almost exclusively from sources in English.

Thanks to my recent contact with analysts from Kabul (Afghanistan Analysts Network), many memories from that trip came back to me in their full splendor. And I took a look at my diaries, my two precious notebooks. I found out which was the first bird that had caught my attention: already on my first day, in Herat, on the western border of Afghanistan, I was enchanted by the mynas (Acridotheres tristis) – lively, colorful, noisy and curious birds from the starling family. I had never seen them in real life before. Mynas originally dwell in the Middle East, but nowadays they have spread invasively throughout the subtropical and tropical belt of other parts of the world.

During July and August, I managed to travel across most of Afghanistan and to observe and record birds everywhere, but also to catch some reptiles and amphibians for my herpetologist colleague who stayed in Belgrade. I also trekked many desert and mountain trails that none of the earlier explorers-naturalists had traversed, not even my predecessor and role model, Knud Paludan from Danmark.

In all likelihood, no ornithologist before me had passed the great Black Mountain (Sia Koh). None had explored the surroundings of the marvelous Jam Minaret, nor visited the valley of the Hari Rod River upstream of the village of Farsi. By bus, truck, taxi, jeep, as well as by bicycle, horse and camel, I passed almost all parts of Afghanistan, with the exception of Wahan and Nuristan, which were forbidden border zones at that time. In the Yugoslav embassy in Kabul, they had warned me that many parts of Afghanistan were not safe at all, and advised me to give up some remote stages of my planned itinerary. But when you are 27, warnings are easily disregarded.

Staying in Afghanistan and moving along busy roads, but also those less traveled, I could not help but notice, as well as in the neighboring Iran, the conspicuous presence of armed soldiers, that is, the army as well as the police. This fit in with my general impression that the government was struggling to keep control of the country. 

Also, everywhere outside the cities, I met groups of civilians wearing turbans, not only armed, but also proudly decorated with bandoleers with rows of bullets crossed on their chest. I noticed that, since the traditional costume did not include any belt over the shirt, revolvers and pistols were carried hanging on a strap diagonally across the left shoulder.

What I didn't expect, and most definitely did not like, was how they sometimes treated a foreigner and a traveler. I found one gesture particularly creepy (especially when it was addressed to me instead of a “hello”): a gesture which consisted of two connected movements of the palm across the throat accompanied by a look of hatred, rolled eyes and a toothy smile: (1) slitting the throat with the edge of the hand and (2) a sudden movement of the fist outstretched upwards, meaning something like "there goes your head!" After some time, I stopped paying attention to that, but I didn’t like the feeling that the Afghans obviously didn’t trust me.

In that relatively peaceful time, in the non-aligned Afghanistan, the influences of the great powers were visible to the naked eye. In Kabul and in the north of the country, along the border with the USSR, the streets were dominated by GAZ-24 Volga cars, while in the south, especially around the American hydroelectric power plant construction sites on the Helmand River, large General Motors vehicles prevailed.

From Lashkar Gah to Kajaki, where the Americans built the Kajaki Dam, which was later celebrated in the film, I was given a lift by a teacher in the role of a taxi driver in his huge 1960 Chevrolet. He charged me 1,500 Afghans – about 20 USD then, or around 40 in today’s money. It was an extremely expensive ride, both for that time and for my budget. On that occasion, the teacher boasted to me that he is a serdar, a tribal leader. At the beginning of our ride, he stopped by his house and picked up three of his cousins, just in case. They all sat in the front, next to the driver. I sat in the back. That trip brought me, among other things, my first encounter with the most beautiful of swallows – the wire-tailed swallows (Hirundo smithii) that chased insects above the waters of the Helmand River, bobbing above the surface like large and colorful water lilies.

Azdar Dare

Finally, I also remember the great and faithful driver-mechanic-interpreter Matin, who drove a Toyota Land Cruiser jeep rented from Hertz in Kabul for three weeks. He found what I was doing very strange and inexplicable, unable to understand why I was exposing myself to such risks, costs and efforts. At first, he was a little shy of me and kept a watchful eye on my every move.

At one point, somewhere in the middle of a mountaneous desert, I was trying to catch a very timid lizard. I was hiding behind rocks, slowly creeping towards the animal. Being focused on my prey, I was completely unaware that the planned trajectory of my attack on the lizard was passing right by Matin, who was standing in the shade, leaning on a rock. However, he saw me and mistakenly concluded that I was sneaking up on him. Of course, he hadn't even noticed the lizard. He must have remembered some of our disputes from that same morning, about which road we should take, and thought that I was trying to attack him.

Judging that the hapless lizard was now within reach, I rushed at it with all my might. Poor Matin understood that his darkest suspicions had come true, so he leapt and began to run away from me, screaming and wailing. When I became aware of this, I was already lying on the ground, covered in dust, holding a squirming lizard firmly in my hand.

I somehow managed to convince Matin to come back, pointing at the lizard in my clenched fist. He sulked for a while and refused to talk. Then I gave him my straw hat, which he had longed for and which, by the way, fit him perfectly. Later he gave me one of his shirts in return. It was too small for me, but it had a cool secret pocket right under the armpit. What was that for? For the dagger, Matin explained.

Matin with my straw hat

It was unequivocally established and recorded in Anna Yelen's travel journal (Tout sur l'Afghanistan, Paris 1977) that, even years later, Matin still remembered the eccentric young man who chased lizards, snakes, geckos and frogs, and looked at birds through binoculars. Her book further explains that Matin considered himself an actor, because he participated in the filming of the movie "The Horsemen" with Omar Sharif and Anthony Quinn, directed by John Frankenheimer, and based on the French novel Les Cavaliers by Joseph Kessel.

I don't know that, apart from one straw hat, any trace was left of my presence in Afghanistan. 

Afghanistan, on the other hand, stayed with me forever.

In my house in Belgrade, there is shallow blue bowl that has been sitting on my dining room table for the past 50 years. It was bought in the village of Istalif, north of Kabul, a place famous for its ceramic workshops. The bowl is still intact just like on the day I bought it, but the village is no longer there.

A writer from a small country, of course, looks towards the big nations, towards France, Germany, the UK... He fantasizes about countless editions of his books, even pocket editions sold at airports. Meanwhile, his experienced agent shakes his head.

- We have no chance in France, they wouldn't remember us even if they tried really hard. If you say, I have an interesting writer from Croatia, to them it sounds dangerous, like if a guy from Africa came to us and introduced himself as a writer from Mali. You immediately try to remember the phone number of the police.
- What do you mean?
- Literature is created in famous locations, and ours, between so many borders, seems too narrow even for a children's book. And as you know, no one reads short stories anymore.
- Well, what about the UK?
- Perhaps something could be done there… I do have some contacts, but so far they’ve responded to all our proposals with polite refusals. At book fairs, their agents regularly ask me if we have ever been someone's colony, and how our colonial past affected the second and third generation of our writers. They want to read about the suffering they inflicted on oppressed peoples – have you heard of the neocolonial literature?
- And Germany?
- Listen, some things cannot be changed overnight, but don't get all depressed on me now, OK? There's also Czechia, Poland, Slovakia... Let's talk about Hungary, for instance. The average circulation there is several thousand copies, which isn't so bad.
- Those new Russian writers did well here.
- With the Russians it only goes one way. 
- They’ve been buying up our coastal properties…
- As I said, one way. And don't mix hotel business with translated literature.
- What else is there? Spain, Portugal, why not try there as a back door to the Latin American book market?
- In principle – yes, maybe. I sent them a preliminary list. And you, of course, are on it. Look, what I can offer you right now is Bulgaria. Don't make a face! Serbs, for example, traditionally do well there. They also want us, Croats, but on the condition that they are not mentioned in a bad light. I hope you don't have any Bulgarian villains in your novel?
- No.
- Good, that’s good. It is about ten million potential readers.
- Wait, I didn't even ask you about America.
- I'm glad you didn’t ask me about America. Because I would tell you what I always tell your fellow writers when they ask me about America. So...

                   ***

In the Republic of Moldova, I was introduced as a famous writer from Croatia – it happened at an afternoon tea party in an elite part of Chisinau. Although my friend Branko and I actually wanted to go on a tour of the medieval monastery in Stari Orhej, a phone call from a man whom I will call Kornel (not his real name) redirected us to a hill overlooking the city, dotted with luxurious villas. We didn’t see any security, perhaps because the streets were so narrow that they could be defended by a single oligarch with a gun.

Branko, who by then had already sold the largest amount of diapers in the history of this young republic, described Kornel as a Moldovan big shot whose name opens ministerial doors. He is expensive, but extremely penetrative, as Branko put it. Kornel couldn’t have been more than thirty-five: short, stocky, fierce. He welcomed us in his opulent villa. A pale girl with a poodle in her arms was sitting in front of a giant flat TV. Kornel introduced her as Natalia. Then we went on a tour of the house filled with art and the rifles that Kornel sometimes uses to hunt foxes.

- It is healthy for business – he said.

Poor Chisinau. From the upper terrace, it looked like a rag half buried in clay, but for a moment Kornel was moved by the sight of his hometown. So he decided that we urgently needed something to drink. He said he was drinking beer to cure his hangover from last night's binge, after which Branko gave me his first worried look of the day. Kornel asked what I was doing in his wonderful country. I told him the truth: I'm shooting a ten-minute travel documentary about the cultural and social life of Chisinau.

- He is also a writer – Branko said.
- What do you write about? History?
- Well, not really...
- What then?
- Mid-life crises with passionate love affairs that take place in various cities around the world.
- Attractive – Kornel said. – And why not publish something here with us, have you thought about it? My friend has a big store in the city center. He even sells books.
- He could be the first writer from Croatia to be published in Moldova – Branko said.
- In Romanian?
- Romanian?! – Kornel glared at me. – In Moldovan, of course. Or maybe that’s beneath you?
- No, not at all. I’d love that.

Kornel then devoted himself to conversations via his cell phone. It seemed as if he had decided to arrange all the details of the publication of my book on that very late Sunday afternoon. Who would have thought that things would turn out like this. I tried to hide my excitement. Moldova might be the poorest country in Europe, but from there you can easily reach Romania, and the publishing road then bends towards France, a well-established route of love and understanding between the two Romance peoples. The big shot paced around the large room and talked for a long, long time in his mother tongue. Meanwhile, a pale girl on the other side of the room was staring at the TV screen. The short winter afternoon was drawing to a close when Kornel finally ended the conversation.

- Ok, the music is settled, we will pick up the boys from the Conservatory – he announced.
- Which boys? – Branko asked him.
- We're going to my friend’s tavern in the woods. I want you to feel the real, original Moldova.

I noticed he didn't mention my books; never mind, we've got the whole night ahead of us. Kornel and the girl with a poodle left in their giant SUV, and Branko and I followed them in our car. Four students of the State Conservatory were indeed waiting for us at the intersection, together with their instruments. Kornel sent one of them, a violinist, into our car as a guide.

- Is it possible to make a living as a musician here in Chisinau? – I asked him.
- No.
- It must be very nice here in spring and summer, when the parks turn green – I tried again.
- It is.

Following the instructions of the violinist, we took a shortcut through some villages. The heavy Bessarabian rains that had been falling until the previous day had washed away most of the road, and the car struggled at every curve. Moldovan villages without any street lighting fit perfectly into the atmosphere. People kept emerging from the darkness right into our headlights. We also saw festively dressed young men and women standing at dark village crossroads; it was a chilly Saturday night in the week before Christmas. We crossed the deserted road to Tiraspol and Odesa and entered the forest area. 

Two lanes in the mud led to a large cabin. There was almost no free space around the house; it was pressed on all sides by forest. A thin man in a green uniform met us on the porch and let us in. The musicians sat on a high antique sofa next to a bread oven, each with his instrument in his arms. Natalia petted the puppy and remained silent. When Kornel came in after us, the musicians jumped to their feet and started with neutral numbers, to warm up. Violin, cello, bass and accordion. Meanwhile, the waiter took out everything he had in the fridge: pickled cucumbers, pickled carrots, pickled watermelon... Kornel explained that these are original Moldovan specialties that, unfortunately, can no longer be found in the city. Then the wine arrived. Kornel warned us that this is an above-average wine made from wild berries and that we should be careful with it. After he said this, he downed the entire glass. Then he started raving about Steven Seagal, for whose stay in Moldova he was personally responsible. 

- Seagal promised to raise money and build a Moldovan Hollywood – he said. – I brought him here and introduced him to everyone, in this very cabin, and now he doesn’t return my calls!
- Maybe he lost his phone – I surmised.
- He made a fool of me.
- It’s not your fault – Branko reassured him.
- I even introduced him to the president, who received him as a friend of our country! He ate and drank here for seven days, made all kinds of promises in the media, but after that he disappeared and didn't call again. He pissed on my reputation!

In the meantime, Kornel was also getting more agitated by the music, even though the musicians were desperately trying to find a song that would make him happy. They were young and they played with their eyes wide open, obviously under stress. Soon it became clear that the problem was not the music, not even Steven Seagal: the problem was that Kornel was in a bad mood. I realized this when he asked me what I thought about his country. I said something about our shared culture that is common to all the countries in this part of the world, careful not to say anything about poverty in the streets of Chisinau.

- You don't know anything about my country – he interrupted me.
- He doesn't know much, that’s true – Branko jumped in – but he just arrived two days ago, give him time to learn.
- I wasn’t talking to you – Kornel cut him off. Then he turned back to me. – You haven’t answered my question.

I didn’t know what to say.

- He even reminds me of someone – he went on,  turning to the waiter. – Does this guy look like someone to you?
- Yes – the waiter confirmed – he looks a lot like someone.

I had no idea what they were talking about, nor what was going on, except that our host was drunk.

- Branko – he said – I'm very sorry to have to tell you this, but your friend has no place at this table.
- Kornel, please, he is...
- He is a corrupt man who came to spread lies about my country. That’s what he is.

I thought it best not to aggravate him, instead trying to focus on the music. The tune the musicians were playing was light and uplifting, despite the fact that Kornel was just talking about how many Moldovan politicians thought they were better than him and now it is possible that some of them might be buried in the forests around us. He occasionally circled back to Steven Seagal, who’d do best not to set foot in Moldova ever again. That was when Branko finally realized that things were going downhill, so he asked me to step outside.

Out on the porch, the waiter was sitting and smoking, and a minute later the musicians joined him and started to smoke too. When they finished their cigarettes they told us to go back inside, which we did because we were freezing and had no idea where to go; all around there was just forest, muddy roads and not a single light in sight.

We were met by an unexpected sight in the dining room. The quiet girl with the poodle, who hadn’t uttered a word all night, was now speaking very energetically to Kornel over the remains of the dinner. We had no idea what she was saying, but it was obvious that she was angry. And Kornel just sat there in silence, staring blankly at a pickled watermelon. When she finished, Natalia put out her hands, and the poodle obediently jumped into her lap.

Kornel spent the rest of the evening in insulted silence, after which he fell asleep on the sofa, occasionally murmuring the words Steven Seagal in his sleep. That was when the musicians finally told us we could drive them home. As we were driving away from the log cabin, I looked at the dark conifers lining the road and wondered about all those Moldovan politicians who thought they were better than our host.

The first time I traveled the 125 kilometers, it was cold, it was October and there was a fair, and I went unprepared, so I dragged Les Miserables and Lost Illusions in my arms to the Temple, which I had never seen live before. I didn't like the broken slab in front, neither the wind, nor the Sava river, it was muddy. I liked the bell and the width of the streets and I wanted to come again because I didn't recognize anyone on the street, although two people tried to pickpocket me when I was getting on the tram. When I traveled back the 125 kilometers again, I was cold because the wind was blowing through me. Mother said: that's what you get when you don't wear a thick jacket. Dad said: how many people were there? Mom added: now she's going to get pneumonia. Grandma said: books collect dust and you suffocate in your room. Grandpa said: that's how I went to Poland during Tito's time and brought back a carpet and a crystal chandelier. And I read about Cromwell and looked at the pictures, how nice it is there and how many people love books and how cultured they all are, and only occasionally they say to each other: go fuck yourself and your gypsy mother.

The second time I traveled the 125 kilometers was when I was going to apply for school, and Johnny said: maybe we screwed up. We left the papers in a large hall full of beautiful pictures in wooden and golden frames and Johnny said: now we have committed ourselves, we have nowhere else to go, and I was chewing the plastic spoon from the cappuccino and looking at the bronze horse. When I went back 125 kilometers and saw the cross, I knew that I would read Plato and Euripides all summer and fantasize, fantasize, how nice it is to go to a hall with big columns and a city with a bronze horseman, where everyone reads Sappho and smells of lilacs. Mom said: books wont put bread on the table. Dad said: your life, your business. Grandma said: you should have studied to be a dental technician like Aunt Bilja. Grandpa said: I was a test driver at Zastava, and later the director of the department. And I was making a list, copying the syllabi and practicing writing essays.

The third time I traveled the 125 kilometers my hands were shaking. There were about forty of us sitting in the classroom, a sledgehammer was pounding at the building next door, the benches were scratched and then scrubbed, the wooden flooor was worn out and we were sweating under our armpits. Johnny said: My essay is crap. I said: mine is crap too, perhaps nothing will come of this. Johnny's uncle took us back and we sat in a tavern, ate lokum, drank coffee and talked about whether I fucked up Balzac more than Johnny fucked up Camus, the atmosphere was gloomy and we ate nothing but lokum because in my mind I was walking the streets of Paris looking for my mistakes, while Johnny was thinking about Algeria. When I got home, I told everyone: I should have become a dental technician, I should have worked in a factory and become the director of the car parts department, I should have smuggled carpets and chandeliers from Poland, and everyone was silent and didn't want to say anything. Sister said: everything is gonna be okay. And I couldn't sleep, I was giving myself points, subtracting, calling Johnny to drink beer and plan what would happen if we stayed. We both fantasized about a home 125 kilometers away and a worn-out wooden floor. I was at Grandma and Grandpa's house and Grandma said: look how thin you are, you should eat soup. Grandpa said: what if you become autistic? The phone rang twice, Johnny said: we passed bro, we weren't the worst after all. And I couldn't accept that my crappy essay was enough, but I knew I was going to live in a city with broken granite slabs and the wind and the muddy Sava and I was glad and I decided I was never going to give my aunt a call. Mom and Dad were proud.

The fourth time we traveled the 125 kilometers together, and mom and dad cried as they watched me bring Tolstoy and Joyce into the new apartment. Mom said: look how shabby the curtains are. Dad said: you are now an academic citizen, you have to keep your back straight and not slouch like that. Johnny was waiting for me and we went in together. The professors smelled of cigarettes and told us: you did not come here to become writers, although you are elite and you will remain elite because no one but you will read Aeschylus and Brecht in this country and no one but you will know the poetics of structuralism. And in the first class at the new school, I didn't know thirty words and I secretly wrote them down on paper so that the girl next to me wouldn't see, intertextuality, mutatis mutandis, discursive, solipsism, dialectical materialism, postcolonial, topos, pirandello (which I later changed to Pirandello). I was both glad and sad because I left all those places behind, Jovanovac, Korman, Botunje, Žirovnica, Batočina, Lapovo, Markovac, Staro Selo, Velika Plana, Krnjevo, Mihajlovac, Vrbovac, Malo Orašje, Umčare and Mali Požarevac and I decided to learn all those words quickly.

And then I traveled the 250 kilometers 103 more times because the years passed.

First I learned what hypertext and somnabulism and commedia dell arte are. I went up to high galleries in beautiful halls and went down to dark cellars where beer cost 400 dinars, but I didn't care because it was life and I was counting how much I had left for bagel and instant soup. It was more and more difficult to count fences and haystacks, billboards and toll booths, and I was reading books on the bus, and it wasn't easy because the floating letters made me sick. Grandpa used to say: My aunt Leposava lived 105 years and she didn’t know how to sign her name, she used her index finger instead. Grandma said: One of my cousins ​​studied the Serbian Language and now works in a boutique. Mom sent jam, bought quilts on installments and criticized me when I wore black. And dad didn't stop being proud, but just in case he asked: did you pay the utilities?

Later I learned what dichotomy is and the difference between the transcendent and the transcendental, and Mom would say: you are slouching again. Dad didn't speak very much because the work was going badly and Sister said: I can't stay here. Grandma asked: can you get a job with the government? Grandpa said: at the age of 15, your father knew how to take out the whole engine, take it apart and put it back together again. I was silent because I couldn't speak in complicated words, and I felt guilty that I wasn't enjoying being back. Johnny understood because he too loved Bakhtin and hated the bus.

Before I came back for the 74th time, I walked around the city, and my big city with wide streets seemed small and my grandma had seen me on television. Grandpa said: In Tito's time, they were not even allowed to even think of that. Grandma said: I just hope Koviljka wont see it. Dad said: We technically support them. Mom got angry and then she didn't want to talk to me for almost three weeks. After that, we never brought up that topic again.

What did I talk about when I was back? Again and again I would talk about exams (always technical details), about assistant professors and fees. I would talk about the state of the city, the decline of the city (which Dad always enjoyed), and then Grandpa would add his impressions about the good management of the city, Dad would shout that Grandpa was a loser and that he should be banned from voting, after which he would go around the house slamming doors and cursing the nineties, and Grandma would say: Grandpa always had a Party membership card, I celebrated our Patron Saint even when it was forbidden and he was hiding, the coward. And Grandpa would demonstratively put on his hat and go to drink beer in front of the store. I tried to talk with Mom about things in general, although not always successfully, partly because of my excesses, partly because of the fact that she didn't like how I dressed (not feminine enough), how I spoke (speak normally!) and what I ate (eat some real food for a change). In addition to this, she constantly liked to believe that I might be in a relationship with Johnny and chose what I should wear when I went out. The dynamics of the conversation with my mother always followed the same series of steps: 1) an argument 2) intense smoking of cigarettes at the window (her) 3) hyperventilating in the upstairs room and breathing into a bag (me). Although she sent me jars every month with the same persistence.

When I returned to the starting point for the 90th time, and told everyone that I was not done with school and the professors who smell of cigarettes, Grandma said: it is a sin to make a spinster of yourself. Grandpa showed me the wedding ring in which he and Grandma had engraved the wedding date, and then he added that he got married at the age of 32, which he regrets now and thinks was selfish because he had children late. Mom sighed and said: whatever. And Dad said: son, your life is your business.

That year I learned the meaning of performativity and angel in the home. Before the end of the school year, the women stood among the tall pillars and mustachioed statues and politely taught us how important a girl's own room is. What do they teach in that school, Grandpa said to Grandma next time he showed me the wedding ring, and I said that I didn't believe in marriage. Grandma patiently tried to explain to me how nice it is to have a man and then added: if you don't want a man, at least give birth to a child, like Aunt Zaga. Mom added: or give birth to a retard at forty, and went to the terrace, and Dad did not comment.

Before I come home for the 100th time, I sat with Johnny and he said: write to me and send photos. Our hands didn't shake anymore, but we were still sweating under our armpits because we were afraid, but secretly. And later I announced that from now on I will fly when I return and everyone was worried, except Sister who was happy and said that she would collect money for the ticket. Everyone came to wave to me before I sat for the first hour and fifty minutes and look at the sky through a small window. I thought it was better for a fly to get stuck in the sheet metal of a bus, because if it gets stuck in Drača it has a chance to free itself before Grošnica, though it might tear off one of its wings and stay like that forever, and if it gets stuck in the sheet metal of an airplane, it will surely die. How many flies died while I traveled the 25,750 kilometers in the Kragujekspres bus with greasy windows, while fences and gas stations idly stood by? Grandma made me some cheese pie, then she blew her nose and said she was only sorry that the house was falling apart and she wished me luck, Grandpa told me that he had also flown once, to Poland and back, and Dad and Mom hugged me and cried and they said: call me when you land, and I told Sister: collect the money quickly. When I landed in a city that was divided and then put together, I felt a little better because I was also divided, and being divided is hard, like when you fly with one wing and you always just pretend to have put yourself together, and I lifted the phone to give them a call.

One day I was sitting at my laptop, getting bored at home and looking randomly at Google Maps, when something interesting caught my eye: I noticed a giant circle in the Sahara, in the middle of nowhere. It looked like a mine, but the size didn't fit: it was obviously huge, much larger than anything I'd ever seen or heard of. When I zoomed in on the map, I found out it was something called the Eye of the Sahara, or the Richat Structure.

The Eye of the Sahara on Google Maps – it really looks like an eye!

A glance at Wikipedia told me it was huge indeed: the diameter of the outermost ring is 40 km (25 mi) in diameter. Also, it is not a hole, as I first thought: it could best be described as a series of concentric rings, each one forming an almost perfect circle. It is an "eroded dome" – not a meteor impact crater, and definitely not a mine.

** We recently published our first English book: Bantustan, Atlas of an African Journey. It is an illustrated travelogue with a collection of hand-drawn maps, available on Amazon. Find out more at www.bantustanbook.com **

The Eye of the Sahara was first described in the 1930s and 1940s and was considered to be a meteor impact site, but that theory was refuted in the early 2000s. It was created by erosion.

It is the closest one can get to walking on Mars without really being on Mars.

From the moment I saw the giant circle on Google Map, I got very excited. I started wondering if it would be possible to go there. Not just to stare at it on the map, but to really, physically go there and step into the center of the circle. I invited two friends – Inesa Adamonyte and Uros Krcadinac – with whom I had traveled to crazy places before, and who I thought might be willing to go on such an adventure. First they tried to convince me it was suicidal, but finally I managed to talk them into it. That same year, 2013, we decided to go for it.

We met in southern Spain and crossed by ferry to Morocco. Then we went down through Morocco, Western Sahara and finally Mauritania, where the Eye of the Sahara is located. From Nouadhibou we took the desert train used for transporting iron ore and after that a series of "desert buses", Toyota Land Cruisers that take people between small villages in the Sahara. For the final leg of the trip, we hired a jeep with a Tuareg driver, to take us to the circle.

The daytime temperatures were above 50 degrees C (122 degrees F). After a while, our cameras and phones got overheated and stopped working. Uros and I suffered a mild heatstroke, while Inesa suffered a more severe one, and ended up in the hospital in the Mauritanian capital Nouakchott, where we arrived after a long, arduous trip. After she recovered, we continued on to Senegal, from where we flew back to Spain. The whole trip lasted three weeks.

During the trip, it came in handy that Uros spoke  some French, and I could speak Spanish and some Arabic. French and Spanish were spoken in the cities, but when we got deeper into the Sahara we had to rely on my broken Arabic to find out where to go and how to get there.

We were planning to shoot a documentary about the trip, so we did a lot of filming along the way (until our equipment died from the heat), but sadly we never got round to editing it; it turned out that hours upon hours of desert footage don't make for a watchable story. The adventure was definitely the most challenging trip of my life (so far), and probably the most dangerous one as well.

However, I'd say it was worth it. There's no place on Earth that could be even remotely compared to the Eye of the Sahara. It is the closest one can get to walking on Mars without really being on Mars.

And there's no feeling – at least not one that I'm familiar with – that comes close to standing in the very center of the innermost ring of a 40-km wide crater, in the middle of the Sahara, knowing that it all started with an evening of sitting at home, getting bored and randomly looking through Google Maps.

Would I do it again? Absolutely. I'd do it tomorrow.

––
Photos by Inesa Adamonyte and Lazar Pascanovic.

A mustached border officer in a leather jacket gently drinks his morning coffee under a huge picture of Bashar Al Assad, at the Lebanon-Syrian crossing of Masnaa. A bit suspicious, I hand over my passport and a crumpled piece of paper representing a Syrian visa. I received it via whatsapp just the evening before departure, from Sawsan, who is allegedly working as a local guide, and whose contact I received from another traveler. They point me to another counter to pay the entry fee, and that's it. Three months of visa negotiations and just twenty minutes at the border. I am in a group of 5 other Europeans I have just met, and it seems we are the only foreigners going to Damascus, an hour’s drive from the border. At Crystal Palace Hotel, I am greeted by Sawsan, who will be my guide in the coming days. Recently a German traveler named Felix was arrested for going into the restricted area, so the Syrian Ministry of Tourism decided that all foreigners must be accompanied during their stay in Syria. Accustomed to solo travel, I find it difficult to not be able to move around freely. However, it turned out that the term "guide" was very flexible, and that most of my time there I could spend alone or with the locals.

A boy in Damascus, Syria

Armed only with a smile

The first walk in Damascus took me to the heart of the city, the bazaar Souq Al Hamidiyah. Although my camera has already been triple-checked by the army, which is properly deployed at checkpoints every couple of hundred meters, I did not feel a tinge of tension. The soldiers are armed to the teeth and it is forbidden to photograph them. Although it sounds paradoxical, in reality everything seems casual. The controls are performed at the entrances to parks, shops and major traffic junctions, under the patronage of Bashar Al Assad, whose paintings adorn the facades of all important buildings. Thousands of shops and huge crowds are the everyday life of the largest bazaar in Syria.

Al-Hamidiayah Souq, Damascus, Syria

In just a few minutes the militant streets were replaced by the scent of hookah, jasmine and a variety of spices sold by rather unobtrusive merchants. At the very end of the souq is the exit to the imposing Umayyad Mosque, in front of which proudly stand the remains of the Jupiter Temple, built by the Romans 2,000 years ago.

Temple of Jupiter, Damascus, Syria

In the middle of the mosque is a miracle - the shrine of St. John the Baptist (Yahya) whom Muslims worship as their prophet. Just a few hours walk through the city is enough to experience the cosmopolitan megamix of civilizations whose legacies still remain today. Damascus, after Byblos, is the oldest continuously populated city in the world. As far back as 3,000 BC it was the intersection of the first civilizations, the remains of which I was able to see in the recently opened National History Museum in Damascus. From Mesopotamia and the Assyrians, through the great Babylon to the Greco-Roman period, everyone recognized the strategically important and fertile area of ​​southwestern Syria. The Islamic period and the aftermath of the Ottomans made the majority population today Muslim, with nearly 3 million inhabitants in the greater Damascus region. A few miles south, I reach the Sayyidah Zaynab Mosque. The unbelievably beautiful Persian architecture stands out from the shabby surrounding buildings, and although it has been attacked several times by car bombs, it remains a lure for hordes of local and foreign pilgrims alike.

Sayyidah Zaynab Shiite Mosque, Damascus, Syria

There is no war in Syria

The first thing I learned is that Syrians do not like the word war. The state that the country has been in for the past six years is called crisis, unrest or insurrection, but they do not recognize the state of war. The safe part of Syria is controlled by the army of president Bashar Al Assad, which is under the protection of Russia, Hezbollah and Shiites from Iraq, Iran and Lebanon. The complex military-political situation and the vast amount of information did not give me even a second's respite, as everyone here seems to have their own version of the truth, justice or correlations. In one, though, everyone agrees - ISIS is evil. My plan is to go immediately to Aleppo, the heart of the turmoil and destruction, and leave Damascus for the end.

School children on a field trip in Aleppo, Syria

Although western Aleppo is still under siege by the rebels of the Free Syrian Army (FSA) and Ahrar Al Sham on the one hand and the Kurds on the other, the city is, at least they say so, safe. I took a night bus from Damascus to arrive in the morning, with the ruins of Aleppo looming on the horizon. Dozens of military checkpoints and handing over my passport to strangers were slowly becoming a normal occurrence. At the time of writing, I am still struggling with information such as - where are the Kurds in the Northeast, and how much of the country do they really control? Why do Americans have a Republican army under Trump's leadership, with some of them clinging to Israel and NATO? Who are the rebels of the Islamic State, what do al Qaeda and Al Nusra want? Why are relations with Israel poor, and what is the current state of affairs in the Golan Heights? All these questions would require in-depth analysis and a text twice as long as this, and I'm definitely not a historian or military analyst. The situation is changing day by day, so I prefer to focus on a lot of positive information that we are being denied by today's media.

The rainy weather did not prevent me from going to the Aleppo Citadel, an imposing castle, one of the oldest in the world. Built of limestone in ancient times, it served as a fortress for Romans, Byzantines and Crusaders, until it eventually became part of a UNESCO-protected World Heritage Site.

People dancing in a square in Aleppo, Syria

During the attacks on the city, much of the surrounding area was destroyed and set on fire, however the citadel itself remained incredibly well-preserved and has since been partially reconstructed. Hundreds of children came on a field trip that day, and it was impossible to avoid a million questions and photos. I was a captive audience for the locals, who showed their hospitality in various ways. From interesting questions to song and dance, and even invites to lunch.

Aleppo is still full of life

While touring the Maronite Catholic Church, I meet Mohamad, who is just working on the reconstruction of the collapsed roof and dome. It sounds incredible, but at the same time he is working on the reparation of four churches and two mosques, with his assistant Nour, a young undergraduate in civil engineering. He showed me all the projects he was working on and insisted on taking me to construction sites, which I couldn't refuse. It is amazing that at this point in Aleppo there is more work being done on the reconstruction of Christian buildings than on mosques, and both sides have been severely damaged. Religious divisions do not seem to exist in Aleppo, but Mohamad himself says that at present, reconstruction grants and donations coming from the Christians are more generous.

A street in Aleppo, Syria

Aleppo was a cosmopolitan city, as evidenced by the Hotel Baron, where in room 203 Agatha Christie wrote "Murder in the Orient Express." Its owner Mazloumian took over the hotel after the death of her husband. Now it has been without guests for several years, but people continue to visit for sight-seeing. She gladly welcomed me and with a glass, as she says, of not so good Syrian wine, showed the once famouse hotel that housed Lawrence of Arabia, Charles De Gaulle, Yuri Gagarin, Kemal Ataturk and many others who made this place well-known, until the onset of the conflict and the collapse of tourism. That evening I ended up at Crazy Horse, a club that literally had no patrons except for the owners and a couple of locals. "This was once a lively street. Women walked in short dresses and were full of gold. No one was allowed to touch them – that’s how safe Aleppo was," the owner told me. Today everything closes at dusk, because those who remained in the city aren’t exactly in the mood for night life.

After two days in Aleppo, I realize that our concepts of good and evil are shaped by the media, which are biased and controlled. How many times have you heard that migrants are in fact terrorist units? That Aleppo was flattened, when they broadcast footage of ISIL and al Qaeda triumphantly circling the city's ruins? However, it is true that Aleppo never fell, and that the so-called Islamic State is almost dead. There are only small fragments of it left, mostly around Idlib.

Children practicing karate at Aleppo Citadel, Aleppo, Syria

Watching kids practice karate at the Aleppo Citadel, knowing that their family members had been killed in the last couple of years, at the same time felt euphoric, emotional and devastating, leading me to the brink of a breakdown. It was time to move towards Homs.

Aleppo, Syria

Waiting for the bus on a rainy day, we joked about the thunder because we could hear detonations from the west, but there was no panic. We had to make a detour, given that nearby Idlib is one of the few places still occupied by ISIL, and there is still the possibility of attacks across the surrounding villages.

The temptations at Homs

The red poppy fields stretching from Aleppo to Homs showed me that Dante was right in saying, "The most beautiful flowers are the ones that sprouted from the soil of pain." Over and over again, it seemed to me, from greater suffering and destruction, that an even bigger smile emerged on the faces of children playing hide-and-seek in the citadel or carelessly riding a bicycle around the ruins of a former school. Aleppo definitely shook me, but then what to say about Homs, which hit me straight in the guts? Kilometers of destroyed and burning buildings at the northern entrance to the city quickly shattered my plan to maintain a shield of objective indifference.

Garlic vendors in Homs, Syria

A night stroll on Delicatessen Street meant only one thing: try everything, but you can't pay for anything. Happy to see foreigners in the city, wide-spread hands showered me with a variety of local delicacies, most notably baklava and kadifa. A children's amusement park is open. The contrast between destruction and new life is perfectly evident from the top of the merry-go-round. Something I honestly didn't expect was the crowd of kids on the streets and the variety of fun created seemingly out of nothing. Improvised foosball tables and a game of marbles on the road plowed with craters. Every other boy is Ronaldo or Messi, football is played in the dusty ghetto and those who do not play sell fruit and vegetables. I met a boy who sells only garlic leaning on an old motorcycle. I realized that for me Homs is like an onion, something you slice and chop in tears. However, when you finally taste it, you can't stop, because it acts as a powerful antibiotic for all your "problems". In fact, the worse the area, the kindness and generosity of the locals was more pronounced.

Boys in Homs, Syria

The Kingdom of Heaven is around the corner...

The next leg of my journey takes me to a mountainous area north of Damascus, to the largest Christian shrine in Syria – Maaloula. The monastery is partly carved into the rock in a hilly area 60 km north of Damascus, at an altitude of over 1,500 m. Maaloula is known as one of the last three villages in the world where Aramaic, the language of Jesus Christ, is still spoken. There are also two ancient monasteries in the city: the Catholic Monastery of St. Sarkis and the Greek Orthodox Monastery of Saint Takla. A place of pronounced spiritual energy, but also a war strategic position for many.

A Christian monastery in Maaloula, Syria

A group of 16 nuns at Mar Takla Monastery in Maaloula was taken hostage by terrorists from the Jabhat Al-Nusra (Al Qaeda branch) group in December 2013. They spent three months in captivity and were released in an exchange of prisoners. They don’t want to talk about the turbulent times. The icons still show damaged heads or destroyed mosaics of sacred images. I got their blessing to continue on the road to Damascus, and they wished me a happy Easter, which was the next day.

Easter Day celebration in Damascus, Syria

The all-day Easter program starts from Bab Tuma, a Christian part of Damascus, to cover the entire city with processions and song. The children in angelic uniforms and the orchestra breathed in the true celebratory atmosphere of the largest Christian holiday in the majority Muslim city. Not only was there no tension, but many non-Christians also joined the procession and celebration; a coexistence we do not see in Western capitals boasting with their tolerance and democracy.

Easter Day celebration in Damascus, Syria

I used to go back to the Al Hamidiyah Bazaar every day for three things: first booza, Arabic pistachio ice cream and definitely the best dessert I’ve ever tasted, secondly because of the variety of spices and scents, because you can't leve without buying some jasmine that Damascus is known for, and third , most importantly - because of people. You will hear aboout movie-like destinies at every step of the way, in every conversation longer than five minutes.

Bread vendor in Bab Tuma, Damascus, Syria

I met Peter who was wearing Croatian Defence Council insignia at his shop near the Umayyad Mosque, a taxi driver who worked in Palmyra's oil fields, a Chinese speaking excellent Serbo-Croatian, a Syrian woman whose one daughter is Muslim and the other one Christian, children who don't beg money but just want a moment of attention from a stranger with a camera. When you walk twenty miles through Damascus every day, you can tell that you just barely felt the pulse of the city. The calmness with which taxi drivers wait in huge lines for fuel is fascinating. The country has rich oil reserves, but on the eastern front Americans hold strategic wells and release only as much as they think is sufficient. Waiting can be extended by ten hours, and again, for a dollar or two, you are easily transferred from one part of the city to another.

Damascus, Syria

The sound of generators on the one hand, and the view of solar panels that produce electricity on the other, are constantly forcing you to reconsider your concepts, because contrasts are around every corner. I expected the kids to tug at my sleeve when they saw a stranger with a camera walking around town. I was wrong. Nobody begs, children make a decent living by selling on the street, and always gratefully appreciate your attention no matter whether you buy something or not. Nightlife comes down to going out to local hookah bars in the Bab Tuma area, where with local music or dervish dancing, a relaxing night out sometimes turns into heavy drinking. Young couples walk around hugging or sitting in parks with beer and guitars. The city definitely lives on as if nothing bad is happening, while long guns at every corner warn us that we are in Syria.

A couple next to Umayyad Mosque, Damascus, Syria

On the last day, I was able to go to a football derby game and get a VIP seat in front of a crowded stadium with a fake PRESS ID card that I carry with me on all trips. The Al Jaish football club under the patronage of Bashar Al Assad were able to defeat the visiting Tishreen in an intense game. The guests came with 10,000 fans and left crying because of the defeat, but also because of the tear gas due to the unrests after the game. Still, I didn't feel insecure there either, not even for a second.

Al Jaish vs. Tishreen football game, Damascus, Syria

The final victory of hope

Syria is a beauty within which the beast of conflict and destruction still resides, but that beast has been severly wounded and is now in its death throes. The media continues to broadcast perverted images out into the world, perhaps unwittingly, pushing that same beauty into the abyss, forgetting that Syria is at the same time a warior. And this is not a mere cliché. Syria is a warrior who proudly wears her scars. Syria is the mother of an unbreakable spirit, merciless to those who seek war, open-hearted to those who come in peace.

A girl and a Syrian flag, Damascus, Syria

Syrian hospitality is a rare phenomenon we have a lot to learn from. The apocalyptic scenes disappear in the moment of a child's smile, and death and suffering create a new spiritual dimension of awe I felt for the Syrian people, and gratitude for all the daily blessings I encountered. When the destruction will cease and Syria shine again, even the biggest analysts are unable to answer. Yet, through the lense of ordinary people, you can experience the ring of compassion and euphoria made up of stories full of suffering, struggle, hope and the incredible optimism with which they radiate. To come to Syria with an open heart means to receive a lot more than you can give. Those who dare to go there will realize how poisoned we are by the Western news, and that, in the end, life always wins.

Through the frosty plane windows, the scenes that I had cultivated intensely in my mind in the previous months began to materialize: the largest glacier in Europe, from which hundreds of rivers flow into the sea along the rim of the black sandy desert, lava fields, rocky fjords and winding roads... When we left the airport building in Keflavik, the absolute euphoria subsided a little, because at the moment we were hit by the kind of wind that can be felt in our regions only when climbing one of the mountain peaks before dawn. This wind is a common occurrence here, and since it is not visible in the pictures, it can surprise an enthusiastic and excited traveler who plans to pitch his humble tent - which would soon fly away despite a beautiful sunny day (which lasts 23 hours) in the direction of the land of Oz. Fortunately, after thinking it through, we did not bring the tent. Once again, our Lonely Planet guidebook was right. It said: "Are you sure your tent can withstand Icelandic weather?" So we decided on hostels and other solid-type accommodation. The temperature of ten degrees C and the angry northern winds had us dressed in winter jackets and hats in no time, which we didn't take off in the next ten days.

Nowhere in the world are the four elements more apparent than in Iceland. Bare earth, black deserts and green hills riddled with watersheds, with water in all three basic states wherever you turn: sea, rivers, hot springs, glaciers. There are volcanoes and lava at every corner, everything is fuming, while the wind blows clean and fresh air all over the island.

Reykjavik, in fact the only real city in Iceland and the northernmost capital in the world, was the start and end point of a well-designed route that is pretty intuitive if you take a look at the map: a circular (and actually the only) route that tours the whole of Iceland and passes in the vicinity of various wonders of nature. The landscapes seen through the window along the road aptly named "1" are truly unique: either indescribably colorful, or frighteningly wild and unusual. We made a stop every 10 minutes to see a glacier from a new angle, to offer a handful of fresh grass to a horse with a chic hairstyle or to the glittering white puffy sheep, to walk through the soft mossy meadow to a nearby waterfall, or to simply take a little nap below the volcano. And just when you think there couldn't possibly exist a nicer shot on this planet of ours (which of course made you stand in the middle of the road and take photos at least a dozen times, with various settings, just in case), a new, even nicer one will light up around a bend, also absolutely essential to photograph. All your usual plans and calculations quckly go down the drain, as everything here is extreme: 100 kilometers in Iceland is like 300 km somewhere else, day and night last for a couple of months, the air is the cleanest, the wind is the strongest, the sky is the bluest, the fog is the thickest, the sea is the richest in fish, the springs the hottest, the people the fairest, the night life the craziest, the cities the smallest ...

Foggy bay

Reykjavik is a place with a special vibe, a capital completely unique and atypical. On one side there are colorful houses, picturesque streets, an odd concrete church that looks like a rocket and a bunch of shops with various works of art... While on the other there are boulevards by the sea, unusual skyscrapers and the most modern concert and congress hall in the world, overlooking the lonely farms on the the slopes of the vast, dark-green Mount Esje. A city with a thousand faces and with only 200,000 inhabitants. There is a very limited number of factories and industries, as well as crowds, boring billboards and advertisements; instead of it you get a combination of nature, high technology and standard of living, with an abundance of hot water and clean air. Perfect!

The city is full of quirky corners, all teeming with creative moments, as Reykjavicans seem to love the arts - from music bands, to painting, to poetry and prose, to crazy architectural endeavors and pieces of applied art that can be seen in galleries with unusual trinkets, as well as on the walls of houses or in yards.

And when Friday roles in, the idyllic Reykjavik turns into a crazy place for night life. The best description was given by a journalist from Reykjavik Grapevine magazine: “I was scared. The first people to buy me a drink in Reykjavik took me out from 11pm until 11am. In those 12 hours, I entered five bars, consumed roughly $ 100 worth of alcohol (mind you, that is only seven beers), witnessed two separate fights, three people pass out onto their faces, two dozen or more people urinating in the most public areas imaginable, and even ten couples find love after less than five minutes of conversation each. "

After 2 days of wandering around the streets and suburbs of Reykjavik, we went to pick up the car that was our most frugal means of traveling around Iceland. At the outset, the friendly people from the car rental company told us that the cars were not insured in the southern part, where the far-famed and notorious volcanic dust winds up, which, given the wind intensity in those areas, can "sand" the car, and even the engine . Only the rain can completely neutralize this effect, so to our joke: “We will pray for the rain,” the man replied with a serious: “Pray hard!” However, we were not in the mood for the expensive extra insurance, so we sucked it up and took the responsibility, because after all, it is just dust. Fortunately, the friendly man in the car rental agency, seeing that we would not buy insurance for the whole Island, even though we are obviously intent on dragging ourselves through various wastelands, decided to give us a "free upgrade" - in fact, a small jeep at the cost of an ordinary small town car. It wasn't until we met the wild Icelandic roads that we realized how much the man had done for us!

Day One

For the introduction and to warm up the engine we decided to make a small circle, some four hundred kilometers around Reykjavik and three great Icelandic landmarks, known by the slightly clichéd name "The Golden Ring". First, we headed to the large Tingvelir National Park, located right at the intersection of European and American tectonic plates. Due to the constant shear of the soil, unusual gorges have emerged here, which are more like canyons, except that the river does not flow at the bottom, and they are widened by a few millimeters a year.

After an hour or so of driving through glorious landscapes, we find ourselves in a beautiful meadow criss-crossed by paths, with clouds of sulfuric vapor. This plateau is home to unusual boiling watercourses, the most famous of which is The Great Geysir, actually the originator of their entire species. They are actually ponds of fantastic colors, boiling, bubbling and smelling of sulfur. However, when their water, which slowly sinks through the cracks back into the soil, reaches the lava reservoir, it immediately turns into steam, which, due to high pressure, expels the water upwards. The most active and accurate geyser is Strokur, which erupts every 6 to 10 minutes, and is up to 80 m high.

His Majesty The Great Geysir now looks more like a lake. It used to be the largest and most accurate of all, but tourists, eager to force it to erupt as soon as possible, threw stones and coins at it, so it was partially congested and disrupted its timing. The Geysir Geysir is still active, but completely unpredictable. Sometimes it does not go off all day, which is why all eyes are on Strokur. Until it suffocates too.

The more we go inland, the more we see white glaciers in the distance. In the middle of nowhere, with ample parking space, there is a tavern serving fine lamb stew. The trail behind takes us to Gullfoss, the largest waterfall in these parts! The water splashes all over, the rainbows shimmer and dance, and I am constantly wiping the lens of my camera, trying to take pictures of it all...

Beyond Gullfoss, the route leads north to completely uninhabited regions of the mountainous interior. The tarmac soon turns into a dusty dirt road, the beginning of the Kyolur route. Such wild, mountainous roads are marked “F”; they are passable only in summer, and even then it is impossible to drive there without well-equipped jeeps or special buses, especially since the creeks, which are found here at every turn, are often without any bridges. Landscapes looks like something from another planet, but we decide to return to the paved road that leads us back to Reykjavik. We hope to return to "F" roads one day, after we buy our own Lada Niva!

Day two

The next morning we left Reykjavik in clockwise direction, with the intention of returning to it from the other side, in exactly seven days. With views of the Snaefelsjokul, the volcano that Jules Verne's heroes Professor Lidenbrock and his sister Axel used as the entrance to the center of the Earth (the exit was the Stromboli volcano in Italy). 

... and a little nap under some unknown volcano...

... we found ourselves in fantastic swampy meadows, where we wandered for hours looking for a waterfall...

... to finally get to Akureyri, the second largest Icelandic city, where after a snack and a walk around the center, we continued our journey across the fantastic mountains ...

... right to the Berg farm, actually the hostel, the best one we've ever been to.

The stay at this hostel was a true Icelandic experience: the farm is about 10 km from the road, located in a field of petrified lava, next to a large lake, a few kilometers from the sea. There is no populated area within 20 km; only sheep, horses and all kinds of birds. And at the same time, you have ultimate comfort! At one o'clock in the morning, before the sun was up, we hurried to see some strange birds. And then we realized that the sun here in the north does not really set at all, instead gliding slightly above the horizon ...

Day Three

Immediately in the morning, we hiked to nearby Husavik, a picturesque fishing town known for whaling in the sea around it. We sat on a boat, a former whaling vessel, now a whale-watcher, and after an hour of sailing around the bay and floating on the waves, we came across no less than a blue whale, the largest species in the world. It is an amazing feeling to hear this huge creature, whose heart is the size of a small car, swimming ten meters from the boat!

On a slightly worse road, we reach Mordor. I mean, Myvatn. This time, we find a little more modest but completely authentic accommodation option, in a hut next to the campsite, again on the perimeter of the petrified lava field and Lake Myvatn, which arose thousands of years ago, when a series of lava eruptions blocked the flow of the river. That was when the flies came here, the only insect colony in Iceland (Myvatn: my = fly, vatn = lake), and then the birds came to eat those flies, so Myvatn eventually became one of the largest bird sanctuaries in Europe.

And again we go for an evening stroll, or more precisely a white-night stroll, with a climb on the nearby tephra (sand crater). Real Moon-like landscapes, fantastic atmosphere, with plenty of unusual colors and wind that almost blew us away.

Day Four

The fourth day began with a bath. The temperature of the sapphire-blue water was almost 40 degrees centigrade, while outside it was barely ten. We are in the middle of black deserts. A fantastic experience, but you can't stand it for very long, as the water is too hot, and it's not comfortable sitting outside of it. After the hot water we headed straight to the Krafla power plant, where live lava and water can be seen creating electricity, with just 17 employees. Here, in the vicinity of Krafla volcano, lava reservoirs are quite close to the surface, so everything is warm, even mud. That's why there is Hverir, a whole field of small mud volcanoes, amazing colors and shapes, but also scents...

We continued our journey across the black-sand deserts. When we saw the quality of the road leading to Dettifoss Waterfall, we were absolutely delighted to have rented a jeep. And when we arrived, we were even more elated! Black canyon along which there are three waterfalls, the largest of which is Dettifoss. And again the colors, the water, the wild ... In this beauty and eternal day, man really loses his idea of time: it was only at midnight that we finally headed to the hostel in the eastern fjords, over 200 km away! The stretch of road we took is considered to be the most remote in Iceland - for the entire 50 km we did not see a single trace of life, nor encountered any cars.

 
Day Five

We arrived in Seyðisfjörður in the dead of the (white) night, across the incredible snowy mountains, in the rain. Fortunately, the owners of the hostel had just returned from the night out, slightly drunk, so they let us into our room. The small town is fantastic, nestled between the mountains and the sea, with a large port to which all ships from Europe arrive. We continued our journey through fog and rain, along the east coast... The end of a paved road in Iceland does not mean a decrease in speed at all, so on these roads one feels just wonderful when overtaken by a truck raining pebbles...

We spent the evening at another farm-hostel at the foot of Europe's largest glacier, Vatnajökull, hoping to see its white peaks in the morning instead of gray clouds. But the hostel owner did not share our meteorological taste. She was delighted with the rain because the grass would be greener and her sheep would not return home from grazing on a handful of hay. (Otherwise, sheep graze here all summer long on huge farms that run for miles around the farm, and return home only when the fresh grass runs out).

Day six

Morning was no better than the evening, so we stopped by the glacier lake Jokulsarlon (Jökulsárlón), where blue icebergs float around; during the shooting of James Bond Die Another Day two Aston Martins float there as well. How nice it would be if this damn rain finally stopped! And really, just around the corner, on the other side of the mountain, completely out of the blue - in true Icelandic fashion, the sun came out, improving our stay at Skaftafell National Park, where we went looking for a dirty glacier. In fact, we thought it was a hill, and it wasn't until we got closer that we realized it was ice, covered in thick black dust. Unexpectetly, glaciers turn out to be very lively places: everything is cracking, crunching, melting, liquid mud puddles appear - all in all, a longer hike without the right gear is practically impossible.

After that we headed in the other direction, towards the spectacular Svaritfoss waterfall, surrounded by basalt columns. And then, through the green hills, we could see why this southern part of Iceland was notorious for driving: between the mountains and the sea stretched a real desert of black sand and tiny volcanic dust, criss-crossed by hundreds of streams that flow into the sea. Nevertheless, when we got in the car and started driving down that road, we didn't care. The scenery was fantastic, but the road occasionally disappeared under the gusts of wind, reappearing under the veils of dust, which threatened to enter all pores of our uninsured engine, windows, bodywork... But luckily, it didn't! They say that sandstorms sometimes rise along this road such that visibility is basically zero. After this, we have started loving rain almost like that sheep-herding hostel owner!

Tens of kilometers after the desert - rainforest! Suddenly, the landscapes are incredibly green, there are waterfalls, pastures - real elves' land! No need to mention the waterfalls, as we have seen so many of them already. It seems that for every household in Iceland there is at least one waterfall, a few dozen meters high! Out in the distance we can make out the high glaciers, beneath which the most active volcanoes in the world ominously are squatting... Somewhere behind these hills, some three hundred years ago, 130 new craters and crevices opened, spouting lava, dust and toxic gases for eight months. Poisonous clouds, rains, long years without sun, and therefore without crops, killed almost 25% of the population, 80% of the sheep and 50% of the horses. This dust cloud also swept over Europe, in the period known as the Famine Years, believed to be one of the triggers for the French Revolution of 1789. Airline companies should be happy that in recent years, instead of the eerie Craters of Laki, only their benign neighbors, Eyjafjallajökull and Grimsvotn, erupted.

Since we got carried away as usual, taking pictures of new waterfalls and glaciers that surfaced along the way, we rushed ashore where the last ship to the Vestmannaeyjar, the last leg of our Icelandic journey, was already waiting.

We were greeted by fascinating rocks, a true northern harbor and the smell of fish - here the mackerel bite like crazy, best anywhere in the North Atlantic! That is why here, on the island of Heimaey, the largest and only inhabited area of ​​the whole archipelago, there used to be a great town. And all that went nicely, until in the 1970s it occurred to the volcano to play the evil contractor and upgrade the island. One night in 1973, a new crater was opened near the town, which erupted continuously for 2 months and during that time enlarged the island by as much as 20%! Everyone was evacuated, the houses were covered with ash, and one would think that no one would ever come back here. But the faithful islanders returned as soon as the eruption ended, did a great deal of construction, and made their island even more beautiful (while the volcano made it bigger). The houses that were left in the rubble, buried under tons of ash, had not fallen into oblivion, because the villagers had erected the tombstones for them. Even archaeological excavations, known as the Pompeii of the North, have been launched, where some parts of the "old" city have been excavated and marked.

Day seven

It was in this particular cemetery, the next morning, that we began our stroll around the beautiful island, in search of an unusual bird that lives on huge rocky cliffs on the Atlantic coast. These birds are called Atlantic puffins, and this island is actually their summer resort, because only in July and August they come here to mate, after which they spend the winter in the open sea, who knows where. However, we traveled length and breadth of the island, saw fantastic landscapes, wild beaches, steep cliffs, cute sheep, tufted horses, various birds - but there was no sign or voice from the Atlantic puffin. And then we climbed some almost vertical cliffs, using the ropes set up here for similar enthusiasts - and we were rewarded multiple times! In addition to a flock of puffins, we enjoyed the midnight sunset 300 meters above the ocean, while on the other side, above the city and the whole island, a complete rainbow appeared in a reddish haze, in its full glory. If it was a postcard, you would say - kitsch, cliche, fake.

Day eight

In the morning we headed back to the ship, and then back to our little red jeep waiting for us at the dock. Soon the eastern parts of Reykjavik began to loom, and the circle closed. All we have left to do is take a peek at the most famous and blue water in Iceland - the Blue Lagoon.

The lagoon is beautiful indeed, but after all the incredible scenery and wildlife, the place seemed a bit too commercial, with expensive tickets and crowds of American tourists. It was about time for something in Iceland to be overrated! We glanced from the plane down to the south shore, behind which a still unexplored inland loomed. We realized that we had just made one circle, barely touching the perimeter of this icy island! We should come back another time...

Birds barking like dogs, lizards pollinating from flower to flower, herbs that have decided to become huge trees. Learning about the islands as laboratories of Life, one is deceived by the thought of being prepared for all kinds of wonders. And then, we experience those wonders with your own senses.

The story begins a long time ago in the Atlantic Ocean, when the African tectonic plate succumbed to enraged magma, and one by one the extinguished volcanic formations began to emerge from the water. It thundered, snapped and wobbled in the cold waters of the Atlantic for millions of years, until the turmoil calmed down and took on its present appearance, and the archipelago assumed its present form.

Although politically belonging to Europe and located several thousand kilometers from Sagres in Portugal - the closest European continental part, the Madeira Archipelago is nevertheless geographically closer to the west coast of Africa, approximately 600 kilometers away. This island family consists of two larger inhabited islands, namely: the head of the water house - Madeira, its significantly smaller but geologically oldest sidekick - the island of Porto Santo, and the two tiny archipelago sub-families of Desertas and Selvaens, each consisting of three islands. The members of the archipelago are not the same age: Porto Santo was formed about three million years ago, while Madeira itself broke the surface seven million years ago. These timelines may seem long, but from Earth's perspective they are almost a blink, making Madeira a group of young islands.

We are naive in believing that we invented hitchhiking. Plants, animals and the rest of the living world hitch rides on winds, clouds, sea currents, floating trunks, and other objects, including the usual vehicles that we use today, such as ships and cars. This is exactly how life world began to inhabit these newly created patches of land, long before man.

The islands contain small specimens of continental life, which is now in a completely new environment, in this case in the optimal conditions, where it simply ran wild. The temperature on Madeira Island throughout the year ranges from 19 to 25 degrees Celsius, there are practically no predators, nor the cold winters that one way or another force life to slow down. Plus - the area is very small, which makes it especially interesting. Birds no longer need to fly because they do not have to travel great distances for food or to escape, thus saving energy and reducing wings as they eggs lay on the ground. Some herbs from the continent grow into huge trees here, with few pollinators making longer vegetation period more viable.

Particularly important was an encounter with a kind of snail with an identity crisis, that at first glance seems like a slug, responding to irritation by raising its outgrowth flap-like, showing that there is a shell underneath.

One of the unusual occurrences on Madeira Island is that, due to the lack of insects as pollinators, some species of reptiles have found themselves a good place to work and have filled that trophic niche themselves. However, they were not the only ones who have managed to achieve this. Just as a flock of pigeons and sparrows approach you in the park as you share with them your favorite pastries, in some places on this island you can expect that in the same situation, those same lizards will come crawling over your arm, your feet, and even over your head toward your delicious sandwich.

Due to the above specificities and geographical isolation, the island ecosystems are abundant with species that can be found only in this place, known as endemic species. Although the percentage of endemic species here is approximately 19%, which may not be much in comparison with other archipelagos, it is enough to practically step on one wherever you go.

These genetic treasures, which are precious records of the most creative artist proven so far, Mr Evolution, have come under pressure from all sides. And each cause is more or less indirectly related to the action of one species - Homo Sapiens.

The first overseas adventures led to the first interventions in the island's wildlife, when sailors left goats or sheep on the islands (while some savvy and adventurous rats arrived as stowaways) to ensure that a meal would wait when they returned. Now imagine goats arriving to one such place. After rubbing their eyes in disbelief at the abundance stretching before them, the goats started to graze whatever they could, because the plants were completely unprepared for them and had no defense mechanisms. Rats came across a buffet of bird eggs on earth thus destroying endemic vegetation and wildlife.

For human settlement, people find it necessary to demolish the mighty forest that was so uselessly humming, and the first colonists, by systematic burning of the local flora, sent to smoke a large part of the laurel forests that covered Madeira, which gave its name (madeira to Portuguese means wood). The wild was thus converted into pastures, fields or residential areas.

After burning down most of the forests, they realized they still needed them, and began to plant them again. But who will now bother with naturally occurring species and wait for them to reach the biomass profitable for exploitation? Better bring some fast-growing trees, such as, for example, eucalyptus. Planting species that are convenient for economic viability became a common practice, and at first seemed like a good idea. However, time has shown that these trees are known to suppress natural vegetation, which can bring with it a number of fatal consequences for the ecosystem. Starting from the fact that the animals that depend on them cannot use them in the most optimal way, sometimes there are no micro-organisms in the soil that can decompose their leaves and the areas below them become biological deserts, which acidify the soil more than the environment can endure, to the point that a wrongly selected species can cause a higher frequency of fires and soil erosion.

On Madeira Island, one of these species is eucalyptus. Accustomed to harsh conditions in Australia, where it comes from, it is a dangerous competitor for whom even the human brain has failed to find a weak spot. If you cut it, you will only scatter the seeds even more, and a handful of new shoots will emerge from the trunk. Burning does more harm than good because eucalyptus seeds are used to wildfires, so the fire allows them to sprout. Following the inane logic that led to this, perhaps it might be prudent to bring in koalas, to kill the eucaliptus trees. Along with the rest of the island.

"Discovered" some 600 years ago (as if places and people did not exist unless someone drew them on a map), Madeira Island quickly became very densely populated. No wonder - everyone wants to live in paradise. They even transported sand from the continent for the purpose of making artificial beaches (because the local sand was too hard), bringing with them mosquito larvae.

As the whole Madeira Island is in peaks and gorges, it was amazing to see all the inaccessible parts being tamed, the steep slopes of vineyards and some enthusiasts' homes. It's hard to imagine how often guest can visit a person surrounded by a two hundred-meter-deep wooded chasm - which was maybe the purpose of building here in the first place.

Living in paradise has its price, which the islanders had the opportunity to experience in February this year. The storms and enormous floods experienced by the locals were described as "a tsunami that came from heaven". Heavy rains set off down the slopes of the mountain ranges, carrying everything before of them, plunging into inhabited places at the foothills. A large number of houses built by the rivers have been demolished and torn away, and their empty shells can still be seen in some places. More important than bricks and mortar, nearly forty lives were taken by storm. 

Just as the living world of the island nature is a small sample of life from a continent that has been scattered, grown, developed and transformed into a new and specific blend of the old and the exotic, so is the culture of Madeira Island. Inhabited by the Portuguese, with an incredible inclination to put their national flags in places where the concept had not yet been introduced, on Madeira they did not conquer the indiginous culture and turn them into forced volunteers known as slaves because, according to historical data , the island of Madeira was uninhabited.

One of the cultural treasures that flooded the ocean was traditional Portuguese fado music. There are Portuguese fado cafes in Madeira, where you will also find endemic beer, endemic wine, and a real typical endemic drink damn near the drink of the gods - the poncho. Madeiran wine is widely known and could be characterized as an endemic porto - it was brought and grown into something else, specific to this place only, while the poncho is a blend of white rum, honey and lemon with permissible variations, exquisitely combined by vigorous mixing with a special wooden spoon. In fado bars, you can hear the iconic Portuguese guitar used by Carlos Paredes, an instrument with twice as many strings as the standard guitar, still in the race to outsing the turmoil of a living, endless ocean.

While the idea of remote islands brings to mind palm trees, cocktails, beach life and girls in straw skirts, on Madera Island that is not the case. Darwin was only one of many who recognized their importance and who came to his most important knowledge by studying them. The islands teach us how to preserve the little intact nature left over in the continental parts, as nowadays such places have become islands in the anthropogenically altered sea, microcosms with their own rules, evolutionary polygons, biodiversity treasure chests. Being in a place like this and witnessing all its wonders, living in a forest where the nostrils soak up the scent of pristine cleanliness, feeling under the fingertips the furrows on the bark of ancient trees, teaches us that in this world there is enough room for everyone and everything - if we allow it.

On the first of January 2019 I left my steady job in Glasgow and got on a plane.

Three months later It was March 2019. I had no idea where to go or what to do when I received an email from an Italian friend of mine saying: “Why don't you come live with me in Genoa for a while?”

Honestly, apart from the question of work, I couldn't think of any reason not to.

At only 31, I feel as if the world has become a place that I don't recognise, or rather I find myself questioning whether I have ever 'genuinely' perceived it in the first place.

The chaos and venom of public rhetoric in the UK, USA – and essentially everywhere thanks to the internet – has, over the years, worn me down to a state of nausea.

I googled Genoa. I can't say anything in specific screamed “come to Genoa”, and yet there was some sort of gravitational pull toward it. Maybe it was the very lack of promotion that created a sense of pull, as I’m a native 'Scot', the underdog, or less popular has a natural allure.

A few weeks later my friend greeted me at the airport as I rolled my suitcases toward his dishevelled Fiat. I've been here three months now as a Genovese resident, watching a world in overdrive through the lens of my laptop, from the safety of my apartment in Castelletto.

With the world as noisy as it is, I take comfort in my temporary accommodation whose name literally translates as “small castle”. Overlooking the port of Genoa from a great height, surrounded by ancient walls, forts and villas, it is in a sense providing me an antidote to the global noise.

The ancient walls bare no head to the absurd utterances, global ignominy and salience of Trump and Boris Johnson.

Genoa is a place where not all is as it seems. With its infinite layers, it throws you into a sort of Alice in Wonderland style adventure; it's a city that seems as if its original blueprint was M. C. Escher’s famous 1953 lithograph print Relativity, sent back in time.

As the ancient walls and terraces defended the city from attack, they've also defended it against the  homogenisation of the global travel industry which has ridden on the shoulders of a homologized global commercial ecosystem, from which Venice – the once great antagonist of Genoa – has not been spared.

The city evolved into the very antithesis of tourist destination. Something which echoes from the architectural infrastructure resonating through the personalities of roughly half a million populace. Genoa is not a gimmick in the global theme park, which one idly observes for a couple of days or a week, then leaves without having ever contributed anything other than a bit of their hard earned pocket money to the tourism trade.

Those who indulge in that behaviour are kept within the perceivable confines, with the heart and essence of the city remaining off limits, left open only to those who truly invest their time. When and if you are able to truly invest your time a perception begins to emerge, conceived and born through your relationship with the city, which by necessity only appears after an extended period.

The perception is serendipitous with the legend that the city was named, or founded on; the Roman primordial deity Janus, the two faced God who could see into the future and the past.

Sandwiched between great hills and the sea, not only is one living tightly between great heights and the horizon, but the city itself is so old that it makes you feel as if you are living with one foot in the past, reminding you of what it actually is to 'live'.

It's a detox to the contagion of post-modernity, or as Roy Ascott once described the tech oriented age: the telematic embrace, which today feels less of an embrace and more of a manic schizophrenic episode on a global scale. Which has arguably arisen out of the weaponisation of the fourth and fifth estates, described in Paul M. A. Linebarger's 1948 seminal book on psychological warfare.

The psychosis of telematic age seemed to be something Walter Benjamin and Jean Baudrillard thoroughly grasped well before its occurrence, Benjamin understanding the construct of aura, Baudrillard the loss of distinction between the original and the copy.

Genoa, with its one foot in the past, sheds light on the 'original'; when one listens close enough, one may begin to hear some of the original notes, which lead into the noisy static of today. Whether it's from the art collections, the frescos lining the palace walls, the shipping ports, manufacturing yards or the Bank of St George, you can feel and see that this is one of the embryonic homes of modern Capitalism, which allows you to 'see' it for what it is: a myth.

Contemporary capitalism, or post capitalism, has raised and evolved the realms of palaces into an abstract plateau, whereby the ‘aristocracy’ no longer belong to any ‘place’; they occupy everywhere and are based nowhere. Their realms have moved into a Deleuze and Guattari-esque Rhizome, so abstracted and removed from the ‘real’, that the global political backlash and hysteria this is causing – the grotesquery of which may not instantly strike one – leaves a freight of confused pomposity piled on the pulp left in their tracks. The pulp of which is our language, evolved in a way over the last couple of hundred years or so, to intentionally obscure and defend the system, creating the great dividing gulf separating so many of us today. Security through obscurity. Despite it being entirely cliché, it's fully deserving of the appellation Kafkaesque. As one politician friend of mine, who shall remain nameless, simply said to me: “I don’t know where the power is anymore”. A sentiment I think you’ll find shared with many established politicians. All this is to say, that the vast scale of the 21st century system is waning under its own weight. The stakes are high, for capitalism, climate change and the human race, and here in Genoa the city evokes a natural perception of these issues. Genoa was an economic global power house, precursor and trend setter to contemporary globalisation long before the British discovered the value of sheep and started colonising America (economics joke). One could go as far as to say it wasn't only the flag of St George that England (and Europe) adopted, and as such Genoa's current desire to be twinned with the City of London – not to be confused with London – makes perfect sense. Genoa shares a commonality with all trade and shipping oriented cities, and cultures such as these are the places responsible for the current world we live in. This is one of the reasons so many great artists and writers were drawn here to the city of Janus, which allows one to juxtapose the past and future, thus allowing one to see the present with perhaps a sharper eye than that which has fallen into the realm of opiate for the imagination.

The opiate for the imagination, a phrase which affords me easy transition into the subject of tourism, and Genoa. Usually the tourist views a place as if they were in a zoo, slowly strolling around observing the localities like a rare beast in cage, but in Genoa the tourists are those who are viewed and studied by the locals. The tourist is the beast, and their carefully plotted route their cage.

In a recent article published by the New York Times, Jason Horowitz tentatively toys with the notion of 'tourist inundations” sensibly avoiding what a lot of us are genuinely thinking: that tourists are a scourge, and the perceived economic silver linings will eventually not be enough to compensate for the damage caused (through encouragement) of turning your village, town or city into a theme park.

If we're brutally honest with ourselves, we know that there is a big difference between travel and tourism. Travel is about integration, assimilation and learning, whereas, antithetically, tourism evokes images of McDonalds, AirBnB, brawls, destruction and disrespect.

One hardly looks at budget airlines or a cruise liner and thinks: “Oh, I bet J. Kerouac, Lord Byron and R. L. Stevenson would love that!” The later two authors are both noted for having spent time in Genoa, along with Dickens, Oscar Wilde and numerous other noteworthy characters.

The tourist route (to be fair, many routes in life could aptly be described as the tourist route), is a copy of an authentic experience, re-lived by millions on a yearly basis and far removed from any kind of authentic experience. Something perfectly articulated in Alex Garland's famous 1996 book The Beach: “Tourists went on holidays while travellers did something else”. Never has this been more true, and unfortunately with the current climate catastrophe, and western structural readjustment programs – designed to economically strangle all periphery destinations until they have no choice but to bow to tourism – it is something that requires scrutiny.

After a couple of months I'm plunged into the intense summer heat, a notable heat wave covering the whole of Europe, described by one magazine simply as 'hell is coming'. It's clear, however, that intense heat is no stranger to Genoa. The vast narrow lanes of old town – the largest in Europe – create a cooling blanket of shade. Every window in the city is protected by wooden or steel shutters allowing one to prevent any unwanted direct sunlight, or prying eyes, emphasising a strong sense of individual privacy. With a primarily ageing demographic, the active members of the half million population are in the minority, so the sense of privacy paradoxically coincides with an almost village-esque community awareness.

It doesn't take long before people begin to notice that you are not one of the passing faces off the tour boats. Questions begin to arise, rumours spread at equal speed as the curiosity, and before you know it, the strangers you're introduced to will already have heard about you.

After one month, a new acquaintance said to me: “I'm going to introduce you to my friend”, and ten minutes later: “Ah, it turns out she already knows about you!” Genoa affords you balance between public and private not too dissimilar to the internet, ere Tahrir Square 2011 and what could arguably be described as the post Arab Spring 'lock down' of the 'wild internet' that followed.

The intense heat enforces a slowness, a stillness of being that isn't permitted to exist in the current productivity-obsessed West. Current social commentators muse on the possibility and benefits of a more idle life, as if Bertrand Russell hadn't already argued its merits a hundred years ago – avoiding tautology amidst modern-era demand for content is a worthy yet almost impossible challenge – afraid that, if they take the logic too far, they'll breach the topic of class and wealth.

Genoa with its vast villas juxtaposed with brutalist and antiquate social housing allows breathing space for the topic, and indeed at least a perception of it. Though it equally provides the architectural equivalent to contemporary illusion and deception within its narrow alleys, where a small, unassuming old door can lead to a Doctor Who Tardis-style palace on the other side. One might expect an ancient stone corridor and instead walks into a vast marbled vestibule and a grand staircase leading to gilded halls.

It is perhaps this influence that helped and inspired the Genovese to successfully eject their Nazi occupiers during the war, one of the few cities in Europe who managed to do so without any help from the allies. This achievement was an absolute testament to Genoa's tenacity, again something that seems to be hardwired into the cultural DNA of the city.

During my time here, over many great meals, I have been informed at depth of the city’s historical personality and how it influences those of today, and the anti-fascist sentiment is something that arises again and again. A vehement hatred of fascism and a profoundly more vivid memory of what they had to do to eject it has created a sharp and healthy scepticism of the outside world and the contemporary state of politics both left and right, as fascism can exist on either side of the chasm. They appear to me to retain a somewhat more vivid memory than what's apparently left in the UK and USA, looking in shame upon the Brexiteers turning their back on the EU parliament in the last weeks, or a horrifying echo of the Nazi party – Trump’s creation of mass 'detention centres', or Europe’s treatment of immigrants, Italy included. This all has a terrible familiarity to it. Yet we keep walking toward it with unsettling comfort. Why? Contained high in my sun-drenched, overheated, fortified Genovese room, all of these things become clearer, yet simultaneously more baffling. 

As David Rothkopf so eloquently put it in 1997: “The gates of the world are groaning shut. From marble balconies and over the airwaves, demagogues decry new risks to ancient cultures and traditional values. Satellites, the Internet, and jumbo-jets carry the contagion. To many people, "foreign" has become a synonym for "danger."

So now is the time I caution dear reader not to tentatively travel as a tourist, but to explore and immerse themselves as a citizen of a diverse chaotic world – and maybe even start, as I have done, in Genoa.

“I wish to stop being Borges”
- Borges

The journey – thankfully, not mine – begins in central Iraq. The protagonist turns twenty when his spiritual twin visits him in a dream, ordering him to improve the teachings of an eccentric man killed two centuries before for a religion he didn’t even plan to create. Exactly twelve years later, again in a dream, the spiritual twin comes back to repeat his request, and the young man awakens, declares himself an apostle of Jesus Christ and goes to India with a clear intent: to create a religion.

View of the Cao'an temple. Photo: Lazar Pascanovic

Standing on the shore of the muddy Jin river, I’m struggling to understand the concept of spiritual twin. To eyes trained on European dimensions, everything in Asia seems slightly frightening: the intimidating mountain chains that jut out far above the clouds, the yellow void of the deserts, the rivers whose other shore can barely be made out in the mist, the unimaginable masses of people in perpetual motion. In some translations, I remember, it is a celestial or divine twin. Do I have one too? Philosophers of Modal Realism claim that each theoretically possible world is as real as the one we live in, and some of them believe (or at least pretend to believe) that in each one of those worlds there is one me, just a little different. I also remember reading, in Karl Jung’s Memories, that early on in his childhood he discovered a separate person inside himself – an old man with a white wig and iron-buckled shoes – with whom he sometimes conversed. If Buddha was right and “I” really is an illusion, or an overarching process in the cerebral cortex evolved to oversee everything else (including itself), then why, beside the main I-process, there couldn’t be some minor ones, half-conscious, the parasitic frequencies that huddle around the pure tone each time a hammer hits a bell?

After India, where he got acquainted with the local religious ideas, in the mid-third century A.D. Mani returns to Persia in order to teach the religion bestowed upon him by the spiritual twin. He teaches his disciples that there are two worlds: good – light – spirit on one side, vs. evil – darkness – matter on the other. Our universe wasn’t created by God, but by a lower-rank malicious creature that belongs to the material world. That is why our world is essentially evil and unbearably painful, and our task is to somehow extricate ourselves from it. The human soul fell from the world of Light and got tangled up in materiality. However, within itself it still contains thin Light threads, strong and fragile at the same time, as the last link to that other, better place – and the hope of a return.

A whole decade and a half earlier, I stared at the entry portal of Sagrada Familia church in Barcelona thinking of Neo-Platonists: in the middle there is the god, emanating logos, which emanates the world soul, which in turn emanates our small individual souls and finally the matter. It seemed to me that, in Gaudi’s amorphous shapes differentiating from the center towards the edges, I could detect some sort of a homage, a tip-of-the-hat to old Plotinus and his teachings. All of that, of course, only existed in my imagination, for which Gaudi himself is at least partially to blame, leaving his cathedral unfinished when he was run over by a tram car, and then ignored in the hospital because he looked like a beggar; if only he had put some more effort into selecting his attire for the day, maybe the cathedral would have been finished and my musings avoided. Be that as it may, it is almost certain that Mani nicked some of his ideas from the workbook of Plotinus, his contemporary: the farther we are from the source of Light, the more defined, physical, material and miserable we are. Simply put: the more material we are, the more it hurts.

In one of my favorite short stories, H. L. Borges tries to understand Averroes, an Andalusian philosopher who tries to understand Aristotle, and in the end nobody manages to understand anybody, each remaining locked in his own time-space and isolated in the bubble of his great misunderstanding – one of the few constants that we, human beings, can always count on. At the end of the story everyone disappears, dissolved in the impossibility of touch, as Borges realizes the futility of his effort. Sometimes I play that game myself: I choose someone – a beggar in the street or a historical figure, a man sitting opposite me on the metro or one of my distant ancestors from a faded sepia photograph – and try to imagine being him or her. What do I see? What do I feel inside my chest? What am I thinking about? If all the people who have ever lived are connected by some invisible (light?) threads, I say to myself, maybe it would be possible to somehow pick out the thread between any two randomly selected human beings, and then carefully follow it?

Still on the shore of the same Jin river, now under an umbrella, I look at a small boat with fishermen pulling oysters out of a wide estuary. Green bushy aquatic plants float on the surface, and the older houses in this suburb – that once used to be a separate village – are built out of those same oysters. I relish in the knowledge that this very place, the city of Quanzhou, used to be the largest port of the Old World, from which Marco Polo set sails on his final journey home. At about that time, and also from here, the fleet of Kublai Khan sailed out on his ambitious conquest of Japan. Their ships were pulverized by a typhoon (which even now, as the weather forecast informs me, creeps somewhere just behind the horizon). The typhoon that saved Japan from the Mongolian invasion earned itself the name of kami kaze, the divine wind. And in those hard and murky times, on a mountain on the other side of the city, a statue was being carved following the order by a divine twin.

Riffling through scanned specimens of Manichaean scripts (feeling grateful to the Light Deity for the miracle of Internet that enables me to never leave my house) on the websites of various museums, archives and universities, I discover that, in fact, very little has been preserved. The pivotal document on Mani and his religion was discovered in Egypt in 1969, which was hardly breaking news in the year when humans, among other endeavors, landed on the Moon (at the same time planning to destroy their own planet with nuclear bombs). The text was written in Greek by Mani’s disciples “based on his own words”. That was how we found out about the syzigos, the spiritual twin. Using this document, as well as the scripts found in the oasis of Turfan in the Chinese Taklimakan desert, in the Thousand Buddhas Caves in Dunhuang and the writings of St. Augustine (a former Manichaean who abandoned the religion due to a disagreement about the nature of evil), L. J. R. Ort wrote a book in which there is a chapter entitled Mani’s Perception of Self. There I learn that the spiritual twin, after the second revelation in a dream, stayed with Mani for the rest of his life, even at the moment of his death in a Persian prison. He whispered into his ear what to say, how to preach, and traveled around the world with him helping him in the battle against the evil forces of the darkness/matter. I also learn that the young Mani first shared his revelation with his father, who was – upon hearing all that – “amazed” and soon afterwards “converted”. And it is exactly here, says Ort, that we can for a brief moment hear the voice of Mani himself, telling about his childhood and his father. The father who became the first disciple of his own son.

Illustration from a Manichaean manuscript, 8th-9th century.

At the other end of Quanzhou, climbing towards a small mountain temple of Cao'an, I wonder what happens in a man to make him wish to create a new religion. (The same conundrum bugs me when it comes to politicians, military leaders, statesmen: greedy charismatic egomaniacs, or idealists to the bone?) Pulling on the thin Light thread I try to fathom who is on the other side: a trickster or a prophet, a villain or a madman? Or neither? Or all?

Psychologist V. S. Ramachandran writes that localized epileptic seizures in the brain’s temporal lobe sometimes induce the feeling of direct communication with god. People who suffer from this kind of seizures often claim to have seen the all-illuminating light, fathomed the absolute truth that lies beyond the grasp of mortals, clearly felt the presence of angels or heard god’s voice. The effects of the seizure are long-lasting: obsession with theological, philosophical and metaphysical topics and an unbearable urge to talk about it; hypergraphia (compulsive writing, in this case of religious manifestos, treatises, essays, theories). He also mentions his patients who showed him their lengthy manuscripts full of complex symbols and explanations: the holy books with only a single follower. In the late 20th century, scientists Koren and Persinger made a contraption aptly named “God helmet”, which uses fluctuating magnetic field to stimulate the brain’s temporal lobe. The subjects who underwent the stimulation allegedly attested to direct communication with god, visions of long-passed relatives, or the presence of an unidentified conscious being (in a BBC documentary, Richard Dawkins put the helmet on his head and felt, in his words, just slightly dizzy).

At the foot of the rock on which the Cao'an temple was built there is a giant conifer, with a plaque that informs us that the tree was one thousand years old as of March 2016. For a moment I ponder the insufferable Chinese logic – instead of writing the year when the tree was planted, they always write how old it was in the year when it was dated, meaning that in the future every visitor will have to do the adding up – but I instantly abandon that futile train of thought and put my foot on the first step of the staircase that leads to a small building made of red bricks and stones of varying shapes and shades, the temple whose religious affiliation seems impossible to determine from the outside. On the way I stop to take a photo of a wacky insect, who eyes me wearily and then slowly moves away.

Somewhere towards the end of his book The Selfish Gene, Dawkins puts forward the possibility that ideas evolve and fight for dominance in a way akin to the evolution of living things. Since the unit of information for the development of living things is gene, he suggests the term meme as the unit of the idea. Some memes are more successful – for example, those that make up the greatest ideologies of our world – while others aren’t particularly tough, so they eventually drop out of the meme pool. Religious ideas – we were told in our Marxist-oriented schools in the penultimate decade of the 20th century – developed as the result of the human inability to understand the forces of nature, from our fear of chaos and randomness. The universe – even if it really was created by a lower-rank malicious demiurge – obviously wasn’t made for us. Not only are we not located at the center of it, but even in our own galaxy we are tucked away at the deep periphery, and so on, in short – nobody and nothing cares about us. But at the same time we feel that we have to matter for something. How to make up these two extremes? At his ripe age, Leo Tolstoy was so tormented by that question that he removed the belt from his trousers every night before going to sleep, lest he should give in to the urge to hang himself: how can something finite, such as human life, have a meaning that is infinite? If only we could somehow forget about the cruel indifference of the universe, wriggle out of the meaninglessness and avoid death! And if we can’t – well, let us at least shut our eyes and avoid ourselves. The ideas that help us do that (or at least promise to do so) are the most successful memes in the history of mankind (except, of course, for those of you who wish to stop being Borges).

Cao'an, the temple on the rock that rises before me was built a thousand years ago, at which time a tree was planted in front of it. A thousand years, I mumble, a bit theatrically, trying to envision the hand putting a sapling into the hole, then burying the root and patting the soil. The planter disappears, and instead of him, in that very same place, I stand under a large canopy. The thought travels the distance of a thousand years in one second.

A 1000-year old tree growing in front of the Cao'an Temple. Photo: Lazar Pascanovic

Mani envisaged his teaching as an integrative, ecumenical religion based on Zoroastrianism, supplemented with dualist (good-evil, spirit-matter, light-darkness) teachings of various Gnostics, and then stuffed with the ideas and iconography of other religions that he came into touch with. In a temple in Japan (Seiun Ji, city of Kofu, Yamanashi prefecture) an image of Buddha Jesus has recently been discovered. Some historians of religion believe that the image was made in the Manichaean community in Southern China, in the 12th or 13th century. Buddha Jesus has slant eyes and a wide halo, sits cross-legged on a lotus flower, and holds a golden cross on his chest. The memes of Jesus and Buddha, mixed in the embrace of Manichaeism, merged into one.

Left: Aristotle with a disciple, Arab illustration from 1220. Right: Manichaean Buddha Jesus.

The day before, I clambered around a forested hill in this same city of Quanzhou, looking for old Islamic tombs from the times of Sinbad the Sailor and thinking how everything that comes to China sooner or later becomes China. On the weed-covered tombstones, the image of lotus flower and the bismilah ir-rahman ir-rahim written in Arabic calligraphy sit next to each other. Lotus is also present in the old mosque in the city center, that to an untrained eye looks exactly like any Chinese temple, plus a minaret. The Mongols led by Kublai Khan conquered China in the 13th century, but already the next generations of Mongol emperors spoke Chinese and called themselves the Yuan Dynasty. The great civilization relentlessly pulls towards itself, but its gravity at the same time distorts and adjusts everything to its own needs: Jesus gets to keep his cross, but somewhere along the way he also becomes Chinese, crosses his legs and takes a seat among lotus petals.

Língshān Islamic Cemetery in Quanzhou. Photo: Lazar Pascanovic

The small plateau is deserted. The Temple of the Buddha of Light, the arrow says. Under it there’s another arrow that says toilet. The door is open. In semi-darkness on the right side I see another door leading off to a small side chamber, in which an old woman in worn-out clothes sits, staring absent-mindedly at nothing and clicking a rosary in her hand. On the table in front of her there are several jars with pickles or fruit preserves.

Manichaeism is long forgotten in its Middle Eastern cradle. Then it also disappeared in the West, lingering on for a little longer in the mountains, disguised as the religion of the Bogomils in the Balkans (which then lingered on just a little longer disguised in the person of a crackpot painter Lazar Drljača). For the longest time it survived in Southern China, as a once large community that crumbled from one century to another, to finally disintegrate completely. From a religion that once spread on three continents, all that remains is a couple of torn scraps of parchment, several books on history of religion that nobody reads... and the miniature Cao'an temple, today a Buddhist one, without any priests.

A thousand years, I repeat, mockingly, to myself. And if any priest comes to confess me and give me communion, tell him to make himself scarce, and may he give me his curse! ... Men like me should live a thousand years! – bellows, from the edge of death, the sick, aged Zorba the Greek, or at least the man who served as the inspiration for the literary character, if the memoirs of Nikos Kazantzakis – written on the brink of his own death – are to be trusted. But how can one live a thousand years? I will die twice, whispers Ivo Andrić into my ear with some self-pity, once when I leave this world... and the second time... when my lifework disappears.

Eyes are getting used to the darkness. In front of me, in his last temple, sits the Buddha of Light.

He is carved out of living rock that at the same time makes the head wall of the temple and the mountain on whose ledge the whole building sits. At first sight he looks like any typical statue of Buddha, but a closer inspection reveals secret signs, tiny traces, bits of the riddle carved in 1339 during the great renovation of the Cao'an temple, which had then already been more than three centuries old. Long hair falls over his shoulders, and his beard flows down his chest. His brow is prominent and his jaw strong and pronounced. Instead of looking down, as Buddha normally does, Mani is looking straight at me. Instead of having one palm facing upwards and the other downwards according to the Buddhist tradition, both his hands rest on his belly, palms upturned.

Old weasel Borges once wrote that it doesn’t matter what Buddha is, but what he becomes. By the same token, one might say that it doesn’t matter what Mani was – an overexcited boy, a self-proclaimed prophet, a hardcore idealist, a charlatan, the owner of an atypical brain, a twin of his spiritual twin – but what he became.

The statue of Mani in Cao'an, the last standing Manichaean temple in the world.

The statue sits behind a protective glass wall, with a white rectangular reflection of the main door and, trapped in it, my confused face, broken in the glass. In the background there is the crown of the millennial tree and an adjacent hilltop. And I can’t help but wonder how many of us, following the complicated Light threads of our lives, have lingered here, passing a brief moment on his doorstep? And we have all gone.

Disappeared, once or twice.

In the southern part of Iran, in Chaharmahal and Bakhtiyari districts (Persian: Ostān-e Chahār-Mahāl-o Bakhtiyārī), lives a very special and little known community of people. They used to count over 500,000 and millions of animals – but nowadays there is about 200,000 people that still live the ancient way of life together with their livestock.

They are the Bakhtiyari people – the nomads of Iran.

In the spring of 2018, in another semi-annual migration (Lori dialect: ‘kooch’), me and a few other friends went on a journey to Zagros hinterlands, in search of this obscure culture. Having in mind that a 300 km long migration – which they undertake going from winter pastures (‘garmsir’), to summer pastures (‘yehlagh’) high in the mountains – can last as long as two months, at first it was a bit challenging to locate our nomad hosts, especially in a vast region like Zagros mountain range. But soon we stumbled upon another nomadic family that hosted us for the first night.

The first encounter with the members of this particular family was exciting for both parties – them, the children of Zagros, and us, lost in the wilderness. With welcoming smile on her face, the mother (Persian: ‘madar’) of the family said: “Well, we need to be here, but what on Earth are you doing here!?”. Nobody replied, but I remember that I thought of what could be the only possible reply – we came to remember the things we forgot long ago. Standing barefoot in front of a primitive tent (Persian: ‘chador’), dressed fully in black clothes, this middle-aged woman that looked older than her age appeared very simple, yet very tough with a face that could almost tell stories. It was obvious she’s a very strong woman – a pillar of the family. The men – father and two younger family members – were also close by, shepherding and guarding the sheep and goats.

After the men came to greet us, realizing that the family we were looking for was related to them, they invited us to settle for a night in their camp, placed in a cozy valley. It was already getting dark, so we set up our tents and had dinner with these welcoming people. Since we were too many and came unannounced, the dinner they prepared was humble, but they insisted to share it with us. Still, with a bit of improvisation, no one was left hungry. Soon afterwards, everybody retreated to their tents, to catch a bit of sleep.

After a rainy night, in the morning luckily the sun was coming up. Me and few others joined our guide Mohammad in search of our hosts – the Ali Mowlah’s family. Soon, with a little help of Mohammad’s intuition, we found their camp not too far away. It was in a rocky slope, placed between two cold creeks. They shared the spot with another nomadic family. Both had a big flock of goats and sheep that could roam freely, but in spite of that they would always recognize an animal not belonging to them, in case it drifted from another flock. The Bakhtiyari know their animals. The respect and solidarity between families is unquestionable.

During the rest of the day we met all of the members, both of our host family and the neighboring family as well. There we saw a newly married couple, Behrooz and his wife. Behrooz was 21 and his wife was 19. This young lady was a true example of natural and untamed beauty. She clearly did not care much about the impression, yet still she managed to appear so elegant. Later I will saw her again, proudly riding a horse into the wild. It is a pity they don’t allow taking photos of female family members, especially the younger ones. It was only two weeks that they had been married, and yet they already joined the family for the migration. While Behrooz left to shepherd the herds, the bride was at the camp, helping with cooking and other daily tasks. She was wearing a nice colorful dress, unlike madar from the first camp. They explained that if it happens that a female suffers a loss of her companion, or even a very close relative, from then on she will dress only in black. It is a traditional way of mourning.

As I arrived earlier, and was waiting for the rest of our group to join us, I had the privilege of enjoying a peaceful nomadic afternoon in their camp. The donkeys and horses resting in the shades of big oak trees, together with a stunning view over a picturesque Zagros scenery, made it all look quite idyllic. There was one tent reserved only for men, and a little baby goat that had been born just that morning. I was looking after the baby goat, and a bit later, the elderly – among which Ali Mowlah himself – joined me as well.

It was a rather pleasant experience to chat with the men over tea. Being very hospitable, they offered me the first cup of their well known black tea. Since they do not carry many assets on the migration, we shared the only two cups they had, one at the time. While sipping the tea, they were speaking about current and past times, before the revolution of 1979, remembering the great Jaffar Qoli – the main protagonist of the ethnographical documentary People of the Wind – as one of the last chiefs (Lori: ‘kalantar’) of the Bakhtiyari. The last kalantar – because the government was not always a great fan of them. It was shortly after the first oil exploitations in Persian gulf, conducted by the Brits in this nomad region during early 20th century, that distrust took place. Because of their growing independence and even political significance, it was Shah Reza himself who tried to patronize the Bakhtiyari. He forced them to settle, so he alone could control this fast emerging business – with little success. Despite the sacrifices, the Bakhtiyari did reclaim and restore their freedom, tear down their houses, and once again were free to go back to the Zagros.  

I was surprised to find out that Ali Mowlah – the father of our host family – is actually related to Jaffar. He also said that he actually remembered the crew and the shooting of the film! Being an old and respected member of the Bakhtiyari tribe, Ali proved himself to be a man of great experience and hospitality. He had many questions for me too, and with the help of Elham from our group, who could speak Farsi, we could communicate and exchange some cultural information. I remember him asking me whether we had nomads back in Europe. Not wanting to discourage him, or to disappoint these fine men, I replied that we had many shepherds, still roaming in the mountains – which proved to be a satisfactory answer.

A bit later we met the mother and her shy daughters, Sumaye and her younger sister whose name I forgot. They were in the camp, preparing food and the daily bread. The older daughter, Sumaye, was married, but her husband was in the city due to some business. As Bakhtiyari families can be quite big, they sometimes share the burden of the migration, so that the other members can take care of things of equal importance. The boys, who are usually in charge of shepherding, joined us a bit later. Sa’adik as the eldest son (21), Sa’adat, and Peyman as the youngest one, were the three boys who joined to help the family on the migration.

Sa’adik, although hard-working, was the lucky one to get the education, while his younger brothers, as well as his sisters, skipped school. He had even earned a bachelor degree at a university in Ahwaz, and is shyly learning English as well. Although tempted by the modern way of life, it is amazing and a rather encouraging fact that he still supports his family on the migration.

Due to the rain and very unpredictable weather, the family had been waiting in the camp for four days. Rain makes it hard for the animals to migrate long distances, so they usually stay put. But one day after we came the rain finally stopped, so they decided to move. After they packed their big tent and loaded the donkeys and the mules, we packed our stuff as well, and joined the caravan. We went uphill, following paths only nomads can recognize. When reached more flat terrain, they decided to camp there over night and wait for better weather. We had lunch and, while resting, had some time to learn more about this family and their culture.

The family also included three older men who stayed back in the city of Lali, in the neighboring Khuzestan province. They, as well as the two older daughters who were married and settled down, didn’t join the migration for different reasons. I found out that one of them had had a baby to take care of, and since she was married to a settler, she no longer participated in the migration. I was told that, in the past, even pregnant girls used to migrate with the family and give birth to their babies, giving them names of the mountains on which they were born.

As for the girls, they are attached to the family and their mother, at least until they get married. They work as hard as the boys, if not harder. From early morning they are responsible for milking, preparing food, yogurt and the traditional dairy drink (Persian: ‘doogh’), as well as taking care of the camp. At one point it suddenly started to rain so I helped them set up a big and heavy tent in just a few minutes. They rarely go to school, but there are some exceptions. I heard from another young nomad that his older sister had studied in the city and spoke good English.

Women of a nomadic community are respected by all members, but they earned the respect through hard work and commitment. Usually they are the ones who set up the camp and pack for the migration. While the men leave the camp early with slower sheep, the women are left behind to pack the camp, and together with the mules and slightly faster goats set off to a place where the family will reunite once again. Overall, men have somewhat different duties: taking care of herding, protection and guarding the honor of the family. Nevertheless, during the migration times, the women also always carry rifles as a precaution.

Soon, the sun was again high up, and it was time for us to set forth once again. We walked most of the day across different valleys and slopes, following streams and roads, until we came to the place were the last market is placed. Before going over the river and deeper into the wilderness, here they will do some basic shopping. It was the last chance to buy what they’d need for following months, as after crossing Zardeh-Kuh (Yellow Mountain), they would only have themselves to rely on. The nomads did not buy anything unnecessary – they mostly bought some additional flour for their bread and some tobacco. After a little break and lunch on a meadow, we continued our trip over to the Bazoft river.

This is one of the rivers that has taken so many lives of nomads in the past. It is their only road to survival – yet, there was no bridge in sight! The nomads a special, rather stoic relationship with this mighty river. Back in the old days, it was impossible to cross it without improvised rafts. Luckily, in this very time of the year the water was pretty shallow, so we had no trouble crossing it. Still, it was the coldest water I had ever stepped into. While slowly following the herd, we were now on the other side, getting closer to the spot where we’d set up our next camp.

Approaching a nice valley, next to a stream, the family settled once again. Although tired, few of us did not want to miss the chance to explore a very beautiful surrounding. We also climbed a hill in order to get a better view of some fascinating mountains. One of these mountains was called “The Untouchable”, and it truly did look epic. It was an enormous and very steep barren rock, with a big cave high up in the middle. We were told that, in the past, whenever there was some kind of a turmoil, the rich men would put all of their gold and other possessions into these caves, hoping nobody would ever find them. Or maybe they hoped it would be guarded by Simorq (mythical bird in Persian literature, often equated with Phoenix). Legend or not, it has been recorded that many treasure hunters – some of which were Bakhtiyari – have lost their lives trying to climb Mt. Untouchable.

Close to the camp, we even discovered a small, but very old nomads’ graveyard. Such graveyards are scattered all around the nomadic region, along migration paths. If a great man dies, to represent the courageousness of the deceased, on top of his grave they would put a lion-shaped tombstone. You could often find swords and similar motifs engraved in the rocks – a universal highlanders’ custom, I guess, whether they were Celts, Bogomils or the Bakhtiyari. As we were on our fifth day of this extraordinary nomadic pilgrimage, almost reaching our physical limits, right after dinner we went to sleep under the sky.

We slept next to each other, and while the nomads were guarding their sheep and goats, the moon was shedding light on our small camp. The night was peaceful and calm and you could only hear a few bells and running water from the stream next to us. Early in the morning, our host family quickly packed in order to continue on their way. Even though we wanted to say a proper goodbye, we didn’t want to slow them down, so we ended up with a short farewell:

- Ya Ali! Be salamat! Khoda Hafez!

Soon they disappeared behind the next hill, and only the smoke from the fireplace was left to slowly rise into the thin Zagros air. Tired and overwhelmed by this both crude and rewarding experience, after leaving a piece of us with the nomads, we still had to undertake a long trip back home.

***

This rather big family, as probably many others of the Bakhtiyari tribe, seems to be on a sort of a crossroads: whether to continue the old and hard life style, or to choose more comfortable life in the city. It is a good example of the situation that the Bakthiyari people – if not all nomads – are dealing with.

In case of Sa’adik, it is possible that he joined this migration mostly because of the fact that his nomadic parents struggled a lot in order to sponsor his studies. On the other hand, maybe Sa’adik represents a new generation of nomads: humble, educated and open to the world, but still with a strong urge to follow the paths of their ancestors.

Despite their struggles and temptations, the nomads will probably continue to do what they know best: They will be there, in the foothills of the mighty Zagros mountains, living in harmony with their livestock while the wind and rain continue to wash away the rocks of the ancient nomadic cradle.

Migration blues (trad. Bakhtiyari)
(translation by Mohammad Malekshahi)

I will die for the migration melody,
Until the bells chime in harmony

I will die for the calm night,
Before the rooster breaks it

I will die for the bread, made with love,
While I reach deeper into the night

I will die for the milk,
Given by every flower.

In Tehran, May 10th 2018

The village of Berdut lies at the very end of the road that ends abruptly when it reaches a dense jungle. This 300-strong community is the home of the Jah Hut, a tribe that belongs to the Orang Asli people of Malaysian Penang peninsula. The houses are wooden, raised on stilts, spacious, empty, dark, scattered along the forest road. The Jah Hut hunt, grow rice, cassava and bananas, and the little money they make comes from collecting kauchuk, and seasonal work on oil palm plantations.

My friend Aleksandar had spent a year in this village, helping them out. That is where he learned their language, so this time he acted as my translator. He took me there to meet his hosts, neighbors and friends. When we arrived to the village, they were happy to see him; me not that much. They were slightly suspicious but mostly just timid. Some of them turned their backs to me in order not to look into my eyes. But with a copious amount of smiles, one by one they accepted me too.

Our hosts were Pok and Iem, an elderly childless couple who spent most of their life helping their neighbors raise their kids. They were one of the few families that had electricity (which had reached the village less than two years ago), and they even had an old TV set where the community gathers in the evening to watch cartoons and series. Iem had just returned from a fishing trip, with a net full of wriggling catfish.

Do you like fish? – he asked and immediately took one out and impaled it on a stick to fry it.

Along with the catfish, the dinner also included rice with cooked bananas and purple potatoes. We ate all together on the floor, me being the only one using a spoon.

- Come on, a baby is sick. For two days already. We’re all going to menisoy – our host said after we finished dinner.

***

We walked in pitch darkness. From the depths of the jungle I could hear rhythmical, dull rumble, reminiscent of drums.

Tup - tup - tup… Tup - tup - tup…

The flashlight lit our path. The rumble grew louder and the contours of a house appeared in the moonlight. Yellow candlelight was visible through a window. The rumble quickly became extremely loud. We arrived to a wooden terrace on which ten to fifteen people sat in the dark. In their hands they had bamboo sticks with which they were hitting the floor in unison.

Tup - tup - tup…

There were another thirty people inside the house. The children slept on the floorboards while the adults sat on the floor lit by candles. They were talking, drinking coffee and chewing penang – everything, more or less, like on any other day.

In the farthest, smallest room a mother was breastfeeding a baby, while the father squatted next to them. They told us that the child had been coughing and breathing heavily for days, so the neighbors gathered and brought the shaman from the neighboring village, who would try to cure the baby. His name was Bolok and he had just entered the small room. He looked just like anyone else: dark-skinned, barefoot, with frayed blue jeans and a t-shirt. He squatted down next to the baby and started whispering into its ear. Meanwhile, the wooden walls shook from the banging of the bamboo sticks outside.

When Bolok stood up, we asked him how he had become a shaman.

- It was my own decision, but I had to convince the old village shaman to teach me everything. To prove to him that I was worthy – he said.
- How did you convince him?
- I had to spend three days and three nights all alone in the jungle. Without anything. That is how you meet all the spirits there. You stare death in the eye. You overcome all your fears. Some apprentices never return. Some return, but possessed of evil forces. They never recover.
- And that is all?
- No. I had to learn many things. In the end, the old shaman spat into my mouth. That is how the power was passed on to me, and everyone started to respect me – he replied and went outside to the terrace.

***

Menisoy lasts for two nights. Both nights the shaman chants mantras in the Jah Hut language, which some of the household members repeat after him. This goes on from dusk till dawn. On the second night a doll is prepared, usually a carved wooden figurine that represents the ailing person. The goal is to transfer the disease to that object.

We walked out to the terrace too. There were almost twenty people there, holding bamboo sticks. The shaman stood in front of the figurine and chanted, the others repeating his words, all the while beating on the floor. The sound must by no means stop until the morning, we were told. This is how the evil spirits are summoned and asked for help, to transfer the little girl’s disease to the wooden doll. In the morning, the doll is sent down the river.

The people with the bamboos occasionally switched, the exhausted ones going inside for refreshment, then coming back, but the rhythm never stopped. The two of us sat down too, lifted the two remaining sticks and started, awkwardly, to follow the beat.

Tup - tup… Tup.

- Why don’t you take the child to the hospital? – we asked the parents.
- No. The shaman is here. The spirits will help.
- What if they don’t come?
- They will come...

--

* Pinang or betel nut is a bitter nut wrapped into a betel leaf. It makes the teeth and tongue turn red, and upon chewing causes dizziness and light hallucinations. It is often used in this part of Asia.

Travelers: Vasko, Alexandra, Nenad, Lazar
Date: December 2011/January 2012 

"- Sheikh Adi is a dangerous den! – the captain said.
 - Extremely dangerous! – added the lieutenant.
 - People there pray to the Devil!
 - The Devil! May Allah chop them up and crush them!"

Words from the book I read as a kid bounce in my head like pebbles crumbling off from the mountain of memory. The protagonist travels the world mediating between warring tribes, protecting the weak and stamping out tyrants. “Dear God, how precious human life is! – he cries at one point – and yet... yet... yet!”

This sentence he utters in Lalish, the place referred to in the book as Sheikh Adi. The urchin who devoured adventure novels in his primary school days could never imagine that Karl May wrote all those books never setting foot in Kurdistan. Or, for that matter, never having been to America, in which his hero knocks a grizzly bear down with his fist and becomes a blood brother of an Indian chief. However, our final breakup came much before I was able to question the veracity of the said adventures: Winnetou had died, and I no longer wanted to read.

Then other things started pouring into my life, teenage traumas and adolescent soul-searches, and the valley of the Devil’s worshippers was soon forgotten, just like many other, more important questions. And now – here I am, standing in that valley.

All around me are barren hills, covered in sparse forest and dry grass. Gnarly trees are leafless because it is January 3rd. The new year 2012 found us in a shabby motel in Sulaymaniyah, at the eastern end of Iraqi Kurdistan. Outside, the rain was moving streams of garbage, and our room had a broken window pane. Now it is sunny, the sky is perfect blue, and we are standing on a small square of a town where nobody lives. Tall ribbed cones, light beige in color, stick out from between flat-roofed stone houses.

Lalish is eerily quiet and, it seems, completely abandoned. Leaving my travel mates behind, I decide to climb the highest hill, following narrow trails, over boulders, through wintry groves and across steep meadows. First I take off my warm winter jacket, then the sweater, and finally the sweatshirt too as I reach the summit. I sit on a rock under a lonely tree.

Weeks before the trip flew by me like hurled rocks. I hardly had time to realize it, and there we were, sitting on the night train to Dimitrovgrad. I had copied a bunch of articles about the places we were planning to visit to a flash drive, hoping to print them out somewhere along the way, but the pace of the trip was such that there was no time for that. Trains and trucks, hitchhiking on desert roads of south-eastern Turkey under the freezing December sky, crossing the border into Iraq... And so I am here now, sitting on a hill above Lalish, the holiest place of the Yazidi faith, knowing about it even less than what Karl May wrote in the late 19th century.

"The large, wide cauldron of the valley was lit like in daytime. Most light came from two giant bonfires, whose roaring flames danced against the barren rocks on both sides of the temple. I was overcome by that sweet dread, pleasant and burdensome at the same time, that lights up a man’s heart when something divine penetrates his small inner world.”

In his novels, May describes Kurds as cruel highlanders, warriors who respect no power except that of their tribal sheikh, and whose blood vendettas span centuries. That was written more than a hundred years ago, but it might as well have been written yesterday in the rugged mountains of northern Iraq. Rough, hard facial features. Bad teeth, bushy eyebrows, furrowed foreheads. Loose trousers with legs connected at knee-height. Bearded old men with turbans and prayer beads. Guerillas with pubescent moustaches, armed to the teeth, barely able to lug their heavy Kalashnikov rifles, stopping cars and checking everyone’s IDs. Even though Kurds are predominantly Muslim, their women don’t cover their faces, maybe because that is an Arab tradition, and Iraqi Kurds generally dislike Arabs as much as Turkish Kurds dislike Turks.

However, Arabs and Muslim Kurds in the region are united by one thing: ethnic hatred of Yazidis.

Yazidis are Kurds who managed to resist islamization. Their faith is so old that nobody knows when it emerged. It most likely came from India, brought to the Middle East thousands of years before Jesus was born and Mohammad overhauled Christianity. Over time it absorbed fragments of surrounding religious ideas, evolving into a somewhat bizarre cocktail that teaches how in the beginning God created Heaven and Earth.

At one point, God sent his seven angels to bow to Adam. Six of them obeyed, but the seventh, Iblis, refused.

- Why didn’t you bow to Adam? – asked God, vexed.
- Because I’m better than him – Iblis replied. – Because you made him of clay, and me of fire.
- Well in that case, you’re not an angel anymore! – God bellowed. – And now, I’m going to...
- Please – Iblis said – could you postpone your punishment? At least until the Judgement Day?
- Deal – said God (merciful as he is) – But FYI, from now on you’ll be known as the Devil.

This, though maybe not exactly verbatim, is written in the Quran. However, Yazidis claim that that is not how it happened.

- Why didn’t you bow to Adam? – asked God, vexed.
- Because I’m better than him – Iblis replied. – Because you made him of clay, and...
- Atta boy! – bellowed God, giving Iblis a savage slap on the wings – you are the only one who understood that you must not bow to anyone but me! And that makes you the brainiest of all my angels.
- What happens now? – Iblis asked.
- Now I have to go, and you and your big brain are in charge of the world.

Extremist Muslims, of course, know that Yazidis worship the fallen angel, in some religions also known as the Devil. They see it as their holy duty to wipe out the Devil’s worshipers from the face of the Earth, which they have tried to do many times, with some success. Yazidis, on the other hand, passionately hate their Muslim neighbors, and would probably be happy to wipe them out too – if they only could.

In the Yazidi religion, the controversial angel is not called Devil, but Taus, which means – peacock. Melek Taus, or Angel Peacock, is in charge of the world until God returns. Where God has gone, what he is doing there and whether he is coming back at all is not for us to tell. When the Peacock heard that the world was now his responsibility, he spread his wings and flew down to Lalish. And he is still there.

"I know that for you this bird is not a deity, but a sign that you will put on yourself as a mark of our friendship. Every Yazidi to whom you show this Taus will give his property and life to protect you."

I get up from my spot under the crooked tree and slowly walk down towards Lalish. As I try to find the trail between boulders, it occurs to me that this hike wasn’t the most prudent idea. Iraq is boiling over with paranoia, feuding peoples and armed men. Only sixty kilometers from here lies Mosul, a city less known for the fine fabric by the name of mousseline, and more for the killings that go on in its streets, where extreme Sunnis are trying to eradicate Shias, Yazidis and Nestorian Christians. If someone stops me and asks what I am doing on top of this hill... Luckily, there is nobody. Only the wind, bringing the tinkling of sheep’s bells from the distance.

Together with my travel mates I go to the tallest ribbed cone: the tomb of Sheikh Adi, a mysterious Sufi who reformed the Yazidi religion in the 11th century. Adi was Angel Peacock’s reincarnation. At the entrance we are stopped by two men: one has a mustache, while the other one is bearded and wears woolen socks. The mustached one puts his hand out.

- My name is Lohman. And this is the head priest. We will show you the tomb of Sheikh Adi. Walk this way, but first take your shoes off. And be careful not to step on the doorstep.
- Why?
- It is forbidden.

The Yazidi faith is rich in taboos, just like any other faith. Don’t step on the doorstep. Don’t spit on the ground, in the water or fire. Don’t wear blue clothes. Don’t eat lettuce. And so on.

We cross the stone-paved courtyard, past several ancient olive trees. Then we stop in front of a large door. Above them, in bass relief, I can see a peacock, a lion, a sun and a moon. Next to the door frame there is a long carved snake, black in color, getting out of a hole and crawling upwards.

- Why is the snake here? – I ask.
- When Noah’s Arc was about to sink, a snake curled up and blocked the hole in the hull. That is why we respect it.

"In that courtyard there is the building of the tomb temple itself, and above it there are two white towers that beautifully stand out against the dark greenery of the valley. The tips of the towers are gilded and full of sharp edges on which light plays with shadows. Above the main door there are several carved symbols of which I managed to make out a lion, a snake, an axe, a man and a comb. "

Even though Karl May never visited Lalish, writing his book in 1892 from his armchair in Germany, his descriptions of the far periphery of the Ottoman Empire are amazingly accurate (except for the carved comb, which might be down to a mistranslation).

The interior of the temple is dark, empty and freezing. The cold goes right through my thin socks, numbing my feet. In the spacious hall there is a spring with a tiny pool of water, and a sarcophagus covered with a big cloth.

"The interior of the building is divided, as I noticed later, into three main rooms: one large and two smaller ones. The largest nave’s ceiling rests on columns and arches. In it there is a spring whose water is considered holy by Yazidis. In one of the smaller naves is the tomb of the saint, and above it a large rectangular tower built of clay and covered with plaster. Above it, as the only decoration, lies a large green woven cloth."

- If you have any kind of problem – Lohman says – just tie a knot on this cloth. You can also try to untie some of the existing knots. If you succeed, the problem of the person who tied that knot will be solved. In that way one person helps solve another one’s problems.

Instead of exploring the spiritual implications of the knot system, I am painfully focused on the fact that I’ve been taking antibiotics since the beginning of the trip, my throat is so sore that I can hardly talk, and I will probably not get well by standing barefoot in a basement.

- Come on – Lohman says, pointing at a small door – this way. Bow down to avoid hitting your head. And be careful not to step on the doorstep.

We walk through the door, followed by the taciturn priest with a lantern. The first room we enter leads to another one, then another, each one narrower and lower. The floor is covered in thick sediments of olive oil crust, accumulated there over the centuries. Along the wall there are dozens of clay pots with oil, whose thick fragrance grates against my throat.

- This is for the lanterns – Lohman explains – for our greatest holiday. That is when Yazidis come here, to Lalish, for the festivities that last for seven days.
- How many Yazidis are there in total?
- Around 300,000 in Iraq. There are some in other countries too, but not that many.
- What happens at the festivities?
- Yazidis gather here in Lalish. All of the houses you saw outside are there for accommodation. Normally nobody lives here except the head priest, but during the festival the whole Lalish is full of people. That is when we sacrifice a bull, which is slaughtered on the main square.

Yazidis have a Hell, but they have no Heaven. There used to be one until Angel Peacock closed it down because it was always empty. When you die, the soul moves on to the next body, then to the next, and so on. Consecutive reincarnations continue until the soul reaches the level of spiritual purity necessary for entering the Heaven.

Apart from the reincarnations, Yazidis have kept another memory of their distant Indian motherland: the caste system. The society is divided into castes, and there are strict rules about what one can and can’t do. For example, you can’t get married to someone from a different caste. And whatever you do, you must never ever marry a Muslim. Lohman points that out at least ten times.

A large portion of Yazidis were killed off in the Ottoman days, when Belgrade and Baghdad were in the same country. They were killed by Kurds (because faith is stronger than ethnicity), Turks and Arabs. Their Islamic neighbors have never forgiven them their bowing to the Devil. After the collapse of Saddam’s regime, the local sheikhs became powerful and well-armed, and these rugged mountains slowly started sliding back towards the Middle Ages. People are killed for blood vendettas or religious hatred, women burned alive for alleged adultery, and complicated written laws are gradually being replaced with unwritten, but much easier to understand and follow, law of the jungle.

Off the temple courtyard there is a vast hall covered with thick carpeting, where we are served tea in round-bellied cups that Turks compare to the body of a perfect woman. I ask Lohman how much we should pay for the tour, but he just shakes his head, saying that it is his job to talk about Yazidis to anyone willing to listen. Then he interviews us for a Yazidi newspaper, which will publish a short article about our visit.

It crosses my mind that this is the perfect opportunity to ask some more questions about Yazidis, and I am angry with myself for coming on this trip so unprepared. I promise to myself to make up for that as soon as I get home. Several weeks later I was to discover more questions – when it was too late to ask them.

On the Internet I find an article about a Yazidi girl from the nearby village of Badri. Her name was Du’a Khalil Aswad, and she was 17 when she fell in love with a Muslim boy. After days of reading and following links, I realize that it is impossible to find out how exactly the events unfolded in that April of 2007. The girl ran away from home. According to some sources, the police offered her protection. In other sources, the sheikh of Badri himself offered protection. Some say that her parents forgave her and invited her to come back home. But this whole Rashomon effect actually bears little importance to what ensued.

When she returned, the girl was pulled out of her home and stoned to death. She was then tied to a car, dragged down the streets and finally buried with a dead dog. Of course, we read about such things all the time. In Iran, Afghanistan, Somalia... When we hear about it, it sounds almost unreal, distant and abstract. We slightly raise our eyebrows, and then forget. Those countries were not on our travel list anyway, and even if they were there is little chance that we will see anyone killing children with rocks.

However, in Du’a Khalil Aswad’s case, the stoning party made sure that everyone learn about it, probably not contemplating the horrible consequences that was to have for the Yazidi community. They recorded the stoning with their cell phones: rock in one hand, smartphone in other. Half an hour of brutal, sadistic murder. The recording quickly made it to YouTube. I will not describe the details of it here, and I don’t recommend checking.

"Even if they kill me – what of it? Doesn’t each drop of water have to rise towards the Sun? Doesn’t the shining Sun itself die every single day, only to be reborn tomorrow? Isn’t death a gate to a brighter, purer world? Have you ever heard a Yazidi say of another Yazidi that they have died? We only say they have transformed, because there is neither death nor grave, but only life and nothing but life."

The concept of the noble savage, a romantic ideal of living in harmony with nature, far from the demands of the industrialized society, could only ever have existed because the European authors of the time – Karl May among them – rarely bothered to take a closer look at those simple, honorable highlanders who talk straight, look in the eyes and honor their word as the highest sacrament. In his essay from 1853, Charles Dickens gave his opinion on this matter.

"If we have anything to learn from the Noble Savage, it is what to avoid. His virtues are a fable; his happiness is a delusion; his nobility, nonsense (...) The world will be all the better when his place knows him no more."

When they saw the video of the stoning, radical Muslims from Iraq only confirmed their long-standing conviction: that Yazidis are the Devil’s servants. Two weeks later, unidentified people stopped a bus on the way to Mosul. They checked the IDs of the passengers: Muslims and Christians were allowed to leave. The Yazidis, 23 of them (in some sources 24) were taken off the bus, made to lie face down, and shot in the back of the head.

Several months later, in August 2007, a series of bombing attacks shook the Yazidi villages around Lalish. The total death toll is estimated to 500, with 1,562 wounded. It was the bloodiest attack of suicide bombers in Iraq to date, and the second bloodiest terrorist attack in history, second only to the 9/11 in New York.

In a bizarre attempt to untangle this knot, the government of Iraqi Kurdistan ordered the exhumation of the girl’s body, which was then sent to Mosul for a post mortem. It was determined that she had died a virgin.

⁂

I tear myself away from the computer and suddenly realize that it is already dawn. I hear first morning sounds coming in from the street, suddenly become aware of the pulsating pain in my backbone, followed by a new wave of guilt for not having prepared for the trip, which made me unable to ask that very important question at the temple.

However, the more I think about it, the less I am sure what that question is.

"Dear God, how precious human life is! And yet... yet... yet!"

– I’ve heard there is a wall there – I said.
– What wall? – Husam replied. – It's all just propaganda. There is no wall.

I asked him about Western Sahara. Was it a part of Morocco, like the map shows, or a sovereign country occupied by Morocco? I got a fairly long answer that started with the sentence:

– You know, historically speaking, Western Sahara has always been our, Moroccan land...

Our land... Coming from the Balkans, I've developed a habit to stop listening after those words. They are usually followed by a lengthy, tedious tirade copy-pasted from official history books.

We were sitting on the balcony of his house in Marrakesh, where he occasionally hosts Couchsurfers because he feels lonely. Husam is a software developer, he speaks good English and he is thirtyish. Over the next few days, as we hitchhiked all across Morocco, we learned that no one had ever heard about any desert wall.

When we decided to go to the west of Africa, we weren't sure where exactly Morocco ends. It begins just below Spain, but where does it end? To the south of Morocco lies a large strip of land called Western Sahara.

The transition from Morocco to Western Sahara is barely noticeable. A few (Moroccan) flags and then frequent police checkpoints. Before entering any town, after leaving any town, in the middle of the desert:

– Name? Passport? Student? Are you sure? Where from? Karadzic? Djokovic? Are you sure?

The desert is a fascinating place. I felt antsy about the possibility of being surrounded by the monotonous sight of plain nothingness for days; but there were days when the scenery kept changing rapidly – from hour to hour. Golden dunes in the distance and then white sand, red in contrast with the aquamarine of the Atlantic, rocks, dry bushes, camels, rubbish.

On the fifth day, we reached the final point of Western Sahara. From there, we took a night ride to the border which doesn’t open until about 8 a.m. The Arabs that gave us a lift kicked us out at the end of a long queue, because there wasn’t enough space in their car for all of us to sleep. We were encountered by dark and eerie silence. There was no one outside. We were speaking in whispers, though we weren’t sure why. Where are we going to sleep? It was one o’clock in the morning. We could see silhouettes of cars and trucks, and a little bit to the front, we saw a light, possibly coming from a candle. There was some tea boiling on a campfire, and next to it, two skinny men were lying on their sides. Only their dark faces were brightly illuminated.

When we realized that we were going to spend the night at the border in the desert, Katarina insisted that we joined someone, so I asked if we could join the two of them. First they told us to go away, but when we politely insisted, they invited us for tea. For the first 15 minutes we sat in silence, just staring at each other. Both of them were unkempt and tired, as if they had been on the road for a long time. Mohamed, a skinny guy with a moustache, was wearing a blue dress with golden weaving, a traditional Sahrawi robe of Western Sahara's indigenous population. The other one, Anouar, offered us some tea. He poured the thick green tea with mint and a lot of sugar from one cup to another at least two dozen times, in order to create as much foam as possible. Tea without any foam, he explained, is like a girl without a dress. I didn't understand if that was a good thing or a bad one, but I didn't ask. Instead, I asked where they were heading.

– Why do you want to know? Who are you? – they asked in panic.
– We're just students. From Serbia.
– Students? Are you sure? Show us your passports!
– Alright.

Mohamed ran his fingertips down his moustache, looking at my passport, and then got up and went to the car. Are we in trouble? He came back, spread a map next to the little propane tank they were using for making tea, and started pointing:

– We started from here, from Spain. We are heading to Tindouf, in Algeria. We are going all the way down to Mauritania, and then up, over here – he said, pulling his fingertip along the map. – That's where our families are. The Moroccans banished them after we lost the war. They are living in a big, improvised city in the desert. While all that was going on, I was studying abroad...
– But the road you are taking... it's a huge detour. Why not go this way? – I pointed at the map, suggesting a more logical route.
– In fact – he said – it is one and a half thousand extra miles. Unfortunately, this area is off limits. That's where the wall is.
– What wall?

Anouar came closer and started whispering:

– The wall. All the way down across Western Sahara there is a huge wall surrounded with landmines. Almost three thousand kilometers. It splits the country lengthwise in two unequal parts: the one occupied by Morocco, and the free territory. All the Sahrawis who fought against the Moroccan government were ousted deep into the desert, on the other side of the wall. Families were separated. Some of us live here, others live here, and in between there is a wall that officially doesn’t exist.

We asked about the new, empty villages we saw along the road. There are two theories, he said. According to one, the villages were built for remaining Sahrawis, but they refused to move there. The other theory is that they were designated for future colonization by the Moroccans.

– How will all that end? – I asked.
– How do you think it will end? – Anouar replied. – It will be ours again, of course.

Bosnia's second city punches above its weight culturally, from a street-food-led backlash that kicked out McDonald's to the fateful night Lenny Kravitz and Kosheen came to town.

Banja Luka culture in five words

Sipping coffee by the Vrbas.

Sound of the city

This is a call to prayer from a mosque, mixed with the sound of bells from the Orthodox Christian church nearby. Like much of Bosnia, Banja Luka was well known for being multicultural, but the 1992-1995 war changed this dramatically: almost every mosque in the city was destroyed. Things are slowly changing, however. Reconstruction of the Ferhadija, a 16th-century mosque in the city centre, has opened a new possibility for cross-cultural dialogue.

Everyone's tuning into...

Regional music TV show AdriaXFactor is hugely popular. Countries from former Yugoslavia, such as Bosnia and Herzegovina, are tiny, so most participants and jury members are from other countries in the region. This year, Milica Lojic, an 18-year-old from Banja Luka, is competing and making her hometown proud.

Best current venue

KOD BRKE ('AT MOUSTACHE'). PHOTO: NIKOLA GRULL

Banja Luka is a city where life is lived in cafes. There are more than 1,000 cafes and bars for only 200,000 inhabitants – yet even in the middle of the day it is hard to find a free seat. Banja Lukans love the allure of brand-new places, and if it brings a new concept, all the better. For now, they are flocking to Kod Brke ("At Moustache"), a bar-restaurant that hosts live music in the evenings.

Who's top of the playlist?

Sopot is Banja Luka's band. Formed in 2006, they fuse Balkan art with modern technology. The five players call their style a "modern musical hybrid" – a mix of electro rock with drum'n'bass, reggae, dub and traditional Balkan motifs.

Favourite local artist

Artist Salma Selman's new performance is called I Am a Lady. Photograph: Salma Selman

Selma Selman is a 24-year-old visual artist who grew up in a Roma ghetto. Having constantly struggled against prejudice and poverty, her work is made up of confessional pieces that narrate the intimate story of her life as a Roma woman. Her artwork spans from films to painting to Marina Abramović-style performances, which can sometimes leave audiences perplexed. Recently, she took to the centre of Banja Luka to shout "You know nothing!" at passersby – a reference to ignorance of her people's heritage and struggles.

The look on the street

BANJA LUKA STREET STYLE. Photograph: DASHA GAJIC

The urban legend in Banja Luka is that there is only one man for every seven women. Even if this is far from the truth, the women of this city take the competition very seriously. There is no standard street style, ranging from high heels to Converse, from leopard patterns to gothic style. But the casual look is not recommended if you want to mingle with the locals on the main pedestrian street, Gospodska, which literally translates to Gentlemen's Street.

Best cultural Instagram account

Aleksandar Trifunovic is the editor-in-chief of Buka, one of the most popular web magazines in Bosnia and Herzegovina. His Instagram account is a visual exploration of everyday life in Bosnia's second city, from its corners to its fortress and its road leading off to Sarajevo.

What's the big talking point?

A new law that treats social networks as a public place. The law has been adopted recently by the National Assembly of the Srpska Republic, one of the three Bosnian entities and of which Banja Luka is the capital. Basically, it means you can get in trouble for the views and opinions you express on social networks. No cases has been reported so far but Twitter users have been openly mocking it.

What Banja Luka does better than anywhere else...

fAVORITE LOCAL FOOD - ĆEVAPI. PHOTOGRAPHY: GARRETT ZIEGLER

Ćevapi! Every city is famed for having its own way of making this national dish: rolls of minced meat, grilled on coals, served in a round bread called lepinja with a side of raw onions. Local fast food is a big thing all over Bosnia and Herzegovina – it's a form of art. In fact, when Banja Luka hosted the country's first ever McDonald's, which opened in 2011, citizens loyal to ćevapi soon pushed it out, even holding a "farewell to McDonald's" performance in front of the soon-to-be-closed restaurant.

Comedy gold

Alija Sirotanović refers to itself as "anti-cultural theatre". The satirical comedy trio perform sketches laced with humour about corruption, poverty, ethnic divisions and other problems in Bosnian society. Their breakthrough was Road, a song mocking local politicians and their never-ending, costly construction projects.

Big cultural moment

On the night of 23 July 2009, the British band Kosheen performed at the open-air music festival Demofest. At the same time, on the other side of town, Lenny Kravitz was playing at the City Stadium. Two big music events on the same night was a nightmare for Banja Lukans. People were obliged to make a tough decision: Kosheen or Kravitz? Rumours started that if you ran fast enough, you could make it to the beginning of one, and to the end of the other.

Best piece of street art

Lonac and Atrez's mural, Find Your Way to Fly. Photograph: Lonac

During the international graffiti festival Flaster last November, Banja Luka got its very first large mural, called Find Your Way to Fly. The mural represents objects that with the help of balloons are taking off from the wall. Created by Croatian and Serbian artists Lonac and Atrez, its vibrant colouring and hyper-realism expands over a five-floor building in residential Borik.

From me

Slađana Perković is a Franco-Bosnian journalist and photographer. You can find her blog here and her tumblr here.

—

The article originally published on The Guardian.

What is the first thing that comes to your mind when you think of a cemetery? Contrary to the usual depiction of the cemeteries, the Merry Cemetery is not sad or gray, but abounding in colors and brimming with life. Well, not exactly.

Merry Cemetery or Cimitirul Vesel is a cemetery located in the northern part of Romania, in a small village, behind the local church. It is renowned for its merry tombstones which depict the life of the decesed through captions and pictures. The founder of the cemetery is considered to be Stan Ioan Patras, a local artist, who carved the first tombstone in 1935. The uniqueness of this cemetery comes from the widespread belief, culturally prevalent inside the European society, that death is a celebratory occasion because it represents a moment filled with joy and hope for a better life.

Some of the stories on the tombstones are very humorous, others are peculiar, while some are tragic because they represent lives cut off by accidents or diseases.

Pop Dumitru has been in charge of creating these presumed masterpieces for over thirty years. When a person passes away, the family of the deceased asks the priest to make a cross, which he carves manually. The priest decides which pictures and verses will represent the life of the deceased. The point of the images and the poems is not to make fun of the graves or their occupants, although, to be honest, some of them might be a bit indiscreet because they speak of adultery, fondness for alcohol and hostility towards some members of the family. You would expect the relatives to be offended when they see the tombstones, but that's not the case. Pop Dimitru says : "These tombstones portray the real life of the person. If he enjoyed drinking, that's what we will write. If he enjoyed working, that's what we will paint. Everything that ends up on these tombstones is true, because there are no secrets in a small town."

The verses on the gravestones are written in first person and while reading them, you feel as if you were talking to the person buried there. What you feel while reading them is that you got to know the tomb's tenant a bit better. One of the panels says:

"I rest here,
Stefan is my name.
I used to drink a lot and that's why I'm still thirsty.
So you, who are visiting my resting place,
Leave some wine behind."

Even if you can't read the verses in Romanian, you can still enjoy the stories the paintings are telling. Some of them have more than one painting, so they could illustrate several occasions in a person's life. One tomb has three images; the first one of a man and a woman in love, hugging each other; the second shows the man sitting at the table with a bottle in his hand, while the woman is sitting on her own in the corner; in the third one the man is looking back over his shoulder at his wife who is in another room with a different man.

A lot of tombstones contain images of everyday life like people working in the fields, or things and people that they cared about during their life. "Their lives are the same, but they want their death to be different." Among the tragic stories are the ones of the deceased children, which are represented as angels or being surrounded by angels.

The Merry Cemetery has around 700 graves, and although it's an extremely popular place, there is still enough space for the future occupants. One of them will be Pop Dumitru, who is training a couple of apprentices. "It can't be just anyone", he says. "They have three jobs to do. They have to be sculptors, painters and poets, all in one."

The Merry Cemetery is an idea created by Ioan Stan Patras, the man who is resting here as well. His tombstone says that he created these lively headstones because he loved people and he wanted people to visit him, even after his death. Considering that the Merry Cemetery is one of the most visited destinations in Romania, we can say that he succeeded in his wish. This place is filled with belief that death is only another big adventure into the afterlife, another beginning; and every beginning needs a joyful celebration.

Hong Kong is not just one of the most populated cities in the world but also a city with the biggest number of Michelin star restaurants per square meter. However, the food that will knock you off your feet is actually street fast food on every corner. At dai pai dong - stand restaurants, you should definitely try sticky meat rice in lotus leaves, "tea eggs", all kinds of bagels, wonton noodle soup, Peking duck, dim sum – meat dumplings with pork, shrimps, snake soup etc.