Footloose Scot (24 page)

Horses also play a part in Kazakhstan's history, and researchers from England came to Zhabagly to test the DNA of the local horses. Horse meat is commonly eaten, and I knew I would have to eat it sooner or later. Sure enough, I was invited to the home of a young woman training to be a teacher of English. I gave her some lessons, and she asked me to come and meet her family. The Wild Nature people told me that the family was well connected politically and I should expect a big meal.

I arrived at the house which looked a lot better than most, and was warmly greeted by the whole family. It was an elaborate spread, but just for me and the father. No alcohol, I had told her previously. There were lots of small dishes as starters like cucumbers and fish, then hot dishes. A plate of horse meat was brought in from the kitchen and, although bursting, I ate most of it. It wasn't too bad - dark in color, not unlike beef but with a certain tang.

At times I was lonely as a volunteer, and talking with the British VSO volunteer who lived in the village or visiting nearby Peace Corps volunteers was not enough. So I retreated into books. I had been sending articles on my experience in Kazakhstan to a local paper in the Big Bend area. I also wrote a letter to the same paper requesting some books to read. Such is the generosity of the folks in Alpine, including some people I had never heard of, that I was sent a total of 90 books, plus some pots of jam and other items to eat. I got a real lift from the response, and a real escape with my new library.

As winter arrived and the snow fell, wolves could be heard as they came down from the high mountains. We had an early snowfall of four feet, which blocked the road to the village for five days, closed down the school and brought down the telephone lines. The snow plough had run out of gasoline so the road remained blocked long after the snow had stopped falling. These inconveniences served as a reminder of how few services work reliably and how little cash is available for emergencies particularly in the countryside.

I was shoveling snow to clear a path to my house, when I hurt myself. The Peace Corps doctor told me it was a hernia. I also told him that I had been experiencing a loss of energy. He did some tests and said I had ghiardia from drinking unclean water. This was a stupid error on my part, since we had been given water filters to prevent just such a problem. The doctor did some other routine tests and was surprised to see I had been exposed to tuberculosis.

I thought that I had probably got this from my school kids since I was often in close contact, especially when playing Scrabble. The doctor said that this was not particularly unusual. It would not affect my energy or general physical well being, nor would I pass it on to others, so long as I remained otherwise healthy. To double check, he took me to a hospital in Almaty for a stomach scan. Telling me that in Communist days all party members at age 60 received this procedure, he suggested I do the same. In a plush Communist era hospital with carpets on the floor I watched with increasing nausea a TV screen which showed the multi-colored inside of my stomach, being photographed through a tube down my throat. There were no problems.

The hernia would need an operation, and the ghiardia would take some time to get rid of. It was unlikely whether these two medical conditions could be corrected within one month which is the maximum period for recovery that Peace Corps allowed for volunteers wishing to continue. I thought not, and made the decision to take "medical separation," which meant terminating my Kazakhstan posting and heading back to Alpine, Texas to get treatment there.

That is what I did, disappointed not to have had the satisfaction of completing the full period of service but glad to have done twelve months. Peace Corps served me well, and Kazakhstan needs Peace Corps and NGO's from elsewhere to help it move forward. One of my strongest memories was of taxi drivers in leather jackets, always smoking cigarettes and always ready to overcharge me. From the mafia-owned casinos in Almaty to the head of the national park there was evidence everywhere of rampant corruption. Pressure from outside the country may help the Kazakhs finally to claim their own country, and Peace Corps and other similar agencies have a role to play in this.

STEVENSON TRAIL, FRANCE

In September 1878 a twenty-seven-year-old Scotsman called Robert Louis Stevenson arrived in a remote corner of southern France for the purpose of taking a hike. An aspiring writer, Stevenson had already written
An Inland Voyage -
a canoeing adventure story, also set in France. As material for his second book he had picked an area of France with a historical and religious connection to Scotland called the Cevennes. This mountainous region of the Massif Central was the home of Protestant Huguenots who fled from persecution in France in l685, some settling in Scotland.

The simple peasants of the tiny village of Le Monastier in the Cevennes were astonished when a tall, dignified Victorian gentleman arrived in their village. They were even more startled at the sight of some of the foreigner's supplies: a bottle of brandy, a leg of cold mutton, an egg beater and a revolver to guard against wolves.

In addition to these smaller items, the traveler had constructed a voluminous sleeping bag. To carry all these items he purchased locally a donkey, a diminutive "she-ass" named Modestine. The resulting story of this nine day, 140-mile journey by the city-born author with no experience of pack animals became a delightful minor classic called "Travels with a donkey in the Cevennes." In July 1999 I planned to follow the same route and find out what was happening in today's rural France.

The trail which Stevenson took, with a series of mishaps which characterize the early part of the story, follows footpaths, ancient drove roads and bridle ways. There are guidebooks about the trail, in English and in French, and the trail itself has signposts and blazes (red and white markings on trees and fence posts) so following the route is not difficult. The elevation starts at 3,100 feet, goes up to 5,574 feet at Mount Lozère, and then drops down to 623 feet at St. Jean du Gard, the last town on the route.

On my trip the weather started off warm during the day but quite chilly at nights; later there was occasional daytime rain. Beyond Mt. Lozère, a watershed, it was very much warmer. Previously the rivers had flowed west. Now they flowed south towards the Mediterranean, and vineyards started to appear alongside the trail.

France is full of long-distance hiking trails which follow for the most part old pilgrim routes, sheep and goat tracks or military roads. The French hiking authorities have designated numbers to all these trails. The Stevenson Trail (Chemin de Stevenson) is GR 70, GR meaning Grande Randonnéé.

As I passed through small villages the local folk would ask, "Are you doing the Stevenson? Where is your donkey?" In fact, I could have hired a donkey or a horse, but I preferred to take the simpler way and rely on my feet. So I would shout back to the villagers "No donkey, only feet."

To walk the Stevenson Trail today is to walk through 1,000 years of French history. In every village, and at many an intersection, there is evidence of passage of time and continuity. On one stretch, on the higher reaches of Mount Lozère, are tall standing stones, a smaller version of Stonehenge in England. Each is marked with a Maltese cross carved into the surface, indicating that Crusader knights used this route. There are also signs of social and economic strife in the region: memorials to the victims of religious wars of the eighteenth century or abandoned villages indicating that the inhabitants could no longer support themselves economically.

In every village there is evidence of the devastating effect of the First World War. Always at the center of the village, and usually with a description such as "To our glorious dead" is a war memorial with a list of names of local casualties, sometimes with the same family names occurring two or three times. In a village with 100 inhabitants there might be fifteen names of those killed. It was through picturesque villages with their grim historical reminders that I plodded, doing -12 to 16 miles a day, and carrying 40 pounds of camping gear, food and clothing.

While some of the historical memories were undoubtedly grim, today's rural France shows relative affluence. Each small farm would have one or two new-looking cars as well as a tractor and other farm equipment. The main farm activity as I passed by seemed to be bringing in the hay. The hay had been recently cut and baled in large, round balls waiting to be brought to the barns to feed the dairy cattle which graze everywhere. The farms are small, some only 50 acres, but they support the whole family. Wood stacked in piles indicates the source of winter heating. Rabbits and chickens in the farm yards are another food supply.

The color of the wildflowers in the hedgerows and the music of the birdsong went a long way to ease the ache of my muscles and cool the sweat on my brow. Each hill climbed would reveal a vista of pine forests, upland moor or cultivated fields interspersed by small villages and connected by narrow lanes. The villages were a riot of color, every house with hanging flower pots or climbing vines. The villagers were always formally correct in manners and greetings, probably amused by visitors foolish enough to carry large loads on their backs at the height of the summer, but too polite to show it.

The French not only love flowers but are great vegetable gardeners. The nation as a whole is close to the land. Almost every country residence has a vegetable garden where the salad stuff and other vegetables stand in well-hoed rows. Anticipating an evening meal in a local restaurant, I passed through a village towards the end of an afternoon and caught sight of a chef picking last-minute salad items from the garden next to his restaurant.

A New Yorker, staying for a year in a French village a few years ago, found a way into the villagers' confidence by starting a garden. He found just the right way of getting accepted into their conservative lives. He wrote about it in a charming and perceptive book called "French Dirt".
(French Dirt, The Story of a Garden in the South of France
by John Goodman, 2002).

Stevenson's own book immediately became a small hit, earning him money and affording him time to go on to write the books for which he is primarily known: "
Kidnapped", "Treasure

Island"
and "Dr
Jekyll and Mr. Hyde".
In a continuing search for a home in a climate which would be easier on his chronic ill health (he was consumptive), Stevenson bought with the proceeds from his book sales, a large property in Samoa. It was there, nursed by his American wife, that he died in l894, aged 44. The natives carried him to the top of a mountain, where he is buried. His famous requiem is inscribed on the tomb:

"Here he lies where he longed to be;

Home is the sailor, home from the sea;

And the hunter home from the hill".

My journey along the Stevenson Trail took nine days through a wonderful corner of rural, upland France. I met few other hikers on the route. I did share a couple of meals with a young fellow from Mulhouse, a mortician by trade, and his Swiss girl friend. I also met an English dentist who was walking clear through France, top to bottom. He was organized and fit, and seemed likely to complete the 700-plus miles.

The abiding memory of the rich French countryside, and of village life: the shutters and curtains on the windows, the climbing roses and vines on the walls, the sound of church bells, the noises and odors of the farmyard. To enjoy this requires an effort. Stevenson made clear his attitude to travel: "For my part, I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel's sake. The great affair is to move". I share this sentiment entirely.

"Bloody hell, mate. You don't want to eat that!"

I was in a sandwich shop in downtown Tirana, the capital of Albania, trying to work out what to buy. The language of the speaker was English and the accent from the North of England. The young Albanian man who had just spoken was obviously amused at my surprised reaction. "Who are you?" I asked. "I am Gimi Tezekiu", he said, "I am cook in England". I had scarcely been in Tirana 4 hours and this was my first pleasant surprise -one of several which would occur in the next few days.

Albania, a small, undeveloped, mountainous country of 111,100 square miles (the size of Arizona) on the Adriatic Sea just north of Greece, is Europe's odd man out. For years it had a king named Zog, and later a communist dictator named Hoxha (pronounced Hoedja) who ruled for 40 years until 1985. The lasting memorial to this madman is 700,000 mushroom concrete bunkers embedded in the earth all over the country, designed to accommodate the country's population in the event of a nuclear war.

I arrived in Tirana (population 700,000) on an overnight bus from Skopje, Macedonia. The bus dropped me outside of Tirana's rundown railway station. Using my Lonely Planet guide to orient myself, I walked half a mile to the city center, a large square dotted with monuments and surrounded by huge Communist-era government buildings. In 1990, five years after Hoedja's death, there were no more than 500 cars in the while country - all belonging to the ruling elite. Now, in 2006, there were cars everywhere, and crossing the main square was a challenge. With the opening up of the economy also came the worst of uncontrolled free enterprise. Over 70% of the population lost their savings in a country-wide Ponzi scheme. Those who could left for Italy.

Now things had settled down, but the country remained desperately poor. They see themselves as Europe's poor cousins, and are hoping that entry into the European Community will bring them prosperity. They are a proud people with a unique language, like Basque, which they feel distinguishes them from other Balkan ethnic groups.

Walking around Tirana I admired a few old handsome buildings from the days of Italian influence under King Zog. Most of the apartment and public building were in. the huge, drab Communist style. An energetic recent Mayor of Tirana had started to paint some of the apartment blocks with bright primary colors adding some cheerfulness to the scene. There were lots of people wearing cheap clothes hanging around at street corners. I never felt at all threatened by them just depressed by the appearance of so many jobless. I ate fast food, sometimes seafood dishes at better restaurants, and bought fruit to snack on. I found a room with air conditioning for twenty dollars a night at a center run by US missionaries.

In a short time I had seen most of what Tirana had to offer. I started walking to the bus station to catch a bus to the coast. Realizing this was going to take more time than I expect, I asked a young man on the sidewalk, "Avtobus Berati?", the name of the town I was heading for. He nodded and pointed at his van parked nearby. I jumped in, and he took me to the bus station and I paid him like a taxi. This was so typical of the young people in Tirana: desperate to make some money and eager to please foreign visitors.

A minibus, called a furgeron, departed from the bus station after half an hour. This shared taxi concept is common throughout the Balkans and Middle East. They depart when they are full. We drove past stone-filled fields with scrawny animals grazing, and through nondescript villages; at regular intervals by the roadside, more mushroom-shaped bomb shelters would appear.

I got down from the minibus in the town of Sarande, and was immediately accosted by an older man saying "Room"? He had a young girl with him (his daughter) and, when I paused, she added something which I didn't understand. "Do you speak some English?" I asked. "I speak a lot of English," she replied indignantly. She went on to tell me that her family rented out a room in their home, and would be happy to show it to me. I am quite comfortable with being accosted by people with rooms to rent. I had a young woman anxious to practice her English so I was able to ask questions which I probably would not have been able to do in a hotel.

At a place called Butrint, right in the south of Albania, with the Greek resort island of Corfu visible no more than ten miles away, was a seventeen-acre national park. This UNESCO designated site was a microcosm of Mediterranean history, revealing Greek, Roman and Byzantine monuments, structures and baths. In the very early stages of being excavated, it was unusual in that there were no guards and no signs. So one could wander round almost at will, with a pamphlet in English, trying to work out what one was seeing. In the late afternoon of a warm summer day in the Balkans I had the place almost to myself.

Crossing the Adriatic on an overnight, uncomfortable ferry I arrived in the sophisticated Italian port city of Bari. The smartly dressed Italian official waved me through at once, but from this attitude I could see that the crowd of ill shaven, poorly dressed Albanians were not going to get through so easily. "Mirupafshim Shiqipperia: (Goodbye Albania), you deserve better I thought.

I went to Cuba mainly because travel there by U.S. citizens was forbidden.

People told me: "Go now, and see it like it is, stuck in the past. As soon as U.S. tourists and American investors are allowed to go there, it will change." To legally prevent its citizens from visiting the defiant, bankrupt regime of Fidel Castro, the U.S. government had to turn to an obscure law which prohibits trading with the enemy.

Two million Europeans visit Cuba each year. Canada invests in Cuba, and has just finished building Havana's new airport. Plenty of Americans have visited and, so long as they don't advertise the fact too much, the U.S. Government has not taken action. There are no direct commercial flights between the USA and Cuba so you have to fly via Canada or Mexico. I went via Cancun, Mexico. I arranged the visa application and ticket purchase online. I was told to turn up at Cancun airport sufficiently early before the flight to take care of the visa which would be issued at the check-in desk.

From Ojinaga on the Texas border I took a bus to Chihuahua City (150 miles) and then a fourteen hour, 924-mile leg with Omnibus de Mexico to Mexico City. The Mercedes bus was about Greyhound standard of comfort and made several stops, but it was a trying experience. After a night in a cheap central hotel, I took another bus for 1,024 miles to Cancun. This bus was brand new but the toilet did not work and the smell was sickening. Not a promising start to my Cuban adventure.