KEPESITA

Day 126. Hezbollah - Goodbye (Lebanon 8.)

Sat, 10 Dec 2011 04:10:00 +0000

Eventually, we didn’t get a job on the Boi Branco and though the first officer recommended another ship that was looking for manpower, we gave up the idea of us, I mean, me continuing the journey on a ship. Given that it can easily turn out that after a few weeks Kenneth will follow me, we decided I’m going to travel onwards on land. Thus, he’ll catch up with me more easily.

Although with Talal we sailed for the sea twice, we didn’t get to Cyprus.

Since still there wasn’t any answer from the Irani embassy, I applied online as well which resulted in an approval in a couple days. I was given a code with which I will be able to pick up the Irani visa in the Turkish town of Erzerum.

Day 126.

In the morning I set out to say goodbye to Sousou and the Syrian buffet manager.

After the ’date’ –though I have bought cookies from her since then- I thought Sousou might have misunderstood the invitation, but the atmosphere of the saying goodbye proved me wrong.

Probably I’ll never know if her sympathy was meant for me or the world that to her I represented.

Though the customers were coming and going, there were times when it was only the two of us in the shop. She offered me freshly baked cookies, a friend of hers made a picture of us and, thanks to a ’coffee guy’ dropping by, we had coffee, too.

She was sitting on her chair behind the counter and when I told her where I would go on, she smiled and asked if she could come with me. What happened next was typical of the atmosphere: though she asked that in Arabic, almost without any gestures, I still understood. I showed she’d have to get in my backpack and I’d take her with me. We laughed. She ran back to get her purse. She returned with a bracelet and a ’blue eye’, a stone mostly symbolizing care and protection from bad luck. I gave her a hug, unintentionally. She got a little embarrassed but with the same momentum she kissed me on my face.

I said goodbye to our Syrian friend as well and I went back to the office. Kenneth visited an internet café in order to check what towns we would be passing. I lay down on the couch and, for a few minutes, I got lost in daydreaming. … That is, I would give up the whole expedition, ’take’ the girl, ’free her from the prison of the tower’ and we’d live happily afterwards… On the bracelet I could still smell her perfume.

Though I knew I was captivated by the emotions and still they control me now when I’m writing these lines, but why wouldn’t we let ourselves go? For a little bit.

When Kenneth got back, I was already packed, ready to go.

I said goodbye to Daniel, too. During our two-months-stay in Lebanon we met almost every day, many times outside working hours. We visited his parents several times, we played basketball, often we just chatted, debated for hours concerning questions on the Bible, Jehova’s witnesses.

Talal, too, shook my hand wishing the best of luck. He understood and supported our decision, i.e. we part ways for a while and thus both our ’projects’ can go on. He expected Kenneth back and made him sure that he’d help him out with jobs. He asked where I’m leaving for. I told him I’d go to Turkey across Syria, then Georgia, Iran or… who knows? ’Or back to Lebanon’ – he said, smiling, indicating I’ll be welcomed in the future.

From town, we took the bus through the mountains to the road leading to the Syrian border, then we put our thumbs out. With a few brief rides we were already above 1000 metres on the mountain roads. The little towns up here are forsaken, most of the people fled to the sea for the winter period. The air got noticeably colder. We were just walking across an inhabited area with extra layers on us when a truck slowed down near us and the driver –with a camera in his hand- showed that we get in.

We got as far as 3000 metres high with the 7-tonner. The mountains were made even more enchanting by the rain- and storm-clouds, and the barrenness was almost complete except for a suddenly appearing cedar forest. The lean driver of the vehicle himself was filming eagerly. Occasionally, we stopped and got out in order to immortalize the scenery.

It was already dark when we started descending at the other side of the mountain. As we reached a populated area –though we hardly communicated during the journey-, we were invited to the home of our ’mountain guide’.

As we entered, there were plenty of children in the hall and portraits of the Hezbollah’s leaders on the wall. While we were unpacking, the guest kids said goodbye one by one and went home with their mother. We went over to the warm kitchen, there was only the family and us. Father, Mother, two daughters around 20, one tenish, and a few-months-old baby.

The kitchen floor was covered with thick carpet, in the corner, in front of the kitchen furniture there were long, short, back-rested mattraces and an oil stove.

Soon we were all sitting around an abundantly set table. Out of the big pita bread we tore smaller pieces and, using them as cutlery, we got to enjoy the diversity of the Lebanese home-made meals. There were two sorts of cheese, radish, scrambled eggs, potatoe toasted on the stove, ’pasta cones’ stuffed with meat, soured zukkini filled with rice and spices, humus (chickpea), yoghurt, olives, fig compote and apricot jam.

And the atmosphere was so familiar and light as if we had known each other for a long time. After dinner, we smoked water-pipe, drank tea and coffee and the ’fun’ lasted for another four hours. The communication consisted of the few English words the elder girls knew, some Arabic words we knew, using maps and Arabic-French and Arabic-English dictionaries. We watched the videos made in the mountains and we played a board game with 6 clams instead of dice.

Mother and the daughters were kidding one another, the Father playfully patted on his wife’s nose with his wet hands and grinned. We laughed and we laughed. The presence of the rules regarding the Islamic family was so natural that these rules –though they were still kept,- got forgotten.

The eldest girl was proudly telling that she’s the member of the Hezbollah and how bravely their soldiers resisted the Izraeli attacks. They could hear the bombs dropped 120 kilometres far from there. She showed us that up until today, Izraeli planes spy in the Lebanese air space on a regular basis.

They made two huge beds for us – their beds. They slept on the couches of the living room. When I was going to get my backpack, I wasn’t allowed in the cold room that got rearranged to a ’women’s section’. The Father showed that they put our stuff in ’our’ room. We fell asleep under vast, heavy covers.

Next day we had breakfast together, then the father took us to the main road. With two rides, we reached the Syrian border and, changing the visa, we entered the ’land of Assad’.

translated by Agoston Galambos

City-life in Tripoli (Lebanon 7.)

Sun, 02 Oct 2011 12:25:00 +0000

„Our office” is situated in one of the office buildings of the central, one-way Azmi street. Apart from us, two families live on upper levels, otherwise the offices have been empty for more than 10 years now. 3 rooms, a bathroom, office tables, computers and two couches which unfortunately don’t let you stretch out but still function as excellent beds. Talal moved here not long before our arrival so everything was pretty much just thrown into the rooms.

To bath we usually visited Talal’s yacht – these times we always swam in the sea and then showered on the ship. Talal often works on renovating the yacht by himself, and now and then called us to help him. One thing we had to do was that we squeezed ourselves in a tiny hole where we removed and lifted out the engine responsible for lowering and pulling the anchor, to be repaired (in the meantime, a gentleman working in the pier offered us work for next summer). Another day’s job was cleaning the whole yacht, from top to toe. There was work to do in the office buliding, too. We cleaned the stairway, moved office stuff from one level to another, gave office-like look to three rooms where we were living so that the clients won’t be scared away by the chaos. Several times we went with Daniel and made photo shots about the apartments waiting to be sold.

Looking at it from Europeans’ point of view, the Lebanese traffic might seem to be chaotic but once you get used to it, you’ll see how well it actually works. Though there are no traffic lights in Tripoli (to be precise, there are some but they never work), the traffic only stops rarely for long. Ahead only in the roundabouts and one-way streets only exist theoretically. Why these cars have indicator in them is beyond me. Priority on the right… maybe never existed. Parking at corners… you won’t see one free corner in the entire city.

The tiny mopeds are permanent participants of the everydays. People have mastered themselves in how to take full advantage of these things. Long wooden boards, coffee-cans, huge, round trays full of baker’s ware – people are able to transport anything with these two-wheelers. The youngsters swerve this way and that, or wind among cars on one wheel, many times with more than one people on the little motorcycle.

The honk, here in Lebanon as well, has become an important communication language but still, generally, it has a warning function.

Here, it is not the car’s colour or a sign that marks cabs but the type of the car and its red license plate. All these cars traveling in the city called ’service’ are old-school Mercedeses. They go in certain directions and are trying to gather as many passengers as possible (sometimes two people are sitting next to the driver). There are ’service’ rides (these are minibuses) to Beirut nearly every 15 minutes. At larger centres and main roads they literally recruit passengers. Walking by that spot, it’s easier to get to Beirut than not to. Of course, this high taxi traffic doesn’t make a hitch-hiker’s life easier but sooner or later someone will stop to pick you up.

As we were living in our ’workplace’, we met Daniel almost every day. He got us acquainted with the cream of the Lebanese cuisine whereas we explored the world of ’streetfood’.

One of the most prevalent ingredients is the chickpea. This is what falafel (meatball) and humus (creamy stuff, enriched with nut and mintleaves) is made of but it is also consumed cooked, supplemented with nut and meat as stuffing for the round, flat, two-layered pita (bread-like). All the meals include the spicy tomatoe salad, the tabouleh.

The little bakeries offer salted cheese on pizzapasta-like base (hallum), cream very much like spiced sheep’s cheese, minced meat, vegetables or chocolate cream with banana pieces.

It was a Syrian gentleman’s little buffet that became our favourite place where we could eat freshly-baked mankoush. He rolled the little loaf with a couple of gestures out, laid it on a pillow with the help of which he threw the thin pasta on the hot, hemisphere-shaped baking plate that was heated from the inside, with gas. He spread oil and put grated cheese on it. A few minutes later we could enjoy the wrapped mankoush.

The protagonist of the small, manually controlled, wheeled buffet cars is the round, sesame-seedy, toasted, crunchy pita bread with hallum inside. It is frequently eaten without cheese, blown up.

Coffee is part of everyday’s life, it has the power to assemble dozens of men at coffee houses. Occupying the pavement, in smaller or bigger groups, social life goes on for hours.

However, if ’men won’t come to the coffee, the coffee must come to men’. ’Coffee people’ are walking down the streets with two coffee-cans. Two cans, one containing sweet, the other having regular coffee.

Day 123.

In the morning, we hitch-hiked over the pier of Jounieh next to the capitol because we were told National Geographic had a diving centre there. After some walking and enquiring about, we did find it, in the yard of a sea-side hotel, the diving school in a tiny building. It was closed but with the help of the nearby coffee house’s waiter, we reached Roger on the phone, who’s one of the owner of the five-star PADI Centre. In Lebanon it’s the only one giving out NG certificate. Not long afterwards all the three of us were sitting in front of the club building.

The Atlantis Diving College (www.atlantisdivingcollege.com) is not just offering diving courses. They educate in the spirit of stressed preservation of natural values and they teach how to dive in a responsible way. They do all that with the latest, quality equipments and not least, they have a great social atmosphere. As a proof of this, we suddenly found ourselves in the company of two other divers, the girlfriend of one of them and another gentleman. After a bit of joking around, the diving suits were found and we were off to the wavy sea with bottles, in a motor boat. We reached our destination completely wet: a buoy indicating the place of a sunk freighter.

In Lebanon, the sea does not attract those interested in diving with plentiful world of corals but with ship wrecks (WWII submarine, a freighter sunk during the war against Izrael, etc.) and underwater caves.

Of course we were not allowed to submerge but we were caught up in the wave of the three divers’ enthusiasm. They spent about a half-hour down there. Crawling back to the boat, they said it was one of the best dives of the season. They could explore the freighter sunk a few years ago under perfect visual conditions and without any water traffic – as it was near the end of the season.

…A couple of weeks and they are off skiing in the nearby mountains. Sliding on snow, then the very same day submerging in the sea – there are not many countries where you can do that.

On the way back, Roger told us about one of his plans, organizing a ’cleaning day’ when 40-50 divers would go side by side and free the sea at the nearby Byblos’ shore of the plenty junk…

One of them took us in the downtown. Two siblings of Armenian birth who gave us a ride a few days ago, invited us to an Armenian restaurant (in Beirut, the Armenians occupy an entire district). Then, joining their friends, we visited a bar at the Gemayze street famous for its night life. Later on, some of us went to a salsa-evening where up until 1 am, amongst flushed, happy faces we tried to acquire the basic steps of this Latin dance.

Hitch-hiking back that night, we were given a ride for a while to Tripoli by a two-seated sports car. Not long after we said goodbye to its driver, the 30-year-old guy showed up again and invited us for a drink. Sitting on the beach with one beer each, surrounded by cars moving from the passion of young, active couples in the distance, we were talking about nudism, traveling, the night life of Beirut. It was already dawn when we wearily fell flat on the office’s couches.

translated by Ágoston Galambos

Happy Fox (Lebanon 6.)

Fri, 23 Sep 2011 12:20:00 +0000

We’ve been in Lebanon for almost 6 weeks now. We are waiting for answers from many sources so that we could decide what direction to take next.

People are working on the ship called Boi Branco transporting living animals. Once they are done, the huge mass of iron will leave for South-America. They’ll give us a call if they need extra manpower. In case this happened, we’d ’work ourselves to’ the American continent and our self-educated Spanish lessons would be speeded up thanks to the progress based on the challenging situation. That’s the most solid way of acquiring a smattering (like a level) of a language. Our chances aren’t looking good since we lack any background with ships and the proper documents that in most cases are necessary for a job like this. Still, when the captain and the second officer heard that taking care of animals is not strange to us, they gave us a number and asked to call them in a few days or they will if necessary.

Talal, whose office became our camp is planning a trip to Cyprus which we could be free to join. The most tempting part of this 1-2-day trip is the great traffic of the dock of Cyprus. What also attracted us was –though that would only be a few-day stay in Cyprus- the possibility of seeing what life of a tourist paradise is like not during the season. The departure has been rescheduled for two weeks because of obtaining some official papers.

Even back in Istanbul we applied for the Irani visa. They promised it would take 15 days but we haven’t heard from them for one and a half month. We called the Embassy, the Irani authorithies in vain, no one could answer us and they asked for patience.

Days 95-96. Trip with the Happy Fox

This Saturday we got on the yacht in order to sail out to the nearby islands to fish, swim, dive. Talal, his four children, four relatives and us. We wound out of the little, artificial bay and were out on the sea. We had lunch back near the shore, in about an hour we got to the islands where we dropped anchor and jumped into the water. A huge boat like this has the advantage that it functions as a perfect springboard. Everyone can jump from the height they like, from almost any point of the yacht.

In the midst of our great merriment, the generator stopped. The Sun was just about to set and the ship became slowly covered in darkness. Together with the water movements getting stronger and stronger, the yach started to dance on the surface with bigger swings. Before long, all the kids got seasick so Talal decided that we should get back to the pier. We had to heave the heavy anchor with its 8-millimetre chain-loops manually. Then, apart from the flickering red and green lights on the two sides of the ship, merely with the help of the stars’ and the far Tripoli’s lights were we heading back (the engine started from a separate battery).

In spite of the fact that we sailed through a system of nets which we –though I was standing in the prow with a flashlight and watching the water thoroughly- didn’t notice in time, we arrived at the pier safe and sound. We all slept on the yacht and the next day we’d head out again.

Although we didn’t have a generator in good working order, at least we could manoeuvre at sunlight. We went to another group of islands and began to jump screaming-laughing again.

Soon, a new yacht turned up and tried to cast anchor next to us. Their anchor-engine didn’t work either, and even though they could let the anchor go deep, they couldn’t made it get stuck. Two of us went over to help them manually pull the many metres long heavy chain back. With his little motor boat, the Zodiac, Talal pushed the ship now left, then right so that we could free the chain from among the rocks. Kenneth submerged and paved the way for the anchor, freed it from the prison of stones. After two hours of struggle, it seemed the chain was free again, the anchor got stuck and they managed to fix the chain on the board with an extra rope. Talal sent over to the company of the other ship a bottle of wine as a token of consolation and we got cold water (we didn’t have a working refrigerator) in exchange.

Not long afterwards, Kenneth noticed that the rope of the Zodiac got stuck around our ship’s propeller. We took turns, submerged and cut the rope that became pretty knotty. Over the years, the sharp maritime growth settled on the bottom of the ship did test our body, but after like 90 minutes we succeeded in freeing the propeller. Eventually, the other yacht –with all its chain-trouble- made it back to the dock before we did. Kenneth and I with bloody hands, Talal with bloody back (he cleaned the propellers from the remnants of last day’s net), the 8 children under the influence of seasickness, but still… in great mood did we say goodbye to each other. The two of us stayed on the ship so that we could wash the board the following day, the others rushed home as they’d have to go to school that day.

translated by Ágoston Galambos

Day 117. Rendez-vous (Lebanon 5.)

Sat, 10 Sep 2011 17:50:00 +0000

Sousou worked in a nearby shop that sold mostly sweet pastry. Her ravishing smile attracted me every day to check all Lebanese sweets. Communication was via plain smile and showing the appropriate number of fingers (how many I want from which sweets) until one evening her boss was also there, who spoke English.

I was waiting for the aromatic, cheesy mankoush at our regular ”Syrian” place, when Sousou waved at me from behind the cake counter beside it. I went over to her, where her boss (a ca 40 year old lady) started to talk to me and translated also for Sousou and this is how I got to know that (also) the girl finds me “sympathetic.” When I told them what I was doing in Lebanon and what I am currently involved, they asked for my number, to call me sometimes to ask if I am all right.

The day after I entered the shop with the intention of inviting Sousou for a coffee. As there was nobody there to help in communication, I quickly grabbed a little notepad and drew a table with two coffee cups, two chairs and two figures (one with long hair and one with short) and showed it to her, with a question mark on my face. She seemed to understand and her answer was a nod and a smile. Using my rudimentary knowledge of Arabic, I asked ”when”? She indicated she doesn’t know how to inform me about the time and date. On my mobile I entered the calendar function and gave it to her and she started nodding heavily.

I pointed in front of me with a question: ”today”? She shook her head and said in English ”tomorrow”. ”When”? I asked, making circles on my wristwatch with my finger. She showed 5 fingers, indicating the time. I made circles in the air, looking at the street, to which she showed ”here, in this place”, that is, that we should meet in the shop. Eventually I also bought some of the sweets.

The next afternoon I appeared in the shop at 5 pm in my only (but still quite reasonable) pair of long pants and a shirt with short sleeves. She was clearly still working and she asked me kindly to enter. A gentleman entered the shop after me and asked me in English what I wanted to buy. I started to explain that right now I want nothing, this is not what I am here for, and so he asked me to join him and pointed at a plastic chair out on the sidewalk. I thought that this was the father. I got a chair from Sousou and so we sat down at the sidewalk.

In the next one and a half hours I talked with him, Sousou served the customers in the meantime and chatted (obviously about us) and giggled with other ladies around .

As it soon turned out, it was the uncle of Sousou I was facing. He asked me what I was doing in Lebanon, what I do for a living, do I have a wife or girlfriend, do I have money or have a rich family supporting me and how long I will stay here and whether I want to marry a Lebanese woman. I got to know that he spent years living in Canada and has business interests in numerous countries, and that he has 27 shops in Tripoli and that Sousou is married and will soon give birth to a child. He spoke kindly but with authority.

...he told me about Islam in Lebanon, which is more liberal than for example Islam in Saudi Arabia, but is still very different from Europe(ans). While in our countries a women can marry after losing her virginity and can say she was in love with another man previously, this is why she is not untouched – this is no problem. However, in Islamic Tripoli women will preserve their virginity for their marriage without any exceptions.

He told me that the people of Lebanon pay a double bill for almost everything (electricity, television, insurance, etc.). For electricity for example they pay the State and also the person operating the local aggregator, who provides services during hours of blackout of state electricity (4-6 hours a day). They pay for education as well and if you have no money or no powerful politician among your friends, you will be left out of medical care. What keeps then people alive in 3-4 million strong Lebanon? The regular support of the 17 million Lebanese, who live in other countries of the world and (usually being successful businessmen) do not forget their families. A Lebanese father, if earning USD 200 a month, can only survive if he has e.g. 5 sons or other close relatives, who work abroad and support him with 100-100 dollars a month.

He himself spent 6 years in Canada, 3 years of the 6 he spent working 110 hours a week. Then he came home and opened a little shop. Then another one. Then a third one...and so on. Now he has 27 shops in Tripoli only.

“Perhaps we will have several further discussions, I will get to know you as a good person and maybe invite you for a coffee to my home. You could work in my new café (which he will soon open in place of the cake and Syrian mankoush shop). Maybe. We shall see.”...

When I was on my way to the “rendez-vous”, I was prepared for many things. That perhaps Sousou’s parents and siblings will be there and watch the “appropriateness” of the meeting from nearby. Maybe – although I have told them – it is not clear to her/them that I will soon carry on with the trip and if they get to know this they will call off the whole thing or think badly of me. Or maybe we misunderstood each other and only a chair will be waiting for me so that I can consume the purchased sweets on the spot. And a lot of similar contingencies...

But that Sousou is married and that I, instead of becoming an enemy of the family, make a friendly and very educational contact with her well-travelled uncle – this is something I did not think of in advance.

translated by Szegi

(Nigerian Yam Festival in) Beirut (Lebanon 4.)

Thu, 28 Jul 2011 09:35:00 +0000

Beirut, the city of calm after the storm

As opposed to the Islamic Tripoli, the capitol is more divided religion-wise. On the part that was struck most by the civil war lasting for 15 years and that is the dividing line between the city’s Christian and Islamic parts and is being rebuilt, now mosques and temples stand right next to each other. New, sand-coloured buildings reminding of blocks of flats are being constructed, together with coffee houses, apartments, offices, at the part free of cars.

Everywhere in the city one can encounter the marks of not only the Izraeli attack 3 years ago but also those of the civil wars that ended in the 90s. One of the downtown’s tallest buildings, the exclusive hotel inaugurated in 1975 is now reaching toward the sky deformed. The war started on the day of its opening and during a couple of hours it got totally ruined. A sniper was hiding in the building for months and was decimating the Islamic population from there until troops found him and threw him out.

A huge concrete balloon functioning as a cinema, was able to receive guests for only 6 months. Since then, wind has been blowing through this ’perforated’, dark ruin.

Still, just like in Tripoli, the level of public security is enviable in the capitol. Even during the attacks, when dozens of shops got destroyed and were left there for months with smacked windows and broken doors, nothing got stolen, there was no looting.

’If you cried for help, everyone would rush to your aid. If you shouted „thief”, the entire city would go seek the guilty. Here there’s no crime. But when the bombs come…, run!’

Our host in Beirut, Nasser of Irani birth has been living in Lebanon with his wife and little son for years now. He works for an international magazine, his job involves a lot of traveling, still, for his permanent place of living, he chose this little middle-eastern country. Although he’s got his own flat and car, his son goes to school, he stays here with a tourist visa and no one has ever asked him what he was doing in Lebanon or if he pays the taxes…

…When he was in Yemen, a man accompanying them turned to him to ask if he thinks the state would give them a bulldozer in exchange of a friend of his. They wouldn’t hurt his friend, they are just in need of a bulldozer…

Day 82. Nigerian Yam festival in Beirut

Jane of Nigerian descent who we got to know through Daniel, invited us to their annual gathering, the Yam Festival organized by the Nigerian Embassy.

In a ground-floor building in one of Beirut’s outer districts, merriment and high jinks were present that day. As we entered, a gentleman wearing traditional clothes greeted us nicely and offered us seats. We were given beer and soft drinks. Next to us, there was this gentleman, David, from one of the islands of the Caribbean-sea, representant of the UN. Next to him, there sat an English lady working for a Swedish company, Kelly, who, when she introduced herself to us, said that she –and her company dealing with special packaging- feeds 40 million hungry children all over the world… she showed us photos of thin but smiling children on her cell phone.

In the chamber, the rythmical music was played constantly, people were talking loudly round the tables – in English, as in Nigeria, there are many dialects that differ from each other significantly. At the middle part that was left free –although there was a brief dance performance-, a fairly old lady turned up again and again and was dancing, smiling, with her eyes closed most of the time.

They served the yam (looking much like a huge potatoe) cooked, seasoned with a plant similar to parsley. We got it over with.

Many were dressed in traditional clothes. A wide selection of colours and motives were flickering in front of us, until towards evening the mass started to lessen. Kelly invited us to a nearby restaurant but we rather chose to join a little team heading for the downtown. The ’destination bar’ was closed and the company diminished. We followed Nelly.

Nelly lives alone with her little daughter. Her (ex) husband of Lebanese birth with whom she met back in Nigeria now lives in Sweden. Mother would like to send her 17-year-old daughter to England as soon as she turns 18, and then she would go after her daughter as soon as possible. She was saving for opening a little restaurant but it all got spent when a few months earlier she had to go to a hospital.

translated by Agoston Galambos

Days 70 and 74. Boat hunt in Beirut (Lebanon 3.)

Thu, 21 Jul 2011 00:45:00 +0000

Days 70-74. Boat hunt in Beirut (Lebanon 3.)

Even before stepping on Lebanese lands we decided we’d try to get on a ship. We wouldn’t have been the first ones to pay off in labour and travel on a vast ship. Emails and phone calls were in vain so we devoted two days to leave for the capital from Tripoli in order to ’investigate’ personally.

On the first occasion our goal was to get to the pier and contact some captains. Desperately, trying to make the impression of knowing what we’re doing and where we’re going, we attempted to ’break through’ the main entrance guarded by soldiers. Of course, we were ordered to stop. When we explained we were looking for a job and wanted to talk to captains, to enquire about which ship goes where, we were directed to a nearby little office where we could be (could have been) given permission for entering. Of course, we were not. Instead, they sent us to various agencies dealing with transport of goods: most of them stood in a big building, close to the pier.

A great silent film could have been shot of us running this way and that among the levels, from one agency to the other. Anyone who we talked to, directed us to a different office where we either had been before, or from where we were sent to a third place. Once we unsuccesfully ’executed’ the entire building, we went on to visit two other offices a few blocks away. After a couple of hundred metres, we ran into the other entrance of the dock which also was guarded but we deemed it to be worth a shot. We couldn’t even finish our story properly, the guard waved that we can go in. We couldn’t believe, but we were in!

We’re winding in the maze of containers and trucks until we got to the moles. There were about 15 freighters in the pier – we visited all of them. Most of them were heading for Syria and Egypt. One of them was loaded with stones weighing many tons, the other one was transporting grain, the third one had net of iron on board, the biggest one was just being loaded with cars and was on its way to Panama. Most of the times we couldn’t talk to the captain but we were payed attention everywhere, even when at the end our ’offer’ got regretfully refused.

However, the second biggest ship raised our hopes. They were just working on it, some parts of it were being renovated. Getting inside the hull, we saw numerous sheepfolds on many levels. They were transporting living animals from South-America. The captain listened to our story, then directed us to one of his high-ranking employees. Sharing our former ship experiences with him probably didn’t increase our chance but hearing about our farm past (both of us have worked on farms, with animals) made him start to think about it and eventually, he gave us his number and asked to call him in 3-4 days.

Still, we visited the remaining ships as well but once we were out of the gate of the dock, the South-American ship was our only potential ride.

On the third day we tried to call the number in vain: it didn’t even ring. It wasn’t a Lebanese number, it didn’t have a country code. We needed to go to Beirut anyway, to the police: when we found out that our expired visa was not a problem (we should just pay for the new one when leaving the country), we were heading for the pier once again.

Where formally we were let in, now we weren’t. At the main entrance we didn’t even want to try as our only information was a wrong number. We didn’t know the name of the ship, nor that of the captain. A sudden idea came to Kenneth’s head about how we could find out at least the name of the ship. Getting on top of a tall building near the pier, he took a picture of the ship and zooming it the name became legible: Boi Branco.

On the piece of paper we got on the ship and had the phone number on it, we wrote down the name as well so we were approaching the main entrance with a little hope. A young soldier took sides with us but he couldn’t convince his superior who did not give permission to entering. Another officer tried to help us out as well, he told us to wait two minutes, he’d be back soon. 20 minutes passed but he didn’t show. However, we ran into a third gentleman who we met before, three days ago at a ship. He suggested that we follow him: he’ll help us get in. Kenneth went along with him, I stayed back at the gate in case the officer showed up.

The young soldier tried to talk to his superiors on our behalf many times but he got refused all the time. In the meantime, Kenneth talked to a manager of a shop who sold pipes to the leaders of the Boi Branco as the ship was being renovated. He spoke with the agency on the phone, then went to visit the agent personally. After about two hours of waiting, I stepped to the guards and showed I’d leave my bag and passport at them – anything, they just let me in for 10 minutes. The younger one indicated he’d do it but I need to talk to his superior. So I turned to the officer who, right at that second, got sent for from the gate. In the company of the young soldier, I now turned to another officer. A gentleman wearing civilian clothes joined us, too, and we were pursuading the officer so hard that eventually, he nodded on my offer. I gave him my bag, my papers. A soldier walking right there even offered to give me a ride to the ship.

When we first were there, it was practically illegal so we didn’t want to cause a stir with all our video cameras. At the second time I had to leave all my stuff at the gate…

I climbed up the long stair swinging against the hull; but I didn’t step on board until someone from the ship gave permission. As it turned out, both the captain and his first officer were in their homeland, Syria. They’ll be back after the three-day festival following Ramadan and the ship will set out towards South-America in 10-14 days – depending on how fast the renovation goes. The second officer gave us his number so that we call him after the festival.

Kenneth didn’t find the agent in there but still we had a thing to celebrate: we had a phone number with a name at us – plus, it was a Lebanese number! We stayed in the capital until late evening, so we only made it back to Tripoli, by hitch-hiking, for dawn. The little coffee house where we left the key of the office for Daniel before our journey, was already closed. We went up to the topmost level of the building and on two huge plaster cardboards we fell asleep.

translated by Ágoston Galambos

A m�sodik �v

Thu, 07 Jul 2011 14:45:00 +0000

Az út első évéről a beszámolót itt találjátok.

Még egy év eltelt.

Családom, barátaim, ismerősök és ismeretlenek, kanapészörfösök, autósok és teherautósok – köszönet a támogatásért! Hála Nektek, az expedició első évét egy második követhette újabb helyszinekkel, tapasztalatokkal, kapcsolatokkal.

A második év -az utolsó hónapot leszámitva- szintén Ázsiáról szólt. Egy nemvárt -ám utólag nagy hálával emlegetett- kinai vizumhosszabbitási kudarc útvonalváltoztatásra -Dél-Koreába-kényszeritett. Koreában szerelmes lettem -s e szál a hónapok során többször visszahúzott Ázsia ezen kicsiny országába. Távol-Kelet után Dél-Kelet-Ázsia következett, míg végül -egy hónappal ezelőtt- elbúcsúztam -mégha nem is végleg- a földrésztől és Indonéziából átrepültem Ausztráliába.

Mikor ezt az összefoglalót irom, egy huszonhét éves pickup -mely nem akar beindulni- hátuljában ülök. Egy kamionos pihenőhelytől párszáz méternyire a bozótosban, egy nyugat-ausztrál kisváros, Karratha közelében. Vörös föld, fűcsomók, kis bokrok, néhány fa, madarak, kenguruk. Munkakeresésben vagyok, hogy újratöltve a pénztárcát folytathassam az utat.

Összefoglaló a Kepesita expedició második évérõl:

Megtett távolság: ca. 20000 km (első év: ca. 18000 km)

Fuvarok száma: ca. 200 (első év: ca. 250)

Útvonal: Dél-Korea – Japán – Oroszország – Dél-Korea – Kina – Vietnám – Kambodzsa – Thaiföld – Malájzia – Dél-Korea – Malájzia – Indonézia – Ausztrália

(első év: Magyarország – Szerbia – Montenegró – Albánia – Görögország – Törökország – Sziria – Libanon – Sziria – Törökország – Irán – Pakisztán – India – Nepál – (Tibet) – Kina)

A második évben is volt szerencsém útitársakhoz. Japánban Alexszel másztuk meg a Fuji-t, majd koptattuk Tokió utcáit. Vietnámban Marilynnel bejártuk az ország déli részét, Dél-Koreában pedig a virágzó cseresznyefák csábitottak minket stoppolásra. Thaiföldi fuvarokra pedig az iráni Morival együtt vadásztam.

A magyar National Geographic online magazinjának átalakulását követően a Kepesita Expedició a Nemzeti Geográfiával lépett együttműködésre, melynek köszönhetően a magyar nyelvű útleirások heti sorozat formájában a www.nemzetigeografia.hu -oldalon is olvashatók 2011.március 1. óta.

A művészet, ill. történetmesélés egy új területére is bemerészkedtünk idén. A fiatal amerikai művész, Matthew P. McMillan keze nyomán az útleirások képregény formájában öltenek testet újat és egyedit hozva ezzel mind az útleirások, mind a képregények világába.

Külön hálával tartozom Galambos Ágostonnak és Szeginek, akik a magyar blogok angolra való forditásával rendszeres támogatói az expediciónak, s így a képregény születésében is elengedhetetlen segitséget nyújtanak.

Szintén újdonság a linkekkel gazdagitott útvonal térkép, melynek segitségével könnyebben manőverezhettek a blogok, fotók, videók és utazási tippek között. A sorszámozott helyszinek az új látogatóknak is könnyebbséget jelenthetnek a történet időrendben való olvasásához.

Tovább gyarapodtak az útleirások, fotóalbumok, ill. most már több ázsiai országhoz kapcsolódóan is találtok utazási-, stoppolási tippeket. Ez utóbbiak fórumként olvashatók, így kommentálhatók, kiegészithetők.

A filmezés területén messze elmaradtunk az első évhez képest. Ugyan született néhány videóblog/mozgóképes illusztráció és dolgozunk egy újabb promóvideón, mindenesetre van/lesz mit bepótolni... -amint erre a technikai feltételek (leginkább elektromos áram) lehetőséget adnak.

Előljáróban a harmadik évhez: az első hónapok mindenbizonnyal munkával fognak telni -pénzkeresés, ill. az elmaradt ázsiai blogok megirásával, videók készitésével. Hogy mindezek után merre? -majd kiderül. De valamerre biztos.

The second year

Thu, 07 Jul 2011 14:25:00 +0000

The account on the first year of our journey can be found here.

Another year has passed. Again, saying thanks is first:

My family, my friends, my acquaintances and strangers, couchsurfers, car drivers and truck chauffeurs – thank you for your support! Thanks to You, the first year of the expedition could be followed by a second one, with new places, experiences, connections.

The second year –apart from the last month- was also about Asia. An unexpected –but later on, mentioned with gratefulness- failure of extending the Chinese visa made me change the itinerary – to South-Korea. In Korea I fell in love – and over the months, this thread drew me back to this tiny Asian country many times. After Far-East, South-East-Asia was next, until eventually –a month ago- I said goodbye to this continent –probably not forever- and from Bali I flew to Australia.

Now, as I’m writing this summary, I am sitting in the back of a 27-year-old pickup – which doesn’t seem to want to work. Right next to the vehicle, an generator is making noise. I’m in the bushes, a couple hundred metres far from a rest spot for trucks, near a Western Australian little town, Karratha. Red dirt, grass, small bushes, a few trees, birds, kangaroos. I’m looking for a job, so that with a refilled wallet I could continue the journey.

Short summary about the first year of Kepesita:

Distance traveled: ca 20000 kilometres (first year: ca 18000)

Number of rides: ca 200 (first year: ca 250)

Itinerary: South-Korea – Japan – Russia – South-Korea – China – Vietnam – Cambodia – Thailand – Malaysia – South-Korea – Malaysia – Indonesia – Australia

(first year: Hungary – Serbia – Montenegro – Albania – Greece – Turkey – Syria – Lebanon – Syra – Turkey – Iran – Pakistan – India – Nepal – (Tibet) – China)

During the second year, too, I was blessed with companions. In Japan, Alex and I climbed Mount Fuji and were using up the streets of Tokyo. In Vietnam, Marilyn and I explored the southern part of the country; in South-Korea, the blossoming cherry trees were tempting us to hitch-hiking. I was hunting for rides in Thailand in the company of the Irani Mori.

After the change of the online magazine of the Hungarian National Geographic, the Kepesita Expedition started to co-operate with the Nemzeti Geográfia, thanks to which the Hungarian travelogues can now be viewed at www.nemzetigeografia.hu, in the form of a weekly series, since March 1st, 2011.

This year, we dared enter a new domain of art and story-telling. Thanks to the young American artist, Matthew P. McMillan, the travelogues now take shape in a graphic novel travelogue, thus bringing something new and unique to the world of both graphic novels and travel reports.

I am especially thankful to Galambos Ágoston and Szegi who are permanent supporters of the expedition by translating the Hungarian blogs into English and who thus also made indispensable contributions to making the graphic novel happen.

Another new feature is the itinerary map provided with links, with the help of which you may now manoeuvre more easily amongst the blogs, photos, videos and travel tips. The places are now numbered which help the new visitors read the stories cronologically.

There are even more travelogues, photo albums and now you’ll find tips for traveling and hitch-hiking in connection with many Asian countries. These latter ones are forums so they can be commented on and supplemented.

Regarding filming, this year we lagged way behind last year’s performance. Although some videoblogs/video illustrations have been made and we’re working on a new promovideo, still there’s plenty of stuff to make up for… - as soon as the technical conditions are making it possible.

A few words by way of introduction about the third year: the first months will most likely involve working – earning money and writing the missing Asian blogs, making videos. You’re asking where I’m going next afterwards? – It will turn out. Most certainly somewhere.

translated by Ágoston Galambos

Day 65. In the company of Africans (Libanon 2.)

Wed, 29 Jun 2011 07:35:00 +0000

Amongst lions, in the company of Africans

According to Agnes and Jane, the Lebanese are, from many aspects, more dangerous predators, than the lions of their home, Nigeria or Ghana.

With our Lebanese acquaintance, Daniel and his three friends, the Ghanaian-born Agnes, Jane of Nigerian birth and her son, Kingdom, we went to see the zoo near Beirut. The tiny world of cages lies in the mountains and is home to many exotic animals or at least is a place where we, at the peak of evolution, get to admire them and see how monkeys, lions, bears and others behave under these unnatural circumstances. Although zoology and ethology are topics that can never be talked about too much, we actually spoke about life in Nigeria and Lebanon, as we were walking among the cages.

At many Lebanese housholds we met African and Filipino helpers. Just like them, Jane and her husband came to Lebanon with a contract. Being Nigerian, this is almost the only country where they could be given a visa to enter, and, through agencies they could be placed at a family where they would cook, wash, clean – i.e. serve. They have come here on a three-year contract. They often had to work from 5 am to midnight, they were hardly given any food and, when the family went out, they were locked inside. Once the contract expires, the agency takes its share, they are paid almost nothing, only their flight back home.

Agnes was born in Ghana but she also lived in Nigeria. Desperately, she told stories about how miserably people in Lebanon treat black people. Her husband is Lebanese, their nine children are allowed to finish school but they won’t be given any certificate. Her Islamic husband has two stores, but, as a wife, she has no say in the business, she is not allowed to work. Not like in Nigeria! There, even the women work, she could do whatever she’d like.

They were telling us about Africa, Nigeria, longing but with sadness. Although many countries are rich in various minerals, due to the lack of proper education, technique and money they are unable to exploit it. Foreign companies are invading, the weak African governments are not capable of standing up for the rights of people, for the state so the money flows out of the country. And the people, well, they either stay silent, or they don’t even know what’s going on, like in Togo, from where phosphate goes directly to France.

No matter how rich in oil Nigeria is, there’s no fuel, no infrastructure, no jobs, people are ill and forced to steal. The new generations get weaker and weaker, thus reducing the chance of a change.

They have to go back to Nigeria before their passport expires as in Lebanon they can’t be given a new one. Not like back at home, where they could get a fake one at any corner, which, in exchange of a little money, would get them across the border as well. Whereas in our case, the state, the Big Brother knows everything about everyone, the Nigerian state does not even know if a person exists, not to mention if that person is home or abroad.

However, in many African countries we found Lebanese business people, in great houses, with much power.

Agnes needs to stay in Lebanon because of the three children who still live with her; Jane has taken root in Tripoli: her husband and her 9-year-old son, Kingdom. Both mothers, escaping discrimination, have found refuge at Jehova’s witnesses.

translated by Ágoston Galambos

541-552.nap Long Hai, Mekong �s HCMC (Vietn�m 3.)

Fri, 27 May 2011 03:50:00 +0000

541-544.nap Long Hai

Kisebb utakon, négy busszal értük el az egykori uralkodó nyári rezidenciájául, ma pedig helyi turisták hétvégi üdülőhelyéül szolgáló Long Hai-t. Szerencsénkre hétköznap kopogtattunk a kis, családok vezette hotelek ajtaján, igy -némi “kavarás” után- jó áron jutottunk szálláshoz.

A parton nagyobb köveket rejtő, sekély viz, kisebb hullámok és a turisták, ill. a Mekong hozta (a torkolattól nem messze fekszik a város) szemét fogadott. A hétköznapokon pangó, a hétvégéken nagyforgalmú éttermek és néhány árus uralta a viz és az út közötti részt.

A helyi buddhista templomot vicsorgó kutyák őrizték, így -hiába a csábitó énekszó- nem jutottunk be. Az általunk otthon megszokott rideg, már-már ijesztő temetők helyett itt színes sirkövek alkotta, csöppet sem nyomasztó hangulatú „kertek” hirdették a „halál létét”.

...Épp a sárkány-gyümölcs ára után érdeklődtünk egy árusnál, mikor egy angolul igen jól beszélő, idősebb úr lépett hozzánk és segitett ki a kommunikációban. Az ezt követő néhány napban pedig többször felbukkant, mindig épp akkor, mikor jól jött a segitsége. Ilyenkor a semmiből felhangzott a „Hungáriii”-kiáltása, s egy pillanat múlva már mellettünk is volt. Önzetlen segitőnk anno az amerikaiak oldalán, helikopterpilótaként harcolt a háborúban, melyért később hét év börtönnel „fizetett”...

Itt töltöttük a szilvesztert is. Néhány itallal és zenével, egy hatalmas erkélyen ücsörögve, békésen léptük át 2011 küszöbét.

545.nap Ben Tre

A Mekong deltájának világába akartunk eljutni, s úgy nézett ki, ezt csakis HCMC-n (volt Saigon) keresztül tehetjük meg. Buszra szálltunk észak felé. Nyitva tartottuk a szemünket, hogy majd idő előtt kiszállva stoppal folytassuk az utunkat, ám végig lakott részeken mentünk keresztül és szinte mindenhol útfelújitások akadályozták a forgalmat. Nem volt vonzó e káosz. Máig talány maradt, hogy hol is kezdődött maga a nagyváros.

HCMC-n helyi járattal vágtunk át, majd egy újabb busszal estére el is értük Ben Tre kihaltnak tűnő központját. Egyedüli turistákként léptünk a csendes buszpályaudvar talajára, ám akkor hirtelen motoros taxisok hada rohant elő a semmiből és úticélunk felől érdeklődtek. Azzal természetesen nem szolgálhattunk. Egyikük különösen agressziv volt, szállást is ajánlott és a Lonely Planet-re hivatkozva, az aktuális oldalt az orrunkba nyomva győzködött minket. Komoly erőfeszitésbe és -sajnos- némi „türelemvesztésbe” került, míg sikerült magunkra maradnunk és felmérhettük, hol is voltunk. Sehol.

Felkészületlenségemet bizonyitotta, hogy egy Velence-tipusú vízi város helyett egy egyértelműen lapos és nagy kiterjedésű városban voltunk, s a viznek nyoma sem volt. Be kellett látnom, hogy akár tetszik, akár nem, ha nem akarunk órákat gyalogolni a sötétben, akkor élnünk kell az úr ajánlatával.

546.nap Csónakút és pók-kaland

Napfényben derült csak ki igazán, milyen helyre csöppentünk. Bár jó pár épület és egy kisebb étterem is tartozott a vendégházhoz, annak bensőséges hangulatát a hely rejtettsége, a kerti növényzet és a család tagjainak -gyerekek, rokonok- szinte állandó jelenléte fenntartotta. Reggelinél, némi alkudozás után elfogadtuk vendéglátónk csónakutas ajánlatát.

Egy kedves öreg úr vezérletével, hol motoros, hol evezős csónakkal jártuk be a delta labirintust idéző, szűk ágait. A buja növényzet, a szürke ég és a mély, barna szinű viz rejtelmes külsőt kölcsönzött e „nyitott alagutaknak”. 40 éve még gerillaharcok uralták a környéket, ma már pedig nyugodt falvacskák várják a turistahajókat. Ellátogattunk egy kókuszt feldolgozó kis szigetre, ahol különböző édességeket, kókuszbort és még kigyópálinkát is kóstóltattak velünk. Számunkra addig ismeretlen gyümölcsök, phyton a nyakba -minden sziget valami újjal várt. Utolsó állomásunk a „Kókusz Monk” szigete volt, aki anno az ország elnöki posztjára is pályázott igérvén, hogy hét nap alatt összebékiti északot és délt, majd lemond. Az otthonául szolgáló sziget egy épületében egy fotó lóg a falon, mely őt és „neveltjeit”, a békében egymás mellett élő egereket és macskákat ábrázolja.

Sötétedett, s míg a csónakra vártunk, vezetőnk arról mesélt, miként hóditotta meg a ma már feleségeként élő hölgyet félénken barátjával küldözgetett szerelmes levelekkel.

Már este volt, mire visszaértünk a szállásunkra. Épp a tornácon ücsörögtem, mikor Marilyn jelent meg egy szál törülközőben és sürgetően-ijedten a fürdőszobába küldött. Gondoltam, egy nemkivánt vendég hátráltatta a vizes projektet. Végülis nem tévedtem.

Beléptem a fürdőbe, néztem ide, néztem oda, de nem láttam semmit. Épp visszafordultam, mikor az ajtó mellett megláttam a keresett jószágot. Én az öcsémmel keresztespókokat fogdosva nőttem fel..., de az, amit ott láttam a falon, na az sok volt. Pontosabban egy tenyérnyi, barna, szőrős, nyolclábú szörny.

A felfedezést követő egy óra hiábavaló harccal, üldözéssel folyt. Míg én a fél szobát átrendezve, az ellenséget üldözve próbáltam eleget tenni férfiúi -akkor, ott nem annyira kivánt- kötelezettségemnek, Marilyn egy széken állva erősitette a csapatot.

A csatát lépésről-lépésre vesztettük el. A remény, miszerint egy szörny sebessége a méretével egyenes arányban csökken már az első percben elhalt -a fürdőszobaajtó egyetlen mozdulatára háziállatunk gyalogkakukkot megszégyenitő sebességgel spurizott át a nappaliba. Hogy miként fért át a zsanérok adta résen, arra talán csak Jackie Chan tudná a választ..., de hát a fürdőszobának amúgy sem volt teteje, egy légtérben volt magával a szobával, azaz ez a fajta költözés amúgy sem lett volna akadály.

A feladat igazán csak ezt követően lett feladva, hisz mi más állhatott legközelebb a fürdő ajtajához, mint a nagy, öreg, repedt, „sosem volt elmozditva”-ágy. Egy speciális pókölő felmosórúddal felfegyverkezve még két alkalom adódott a nyilt harcra, mielőtt az ellenség végleg megfutamodott -azaz elrejtőzött az ágyunkban.

Derék hátvédem stratégiája... bájosnak volt mondható. „Szerinted hova tünt? Ah, vigyázz ott van!” -mire én szivleállva, hatalmasat ugrottam. „Ja, az csak egy szörpamacs volt, bocs.” Tehát hiába a csapatmunka, nem jártunk sikerrel. Kétszer döftem az ellenség felé, ám a fegyver halálos rongyfeje még félúton sem volt, a célpont már az ágy egy másik szegletében járt.

Maradt hát a költözés. Vendéglátónk kinn szunyókált egy függőágyban. Ébresztésünkre közölte, hogy Vietnámban nincsenek is nagy pókok..., de azért kaptunk egy másik szobát. A szomszédban. Végül csak álomba szenderültünk.

547-551.nap HCMC

Egy, a faluban megejtett délelőtti sétával búcsúztunk a Mekong-delta vidékétől, majd buszra szállva Dél fővárosa felé vettük az irányt. A sofőr azon vietnámiak közé tartozhatott, akik a mindennapjaikban -mint itt mindenki- kis motorral közlekednek, ám egy nagyobb busz kormánya mögé ülve élvezettel használják ki a jármű „elsöprő erejét”. „A gyengébb úgyis kitér az útból”-hozzáállással repesztettünk HCMC felé.

A turisták által előnyben részesitett negyed egy szűk, bár forgalmas sikátorában végül megtaláltuk előre lefoglalt szobánkat, majd egy jó zuhany után belevetettük magunkat az éjszakába. Aznapra már a Nha Trang-i csapatból a legtöbben szintén elérték Ho Chi Min városát, így baráti társasággal poharakat üritve teltek az órák.

Az elkövetkezendő két napban bejártuk a környéket. Az utakon annyi motoros siet ide vagy oda, hogy az a kevés autó elveszik a sokaságban. Gyalogosként -bár áthatolhatatlan falnak tűnik a moped-raj- a ritmus megtalálásával azért csak át-átkeltünk. Némi vásárolgatás és persze baráti sörözgetések mellett egy múzeumot is felkerestünk.

A War Remnants Museum látogatók sokaságát fogadja évente a falai között. Nem szépit. Fotókon, leirásokon, tárgyakon és személyes történeteken keresztül mutatja be a háború, a háborús bűnök vagy épp a vegyi fegyverek bevetésének következményeit a vietnámi, ill. az indokinai háborúra koncentrálva állandó kiállitásain. A termekben -bár tele vannak helyi és külföldi látogatókkal- csend honol.

Az elkövetkezendő nap reggele a búcsút jelentette Marilyntől és barátainktól -szabadságuk leteltével visszahivta őket a munka Koreába. Marilynnel egy koreai viszontlátás reményében búcsúztunk el egymástól.

Én is összepakoltam és magam mögött hagyva a turistás negyedet olcsóbb szállás után kezdtem kutatni. Végül a folyó másik oldalán vettem ki egy szobát. Néhány órát a blogokkal foglalkoztam, majd este találkoztam Nicole édesapjával, Greggel, aki dél-kelet-ázsiai körútja révén találkozott és -egy ideig- utazott velünk. Nem először járt Ázsia ezen csücskében -a '70-es években feleségével már bejárta az akkor még „érintetlen” Indonéziát.

A saigoni „alvilág”, az illegális -ám megtürt- állat piac után nyomoztam. A fél belvárost bejártam, mindenfelé kérdezősködtem és a kör idővel egyre szűkült... míg végül egy épitkezési területen találtam magam. A hirhedt, vadállatokat is „forgalmazó” piacból már csak két kis, néhány madarat és kigyót kináló árus maradt. Nem tudtam teljes szivből örülni eme felfedezésnek, hisz nehéz elképzelni azt, hogy idővel ne találjon új utat és helyszint magának egy ilyen mocskos, nagy pénzeket megmozgató üzleti ág.

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A vietnámi vizumom lejártának napja egybeesett az aktuális dátummal, igy ideje volt búcsút vennem ettől az országtól. Már magasan járt a nap, mire összepakoltam, s két, mindenjóval töltött bagettel a kezemben elindultam a buszpályaudvar felé. Már csurgott rólam a viz, mikor a megfelelő busz után érdeklődtem a kis épületben. Meglepetésemre fejcsóválás volt a válasz, majd egy papirra felkerült egy számjegy és egy másik buszállomás neve. Igy ismét átvágtam a mopedek és buszok káoszán és elindultam a megadott irányba. A turista negyed közelébe érve egy turista irodában újabb papirt kaptam egy újabb számjeggyel, s visszaküldtek a már ismert buszállomásra. Egy óra múlva már útban voltam a határ felé.

Bár több, mint két órás volt a buszút, szinte végig lakott részen vezetett. A határátkelés gyorsan és bonyodalmak nélkül zajlott le. A kambodzsai vizumot a határon állitották ki -2 perc alatt, 20 dollárért.