A quick 35 minute flight from Trinidad. Grenada is an island (21 miles long by 12 miles wide) in the West Indies and an independent commonwealth of the UK.
It’s our vacation from our vacation. Three days of vegetating by the clear, warm turquoise waters of the eastern Caribbean Sea.
Dreadlocks in my space!
See ya in the USA….
Paramaribo, Suriname is an hour from the airport. Our flight was at 5:00 am so we booked a stay in a guesthouse 10 minutes from the airport.
We arrived after dark and upon exiting the van it felt as if we were dropped off in Vietnam. Hot and muggy.
Our room – perfectly frigid, basic and spotless. The bathroom down the hall was a stifling 130 degrees without any air movement. It appeared to have 4 rooms but were the only guests.
A very sweet husband and wife team run the guesthouse although only Sonja got her name above the door.
Sonja’s husband said he’d be ready and waiting at 2:45 am to drive us to the airport. Why so early? Of course knowing I had to get up that early my body decided to stay awake the whole, short night. UGH.
The airport terminal building was a large heavy plastic tent. Two airlines had flights out that early in the morning. We thought we’d be the first to arrive but were amongst the last.
We were headed to Trinidad nicknamed Land of the Hummingbirds . An island 6.8 miles off the coast of Venezuela – the 5th largest is the West Indies.
After gaining an hour back in time we arrived at our hotel while everyone else was still sleeping. Thank goodness our room was ready. After a quick breakfast we headed to bed. It was raining, we were dead tired and why not?
This was only a quick one night trip.
The hotel was next to the 270 acre Queen’s Park Savannah where stunning mansions were built between 1902 and 1910, known as the Magnificent Seven. Something I wanted to see.
The rain paused and the clouds parted mid-afternoon so we grabbed the opportunity to walk to the park. Fortunately, I left my good camera in the room. About a mile out and after having seen the homes the sky was darkening. Hoping to get back before the rain fell was wishful thinking. Crossing the treeless park looked to be faster than continuing around the perimeter of the park. It mattered not because five minutes later the sky opened up and bawled its eyes out. Saturating us in minutes. Bill’s umbrella and my raincoat didn’t stand a chance.
The rain was so abundant the streets became rivers – Bill had on his flip flops. We arrived back at the hotel 20 minutes later absolutely soaked to the bone. The front desk staff brought us a towel and put the wet floor sign down after we sloppily made a path to the elevator.
We wrung out our clothes, took a warm shower and headed to the covered rooftop bar.
Cocktails, snacks and a few hands of cards closed the day.
That was our stay in Trinidad.
Back to Paramaribo, Suriname to finish what we started. We met a great group of people on the border crossing boat who all spoke English. A lady who currently lives in French Guiana having escaped Vietnam in 1975, a man from Laos and another from Cambodia all going to Suriname for the Easter weekend.
Like the masochists we are we decided to walk in the heat of the day to the Arya Diwaker Hindu Temple – a mere 5 plus miles.
We passed through the bustling Central Market where herbs and dried greens were stacked high and sold for medicinal purposes.
Having been warned that the women shopkeepers didn’t like their photographs taken, I took heed and asked a gal for permission to take photos of her goods, promising to exclude her. She kindly said yes and oh what a stir that caused. Another shopkeeper came running up to cuss me out. In my best English I told her to take it up with the person who gave me permission. Bam.
We took a boat trip up the Suriname and Commewinje Rivers that led us to Nieuw-Amsterdam, Rust-Werk, Johan-Margaretha and Plantage Frederiksdorp. Like visiting the landlocked country of Eswatini (Swaziland) last year – it felt a bit like forced tourism. I’ll be kind and just say…
We enjoyed being on the water. The breeze from the boat’s movement cooled the pools of sweat on our bodies. We played Where’s Waldo with the frolicking dolphins that live in the brackish waters. Our boat weaved and bobbed in the swift river current. It was the highlight of the day.
Plantage Frederiksdorp looked charming on the internet. It’s an old plantation turned hotel/resort. Our last stop. A two hour stop! UGH! Two hours. It was suggested that we relax by the pool. Apparently good and relaxing for people with no sense of smell!! The moldy, black, stagnant water sitting in the canals around the pool and bar reeked so badly that I had to hold my breath and briskly walk back towards the entrance to get some relief. Poor Bill was also gagging but wondered where the fire was. I didn’t want to have to take a breath until I was clear of the area. Under the shade of a big tree we did relax and read.
Below the surface and unseen, drug and human trafficking are evil problem in these adjoining countries – a gateway to the United States and Europe.
Our take away from Suriname is the people. Very warm and friendly. We loved that, from our point of view, many cultures communed without animosity. Our boat captain said it still a work in progress…
We’re super glad that we explored this part of South America. It’s not on the bucket list for most Americans but we’re honored for having been the few.
From Bill: Guyana in indigenous lingo means “Land of water” and included two additional land areas north and south prior to colonization. There is much water. Basically one paved road runs from Venezuela to Brazil on the coast where more than 50% of each country’s population lives.
The populations are very diverse, mostly from importing slaves, or post-slavery, “indentured workers” from Java, India and somehow, China. Its a bit strange to see some of these nationalities on horseback and tractors, or to hear unusual languages spoken by differing nationalities (e.g. Chinese speaking French). However, the dominant nationality is African, presumably because there were more slaves than slave masters.
Back to Cayenne to our little apartment. It was actually great if we only could have moved it to a different location.
*click on photos to enlarge
French Guiana has a strong Creole culture. They speak French and Creole – very few speak English. It’s part of France, henceforth the E.U. and uses the Euro. The locals feel like France’s ugly stepchild and are quite bitter about France taking the gold and oil profit from the region and sending it back to France.
Per Wikipedia – The first French establishment was recorded in 1503, but they did not establish a durable presence until colonists founded Cayenne in 1643, were forced to leave by Amerindian attacks and then finally established a permanent settlement in 1664. They lost it again to the Dutch, English and Anglo-Portuguese until 1814 when it returned to French control.
After France ceded Louisiana to the United States in 1804, it developed Guiana as a penal colony, establishing a network of camps and penitentiaries along the coast where prisoners from Metropolitan France were sentenced to forced labour…. Approximately 56,000 prisoners were sent to Devil’s Island.
Per Britannica: In 1852 Napolean III decreed that convicts with sentences of more than seven years were to be sent to French Guiana, and Cayenne became known as the city of the condemned. The prisons were closed in 1945.
Cayenne is hilly and charming as heck with old French colonial wooden houses and swaying palm trees resting between the Cayenne and Mabury rivers.
Worse than the large wide river in Oiapoque the narrow rivers near Cayenne completely stop navigation at low tide. The boats look like shipwrecks from a storm. I can feel the hurl rising in my throat when our cabbie talks about the local fresh fish sold in the streets of Cayenne.
The ruins of the hilltop Fort Cépérou allow for beautiful long views of the city, river and beyond.
An hour west of Cayenne and heading back towards Suriname is the town of Kourou. Our next stop for a couple days.
Kourou is home to the home of the Guiana Space Center. The main spaceport of France and the European Space Agency.
According to space.com: The French government began launching satellites there in 1964, and offered to share it with the European Space Agency when the latter was created in 1975. ESA contributes two-thirds of the spaceport’s annual budget every year. The spaceport has also been used for launches for the United States, Japan, Canada, India and Brazil, among other countries.
Like many launch sites worldwide, Kourou is located near the equator. Its latitude is 5 degrees 3 minutes north, ESA says, which makes it a good location to launch missions that will operate at or near the equator. That’s because the Earth’s rotation acts as an extra source of propulsion for the rocket as it brings the satellite into space, saving fuel and money. It also allows for satellites to be heavier since less fuel is required.
Off the coast of Kourou is the famous Devils’ Island part of the three Îles du Salut, or the Salvation Islands known from 1852 to 1953 as “the Green Hell”. A penal colony housed more than 80,000 men (only 30,000 survived). The movie starring Steve McQueen tells the story of Henri Charrière, the author of Papillon, and his efforts to get away.
L’ile St. Joseph and Ile Royal are open to the public. An hour and a half boat ride from Kourou. Devil’s Island is permanently closed.
The coconut population – in the palms and on the ground was innumerable. At a quick glance the faded piles of coconuts looked like skulls. The islands were stunning, a stark contrast to the horrors of the past.
It reminded me of Alcatraz in San Francisco, California and Robben Island in South Africa.
It was hot and humid!
After French Guiana we headed back to Suriname to spend a bit more time. I’m not a big fan of backtracking but flying out of French Guiana is insane – flights are only to Paris and Martinique.
A shared van showed up right on time. It’s quite a remarkable system that we’ve experienced in Guyana, Suriname and now French Guiana. These drivers pick up passengers at their homes, hotels, etc and drop them back off as well – there’s no main terminal like a bus company.
We rode from Cayenne to St. George’s (French border). The only other passenger was a Polish guy who spoke no English but recited all the countries where he has traveled in the world. The list was exceptionally long. He only possessed a tiny, half full backpack that could hardly hold another set of clothes his body odor confirming such a thought.
The shoulder-less roads were windy and the ground undulating with the rise and fall of the jungle. Wild banana and papaya trees lined the road, as well as an occasional rusted, burnt out car with its tires missing. Do they not have means to remove them or this is a public service announcement? It did give me pause nonetheless.
Our French and Portuguese speaking driver whizzed along breaking for the one lane bridges that sprang up forcing the cooperation of drivers in both directions.
At the border we thought we’d cross the Oyapock River by boat but we signaled the need for a passport stamp, confusing the driver. He drove us to the police station just before the entrance of the Franco-Brazilian Binational Bridge.
This bridge was finished in 2011 but sat unused for 6 years, citing problems on the Brazilian side. It was finally opened due to pressure from French Guiana. It’s the first bridge between French Guiana and a neighboring country. Since Brazil has not built a customs facility the bridge is only for personal vehicles- no commerce. It’s only open for 4 hours in the morning and 4 hours in the afternoon and closed on weekends.
The police at the French Guiana border waved his hand in the air when he realized we were only going into Brazil for hours, signaling that we didn’t need a passport stamp. He kindly called us a taxi and we were on our way.
The immigration office on the Brazilian side was in downtown Oiapoque. When we explained that we’d only be there for hours the English speaking immigration officer laughed and said he’d stamp our passport as a souvenir.
With his suggestion for the best restaurant we parted ways with our Polish world traveling friend and headed for lunch. The sleepy little town didn’t offer much so we filled our bellies and strolled.
Fishermen in all these countries net fish from boats on the big rivers and ocean. Some hang their nets in the river and check them every 5-6 hours. Some boats go to sea for 14 days and only have ice to preserve their catch – no refrigeration.
Oiapoque sits on the edge of the Amazon basin, and looks like a thousand other small river towns all the west to Peru – one story wooden buildings, dusty dirt streets, mostly indigenous people, folksy crafts for sale and all the action is along the river
The low tide renders the boats useless in the brackish waters at the river’s edge. Several fishermen were working on their nets while others were just hanging out.
Per Wikipedia: At the beginning of the 20th century, the village of Oiapoque hosted a political and criminal concentration camp called Clevelândia. In 1922 an agricultural outpost called the Núcleo Colonial Cleveland was transformed into a camp. Many Brazilian anarchist militants were sentenced to hard labour here. Of the 946 prisoners interned at Clevelândia between 1924 and 1927, 491 died. Many of the survivors returned to São Paulo and Rio de Janeiro sickened with malaria
Leaving Oiapoque we crossed the border at the river’s edge since immigration wasn’t an issue. One of the passengers in our boat was a local English speaking lawyer/musician who relayed stories about the area.
Silver dollar pancake sized raindrops pelted us for a time on our ride back to Cayenne – alternating between deluges and sunshine.
The immigration process in Balate, Suriname was quick but the line that led to the counter was long. We were the last to go through.
The van driver in Guyana said his brother would be waiting for us on the other side along with the same passengers. Well that ship sailed and we were ushered into a small rickety non-van. The only seats available – one in the second row and one in the pull down 3rd row next to the luggage. I was snug as a bug and comfortable. My view was hindered by the crusty filth on the windows, which bottled water and toilet paper couldn’t clean. At least I had the luggage to lean on.
*click on photos to enlarge
** my dirty window is below
This part of the drive lasted 3.5 hours. The young father of two sitting next to Bill started talking to us near the end of the trip. He is an entrepreneur making and selling natural soaps, and edible food enhancement oils. He spoke Dutch, English, and Creole. He’d been to the USA with a UN learning program a few years back for 5 months. Quite remarkable.
90% of Suriname is covered in rainforest. The highest proportion of any country in the world per Wikipedia.
As early as the 4th millennium BC Suriname was inhabited by the indigenous. The British arrived in the 16th century and then the Dutch took control in the late 17th century. At this time the sugar industry was huge and plantation owners imported and used African slaves until it was abolished in 1863 – then indentured servants were brought over from Asia – the Dutch East Indies and British India. In 1954 the Netherlands took control and finally, in 1975 Suriname gained its independence.
It is the only country outside of Europe that speaks Dutch.
Dutch
Our destination- Paramaribo – the capital. Located on the banks of the Suriname River and a UNESCO World Heritage site.
Suriname is one of the more diverse nations globally with no one ethnic group forming a majority. Maroon, Amerindian, Chinese, Hindus, Javanese, Creole, Dutch live and worship side by side. Add to that a mosque adjacent to a synagogue in Parbo (the local name for Paramaribo, as well as the popular local beer).
On Sunday Chinese and Javanese markets open up selling fruits, vegis and their national food dishes.
Downtown, the colonial Dutch architecture is stunning. If I squint I glimpse Charleston. Block after block of tall and proud homes line the streets.
Crews were setting up for a huge Hindu celebration called Phagwah which was to take place the afternoon we were leaving. A German singing sensation named The Gentleman (reggae music) and his entourage checked in our hotel with quiet fanfare – one of the headliners for the celebration.
Due to hotel availability, Easter, immigration office hours, etc we decided to head east to French Guiana allowing us to return to Suriname without interruption.
The process for getting to French Guiana was much like the last border crossing. Land – river -land. It took 2.5 hours by van to Albina which rests on the Maroni River that separates Suriname and French Guiana.
The ride was stunning. There was a single lane in each direction with no traffic and not many buildings – it was mostly jungle. Goats and cows grazed in the side of the road. Where there wasn’t jungle wide canals lined the road separating farmland from the beach on one side and jungle on the other.
As we neared French Guiana the iron rich ground gave way to sandy white soil.
A new high school has been built closer to Albina and children who once took a 2 hour bus ride to Paramaribo for a 7:00 am start time now get to sleep in.
It looks as though, in these three countries, that there is one road, north and south, two lane and paved. Virtually any other road is dirt, except for the one to the gold mines.
They all seem to have some agriculture and industry between the shore and the jungle/mountains. There are livestock and cowboys on horses, but they don’t look like South American Gauchos. The sky was gray from burning the jungle.
This immigration process took a whole minute – fastest one ever!
It was a short walk to the river where we boarded a long skinny wooden boat which delivered us to Saint Laurent du Maroni, French Guiana in 15 minutes and our next adventure begins….
I wondered who would be on our flight from Miami to Guyana since Guyana is not a big tourist destination.
Lined up, one after another were millennial aged guys sporting beards, baseball caps and wearing either a polo shirt or a checkered button up. The lack of women was noticeable.
Over the past decade, Guyana has found huge amounts of oil and gas under its coastal waters. We assume the guys are part of the workforce or there’s an international log rolling competition in the country.
We landed at the Cheddi Jagan International Airport about 10:15 pm. Research showed that the closest hotels to the airport were in the capital city of Georgetown an hour’s drive away (for a point of reference later on, we paid $50.00 for the taxi ride to our hotel).
I made up in my mind that since there were no hotels along the way it had to be jungle. Not at all. The main road was lined with commercial buildings, restaurants and homes.
Compared to our home town it was bustling. Major businesses were closed but mom and pops were open and active.
The line of traffic heading towards the airport was steady and our lane was clogged with construction vehicles. The taxi driver said two more flights were due in.
*click on photos to enlarge
The capital of Georgetown sits at the mouth of the Demerara River and the Atlantic Ocean with approximately 235,000 inhabitants. Named the Garden City of the Caribbean.
A British colony was established in 1781 and named for King George. In subsequent years it was renamed and ruled by the French and Dutch. Reverting back to Georgetown after it was recaptured by the British in 1812.
It’s the 3rd smallest and one of the poorest countries in the Western Hemisphere, and the only English speaking country in South America.
Per Britannica – Georgetown is the chief commercial and manufacturing centre of Guyana. It exports sugar, rice, and tropical fruits, as well as timber, balata, bauxite, gold, and diamonds from the Guyanese hinterland. Large sugar refineries are located in the city.
Per Paige – open, stagnant, garbage filled and extremely smelly canals/drainage ditches sadly line all the streets.
The town is full of beautiful, wooden colonial houses suffering from benign neglect.
The area closet to our hotel (the receptionist’s name was Nevada) was industrial with lots of commercial and government buildings, as well as the U.S. and Canadian embassies.
Our personal favorite was exploring the Stabroek Market which sits on the river’s edge and opened in 1792, bustling with the sounds of Creole rising above the hum of money exchange.
As we ventured away from the main downtown corridor fenced-in eclectic homes popped up like bunnies on viagra. Most are made of wood and some raised off the ground with stilts.
It’s visually obvious that Georgetown and beyond rest below sea level. Now – the dry season water fills the ditches and canals. I’m afraid to think of what the rainy season brings.
It averaged 87 degrees and according to our weather app felt like 97 with humidity hanging around 70 percent.
For the same cost as an hour taxi ride from the airport we hired a driver to take us out of the country and deliver us to our hotel in Paramaribo, Suriname. A mere 12 1/2 hour journey…..
It could have been an hour and a half flight but we would have missed the journey.
It began at 4:00 am in a mini van with 5 other people for a 3 hour ride to the ferry which took us to the border of Suriname.
The Guyana countryside was fascinating. The main road was lined with homes (all fenced) with a wide canal in their front yards. Wooden walking bridges allowed access.
*These photos were taken from the car (except for the first two). The driver made us keep the window closed because the A/C was on.
Every so often a portion of a canal was full of the most beautiful, large lilies. Horses and burros pulled long carts with construction goods. Palm trees swayed tall on the horizon and every half a mile or so a new sign popped up announcing the town’s name. On both sides of the border there was farming, felt like Iowa with large harvesting equipment, but it was primarily rice.
The ferry immigration process was rather quick and a two hour wait for the ferry allowed time to curl up on a bench and catch some zzzz’s.
It took 45 minutes as an old makeshift tug boat pushed us across the Corentyne River to the border of Suriname.
We’ve added Guyana to our future travel plans where we’ll hop on a small plane and travel inland to the jungle – one of the last untouched and pristine in the world.
Catch you on the other side of the river…
And we’re off…… flying toward the sunrise.
It’s been a quick 9 months (say those words to a pregnant woman) since we returned from our last international voyage as we made our best effort to follow the Silk Road – ending with a Spanish decompression where tapas/pinchos y copas de vino ruled the day.
A South American journey was scheduled last year before heading to the Central
Asia when covid knocked on our flimsy door and forced us to cancel.
Since then we’ve bebopped the USA visiting kids/grandbabies while somehow filling every moment in between. I don’t know if it’s keeping us younger or wearing us out! Either way, it’s etched a long road maps on my face. Tee hee.
For the next few days we’ll fuel up on grandbaby hugs before heading to Guyana.
Stay tuned….
The wooden long boat ride from the Suriname border to French Guiana across the Maroni River lasted 15 minutes.
We had read that we needed to be sure to go to the immigration office at the police station on the French Guiana side because most boats cross further down the river and bypass this process. The assumption was that there would be waiting taxis to take us to the capital, Cayenne.
Yeah, well, not so much… Thank goodness the female, French immigration officer spoke English and she guided us in a specific direction where we might find one.
Note to self…. don’t ever pack your Tumi suitcase for an international trip again – never, ever! I don’t even like my Tumi. It was a backup for Charleston and used very little. It was the smallest suitcase, which was important. The wheels are tiny and the pull handle is flimsy.
I had to pull that stupid suitcase down the bumpy, gravelly, pothole filled road. We couldn’t use the safer earthen walking path that paralleled the street because I had my Tumi! Bill brought our old work horse Eagle Creek roller that has 28 years and several trips around the globe on it. You can’t ruin that one and it even turns into a backpack.
The area started out quasi industrial then turned residential /commercial. There was a group of guys hanging out at an apartment complex. One popped up and asked if we needed a ride. Of course we did but Safety 101 says “heck no, we’re just out for a stroll”. Bill and I looked at each other trying to telepathically decide how to answer. Yes. We need a ride. Follow me.
We walked towards the shore (good sign) where he introduced us to Kinglal – Bob Marley with 30 years on him – wearing a long knitted cap with his beard tucked behind his t-shirt and sporting a yellow, green and red polo.
We followed him to the shore where the “non-immigration” boats arrive. What a racket. He showed us his van and asked us to wait as he had two more passengers arriving.
Kinglal was a man in charge – completely engrossed in the busy situation unfolding – passengers getting on and off the boats, suitcases and bags of goods going to and fro, at the same time he’s checking for his passengers and people are trying to visit with him.
One passenger finally showed and the other should arrive anytime. Wait – just wait. An hour and a half later and thoroughly ticked off – stood up by a client – he loaded us up, drove 30 feet, stopped and told us get out and get in another van. He grumbled about how much time he had wasted – blah, blah, blah….
Off we went. Rolling hills and jungle for three bouncy (van’s shocks were shot) hours before we showed up at a grungy apartment complex where we’d be staying. There were no hotels available (a downside to traveling without specific plans) and this was Plan B.
We had no local money, no one spoke English and the neighborhood looked sketchy. Bill said he didn’t want to be out in the dark and the sun was beginning to set. Down the street were the Golden Arches. Assuming they’d take a credit card we headed that way and yeah – we ate there.
A Chinese market (that would be a tiny market owned by the Chinese – between French Guiana and Suriname they’ve got a monopoly) was next to the apartment. We ventured in to see if we use our credit card to purchase food. The gal agreed to let us to use our debit card. Score! We were able to get water, snacks, and wine.
Since we weren’t overly thrilled with our accommodations, we decided to catch a ride to the border town of Oiapoque in Brazil the next day. Just a day trip. It looked like it would be a great way to fill the day until we could change our sleeping situation.
Guyana, Suriname, French Guiana and Brazil are contiguous. We’re moving East and we’ll have to backtrack later on.
We spend the evening researching the process, found a driver and headed to Brazil.
A four hour train ride took us from Pamplona to Madrid. We got lost in the mesmerizing landscape grinning every time a small village with white stone buildings entered the scene. Lush were the hillsides and fields of agriculture.
We walked by the Atocha Station a couple of times while in Madrid but discovered a lush garden inside after departing the train.
It was an easy listless day – train and then a taxi to the hotel near the airport for our flight back to the USA the following morning.
It was an eight and a half hour flight to Newark where we were to have a quick layover and be one our way to Charlotte. Upon landing lightening crashed in around us and the plane stood still on the tarmac as the airport closed. An omen. A half hour later the plane was cleared to head to the gate.
Unbeknownst to us the airline industry and particularly United was in melt down mode. It was utter chaos. Cancelled flights and stranded people. Our connecting flight to Charlotte a victim.
It was 5:00 pm. A United agent told us it would be days before any seats would be available. “Check online.” The internet confirmed the worst.
We had places to be! The following day was our grandson’s first birthday and our son had taken time off of work – we didn’t have days…. who has days???
Quick change of plans – we rented a car and headed to Charlotte driving until dark. It was 1:30 am Madrid time by the time we stopped for the night somewhere in Maryland.
We arrived at our destination 21 hours late but in time to celebrate.
We visited family, broke bread, raced cars and played with our grand babies.
United continued its melt down and we feared we’d not make it home to Nevada as scheduled. It all worked out – both flights harmoniously were delayed and we made it home.
Now we shift through months of mail, dust off the house and get ready for summer. We head out again in 8 days.
Our trip by the numbers:
13 flights, 1 cruise ship, a few boat rides, multiple trains, lots of car rides, one tram – 34 beds and 18 Countries: South Africa, Eswatini, Lesotho, Mozambique, Madagascar, Comoros, French Comoros, Seychelles, Omán, EAU, Armenia, Georgia, Azerbaijan, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, Uzbekistan and Spain.
I wore everything that I packed, left one shirt (on purpose) and threw out 2 that I ruined. I way overpacked even though we just had carry on. Another lesson learned (again). Way less is even more!
Thanks for following along!
The five kilometer walled “old city” of Pamplona (Spanish) and/or Iruña (Basque) is well preserved. Founded in 74 BC by Roman military and political leader, Pompey. Due to its strategic location it was fortified right way.
* Click to enlarge photos
The Camino de Santiago Frances meanders through town. It was on our third day of the Camino that took us through town 10 years ago. Through being the key word. No time to explore – we had miles ahead of us.
Bill partied here one night 50 years ago and was determined to find the bar so we booked a week’s stay at an Airbnb to allow us the time to investigate. He didn’t remember the name or the location so we drank or way through town trying to figure out which one held Bill’s barstool.
Our apartment was on Estafeta Street right above a popular restaurant/bar. The street is renowned for its 300 meter path where six bulls and thousands of crazy masochists converge for the running of the bulls during the San Fermín festival.
In 11 days, our balcony and all the ones up and down the street, now quiet and unoccupied, will be full of onlookers peering down to the mayhem below. More than 1.5 million people will fill the town.
Preparations are under way. Stores advertise white and red in honor of the celebration – some empty store fronts are shored up with painted murals and fencing has been installed to keep people out of areas. It’s hard to fathom the masses for the festival.
We spent three days on portions of the Camino. The first day we followed the arrows to Cizur Menór and it only took 20 minutes to get lost. I had to pull out the GPS to get oriented. The next time we hiked in the opposite direction. It was like Where’s Waldo trying to find the trail makers. We taxied to Alto del Perdón and walked back – backwards on the trail again! Yes, we got lost but not for long.
Searching for arrows that guide the Way and not knowing where they lead was thrilling. We talked about a reunion walk in the future. We’ll see how that pans out. One thing we learned is that we’re not as strong as we used to be. Super light packs and a few extra days to walk would be essential.
Pamplona pays homage to Ernest Hemingway. A city that he loved and wrote about in his 1926 book The Sun Also Rises. Some of his favorite haunts still stand today attracting tourists and local alike.
We gobbled up as many pinchos as possible and tried to soak in every ounce of Spain as possible.
Hemingway’s book is downloaded on my Kindle to read as we head west – going to let Pamplona linger a bit longer…
We got up early to catch a 6:30 taxi. The previous night we tried to hire one for the morning and the driver assured us there would be lots of them waiting. No pasa nada. Don’t worry.
All there were was a bunch of drunk and tired party goers. We had allowed ourselves 35 minutes for a 10 minute drive and one guy told us he had been waiting an hour. Panic! There are no ride share companies in town. A taxi was it.
The guy was exhausted after going to three parties in three different barrios where he drank and danced the night away. He said he had a great time as he tried to keep his eyelids open.
I expressed my concern that we’d miss our train and he kindly offered to share his taxi. Twenty minutes later our chariot arrived. The remaining people who got there long before us freaked out that we were getting in a cab out of turn. It was explained and all was well with the world.
Bill tried to give our cabbie friend money and it was turned down with a – it’s for Spain and from Salamanca! ¡Buen viaje! He certainly saved the day.
The 1.5 hour train took us to Valladolid where we switched trains for a 4 hour journey to San Sebastián – also known as Donostia/San Sebastián (Basque and Spanish).
Famous for their pintxos/pinchos (Basque/Spanish). The Spanish dictionary defines a pincho like ‘a portion of food served, sometimes with a cocktail stick, as an aperitif’. The word “pincho” comes from the verb “to pinchar” which means “to pierce”. The pincho is normally served on a piece of bread or other, served usually with a cocktail stick which you can eat in one or two bites.
* Reality is that it takes multiple bites to finish off a pincho! The person who wrote the definition must have been famished and unless you’re a glutton two of them are a meal!
The train ride was stunning. A reminder of all the things we absolutely love about Spain. Lush, forested mountains, quaint villages, rolling farm land and fields of vegetables inter-dispersed with thousand poppies. Often it feels like we’ve stepped into a fairy tale.
We had been to San Sebastián many years ago for just a few hours when Carlos and Isabel took us on a field trip from their hometown about a half hour away for pinchos and a beautiful afternoon lunch.
San Sebastián is on the coast of the Bay of Biscay and 12 miles from the French border. The Basque Country. Where the Urumea River runs along side the town and spills into the bay.
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“We could live here.” rolled off our tongues. The old architecture, the beaches, the long La Concha beach walkway, the forested lush hills, pinchos and bars. I thought I heard Bill said that but upon reflection I think I imagined it.
Our VRBO was in a much quieter area than Salamanca. The bars across the street closed at 9:00 pm. Yes!
Everything was new to us so it was enjoyable exploring. A historical city on the beach was a new kind of perfect. A best kind of yin and yang.
Much to my surprise at Playa de Zurriola in Gros (across the river) nudity was a thing. This isn’t a hidden beach. It’s right there! Wide open for all eyes to see. Yes, they were kinda on the corner but you had to walk past that area to get where you’re going.
Yup! I’m a prude. But the kids, do what you want away from kids…
Of course we stopped to soak it all in. One old dude stripped off his clothing, ran to the water jumped in and frolicked in his nakedness. I was particularly surprised by his willingness to swim in the cold water! Just saying. About 10% of the women sunbathed topless and G-string bottoms were worn by most.
It was kinda funny but this American who sun bathed next to us must have felt some new sense of freedom and was topless. It had to be her first time since she had tan marks from her bathing suit top. We watched her swim in the bay and she actually did frolick. She raised her arms to the sky and spun circles.
It reminded us of three burners we saw on their last day of Burning Man stark naked with super white short tans lines – smiling ear to ear with their new found freedom. Perhaps we’re missing something.
Onwards….
We refrain from shopping when traveling but this time while exploring we stumbled upon a walking shopping district where sirens sang me into a rocky oblivion!
San Sebastián is certainly an international destination and for good reason. We enjoyed every minute of it.
We fell in love with Salamanca ten years ago when I went to extensive Spanish school for three months after walking the Camino de Santiago. Bill said he would learn more Spanish in the bars while I was in school. Game on. I’m sure you could figure out who the winner was in that challenge.
Actually what happened was Bill learned every square inch of the old part of town and beyond – walking while I traumatized my brain. On weekends he would take me on field trips to show me what he had discovered.
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Outside the old city…
What’s scary is how much our memories have deteriorated in 10 years. We eventually found almost all of our favorite spots but it took an effort. Sadly a lot of businesses have closed – perhaps victims of COVID lockdowns.
This time we rented an apartment on Plaza Mayor with a balcony that allowed front row seats to people watching and three concerts.
We took this time to wind down after hotel stays and a whirlwind tour the past couple plus months. Now shifting to the Spaniard clock – sleeping in and staying up late. Tapas and a caña (beer)/wine for lunch, snack time, dinner…. any time, all the time.
Point of clarification – We got on the old person’s clock. The young stay up partying all night long. There is never an hour period of time throughout the night and early morning where you don’t hear them. When we left at 6:30 am to catch a cab to the train the taxi stand was full of drunk party goers waiting for a ride home.
Mid-week we were awakened by super loud partiers in our building. The building is 4 stories with one unit on each floor – ours the 3rd. Their voices reverberated off the walls in the narrow stairwell. It sounded like they were right outside our door until they were inside our apartment! They used a key to enter. Our bedroom was near the door. Bill popped up and grabbed a pillow to hide his private parts and exited our door and met them in the hallway where he said in his best English “leave”. They hightailed it out of there without a rebuttal. They partied for another half or so and then settled down.
I messaged our landlord who tried to convince me that it was impossible since they didn’t have a key and the only way to access is with one! Can you imagine? Later he confessed they must have had a master key.
Salamanca is stunning with old, towering and ornate sandstone buildings. It drips history, with Roman, Muslim and royal periods. The majority of historic buildings were created by the Catholic Church.
The “old city” is a UNESCO World Heritage site and the oldest university in Spain sits smack dab in the middle of it. Columbus studied celestial navigation here prior to sailing for the New World.
In the afternoon some group is celebrating something almost every day with parades, artistic displays or some sort of organized party. It makes me smile to see people living life with a happy purpose.
Storks must be the Salamanca’s mascot. They sit proudly in their huge nests at the tops of churches. The largest gathering was eight. They have a strange clucking call and their vast wingspan shadows the sun when they circle. It appears that they deliver lots of babies.
The central market has many stalls selling fresh fruit, vegetables, meat, cheese, eggs, piglets, chicken, etc. You can shop daily. So wish we had something like this in the USA.
The week went by quickly and with a bit of sadness we left for the next town…
Oh – by the way – Bill is now snapping a photo here and there!
It’s hard to believe it’s been 15 years since we last spent time here.
Madrid is fabulous! The old buildings are eye candy. Food fantastic. First class museums and lush parks. And this time of the year – tons of people. It’s all remarkable.
*click photos to enlarge
In keeping with our routine we walked and walked and walked everywhere. No metros to explore – only one to a train station outside the city to buy tickets which we could have purchased online, and no busses.
We hit the tops of the waves. A repeat of all the things we did 15 years ago.
Stunning is Patrick Blanca’s vertical garden wall – 78 feet tall containing 250 varieties of 15,000 plants.
It felt good to practice our Spanish and eat food different from Central Asia.
Fun story: Bill occasionally puts one of his hearing aides in his pocket when it starts to bug him. This time when we returned to our hotel the aid was missing. It was assumed that he dropped it while taking his money out of his pocket but with it would be impossible to retrace our steps.
Days later we went to back to a bar, after viewing Picasso’s Guernica, where we had eaten on the day that Bill lost his hearing aid ONLY because every other restaurant in the area was full.
I decided to ask our waitress if they found a hearing aid. She looked at us strangely and said I don’t think so – no. The bartender heard the exchange and said Yes! They found it on the sidewalk a few days ago. What are the odds? A crazy miracle for sure.
We found it interesting watching these street sellers walk up with a tarp full of knock off purses, bags, scarves, etc.. They cautiously open their bag, displaying wares and at a moments notice (police) can pull the cord which wraps up their contraband for a quick get away. They looked right and left, constantly accessing of their situation while trying to make a buck. The stress was apparent.
All in all it was fantastic being back. We love Spain. Preston met the love of his life here and it holds special meaning to all of us. There’s more of Spain to come….
We got up at 3:00 am to catch the Bukhara-Urgench express. Paige bought the 4 berth cabin so we had railroad sheets and pillows with privacy for the 6 hour trip across the Kyzylkum Desert.
Urgench is actually 2 towns, the ancient in Turkmenistan and the modern one across the border in Uzbekistan. They also include the ancient settlement of Khiva.
New Urgench is a vast fertile valley served by the Darya River which originates in Tajikistan. The area has been irrigating for more than 2,000 years, growing cotton and rice for export on the Silk Road. It also has exported alfalfa and other seeds for hundreds of years. Since the advent of electricity and pumping power it has really expanded irrigation as it looks like some city along Highway 99 in California.
Walking away from the train station we stopped for breakfast and Paige spotted a restaurant with 2 tandoor type ovens. It became obvious that they were very popular as people bought them one after another.
We’ll take two! A samosa of some sort with a spicy meat filling and a sauce on the side. It took a couple tries to eat them correctly without silverware. When in Rome….
We spent the night in Urgench as it’s the gateway to Khiva but didn’t nothing other than walk around.
Khiva – a crown jewel and great summation to our Central Asia Silk Road adventure.
Per Lonely Planet – The historic heart of Khiva (Xiva) has been so well preserved that it’s sometimes criticised as lifeless – a ‘museum city’. But walk through the city gates and wander the fabled Ichon-Qala (inner walled city) in all its monotone, mud-walled glory and it’s hard not to feel like you are stepping into another era.
Well said!
Within a hour of our arrival, while having lunch, the same Road Scholar tour group we saw Kazakhstan and Tajikistan walked past us!
Our hotel was within the town walls so it was super convenient to walk, eat, explore and take photos. Rinse and repeat for 3 days. Palaces, madrasas, caravansaries/markets filled the town. The night time was stunningly peaceful as the whole town was magically lit.
We celebrated Bill’s birthday at a roof top restaurant with a sunset dinner. Below a woman baked fresh bread Tandoor style.
My camera finally kicked the bucket! No more limping along. Now just dead weight in my pack.
Back to Urgench for our last night and a morning flight to……. It’s time for a different selection of food.
It was a two hour high speed train that took us from Samarkand to Bukhara – the historic city center is another UNESCO World Heritage site.
*click on photos to enlarge
Different from Samarkand Bukhara hasn’t changed much since it’s inception. No big shiny, new buildings and restorations haven’t changed much from its original form.
The Bukhara Fortress, the Ark, is an intact magnificent walled (up to 66’ tall) city full of madrassas, mosques and markets. It was occupied without interruption from 4 BC to 1920 when the last Emir was removed by the Bolsheviks.
Through out our time in Central Asia people asked if would pose with them in a photo. In a sea of dark hair my white hair stood out like Rudolph’s red nose. Bill often is referred to as 007.
Cotton is a major resource exporting to Eastern Europe. Handwoven rugs and embroidered items hang from railings hawked to persons apparently traveling with trunks and not carry-on luggage.
Outside Bukhara is the summer palace of the Emirs – Sitora-I Mokhi Khosa.
Back streets encounters find children kicking soccer balls, bikes, markets and doors with treasures.
We stumbled upon a group of men playing cards and backgammon. After asking if I could take a photo they kindly invited us in to share chai tea. Again, we did not share the same language but sat like old friends.
Three generations – grandma, mom and grandson were picking apples in their front yard. They flagged us down and insisted upon sharing a handful of tart and tasty, small green apples. I think they would have given us a box full had we not insisted that a handful was enough.
Evening roof top dinners, cocktails and sunsets were the icing on the top of each day.
Venturing into a train station to buy tickets where no one speaks English can be a bit tricky. Lucky for us a kind gentleman offered to assist in translating. The Uzbek people have to be the kindest that we’ve encountered on this trip.
Men put their right hand across their heart and bow ever so slightly to greet or thank one another. This is especially true toward women since men do not shake a woman’s hand. It feels so kind.
The same kindness is granted on the road. In either direction no matter how many lanes one car pulls over slightly so another may pass. The same is true with oncoming traffic – cars move slightly aside to allow passage. It gets a little tenuous when 4 cars share 2 lanes but somehow it works. No road rage!
Back to the train station. Our new friend walked us to the counter and asked for two tickets to Samarkand. The ticket lady told him there were only upper seats available and perhaps we could ask for a lower one once we got on the train. Ok – that seems simple.
After helping us John (his English name) gave us his name, phone number and email address offering to help us in any way while we’re in his country. Wow.
It’s a four plus hour train ride to Samarkand. Founded in the 7th century BC. Hugely popular on the Silk Road trail making it the most crowded tourist spot so far. The Registan (UNESCO), Gur-e-Amir, Bibi-Khanym Mosque and Shah-i-Zinda were so full of people that it took away from its peacefulness but not its majestic beauty.
*click on photos to enlarge
Samarkand, the navel of the vast empire held by Timur aka Tamerlane (1300’s) one of history’s greatest and cruelest conquers. It was built by architects, artists and craftsmen abducted by Tamerlane and his his descendants from away conquered territories for 2,000 year it was one of the most important stops on the Silk Road, it’s bazaars thronged with merchants and shoppers.
Controversial and frowned upon by some it is believed that the government has “over-restored” these once falling down sites making them appear more like “Disneyland”. However to stand the test of time one must restore – right?
Back to the train – I had pictured a double decker train since our seats were upstairs. HA! Talk about lost in translation. Upstairs is a small bunk. Bill and I discovered we both had these and also were in separate parts of the compartment. Our carry-on luggage now seemed huge as there was virtually no place to store them. The lack of air circulation had me in melting. I must have looked a wreck.
Two sweet women noted the confusion on our faces and the sweat on my brow while we tried to figure out our seats, luggage, etc. Moments later one of the women came up to me and motioned for me to follow. She pointed to the top bunk and the seat below. Don’t know how she arranged that but it worked out perfect. Bill would have never fit in the bunk. The seat offered no room for his legs since his suitcase filled that space but he was extremely grateful for the seat. Bill sat like a yogi pretzel and I was able to recline and nap. Fortunately there was a tiny window above the bunk that allowed fresh air during the journey. It worked out perfect.
Across the way a beautiful young woman snapped a photo of me in the bunk and then motioned for me to hand her my phone where she opened my Instagram account, shared the photo and the followed my account. From her account I learned she’s a doctor finishing her medical degree and gymnast coach. She was traveling with three young gymnasts for a competition.
The history and the architecture in each location are stunning but it’s these little life events with others with whom we can not conversant but still manage to communicate that make exploring new cultures so worthwhile.
We saw this stunning white building with its door ajar. An invitation to sneak in – right? We stumbled upon this ornate room that was set up for a wedding. Wowza. The worker was sitting on the floor in the corner on his phone. He had no idea we were there.
An open door in another alleyway showcased a collection of old treasures for sale. While I snapped some photos Bill visited with the owner.
Now having been to several cities in Uzbekistan we’ve learned that kiddie parks are part of the landscape.
My camera has been giving me grief. The shutter button at times stops working. I can reset it by removing the battery and reinserting it only to have it happen after a few shots. UGH! Thank goodness I’m not photographing a wedding.
On our adventure to follow the Silk Road Uzbekistan might be the crown jewel.
The land of storks, white Chevrolets (were told Chevy has a factory here) and 3,000 mosques in Tashkent alone, ping pong and two Russian cosmonauts (one-upping Kazakhstan from where Sputnik was launched).
*click photos to enlarge
We walked our legs off in the capital and largest city – Tashkent – which means city of stone or stone city. Founded over 2,218 years ago. Part old beautiful Soviet buildings (yes – they do exist), part mud houses and then the shiny new which are popping up like freshly planted seeds. Like Beijing, the hutongs are being razed and replaced with square high rises.
Hideous, run down and beautiful was the Uzbekistan Hotel. Built in 1974 and had to have been the cat’s meow. Now a beacon on the horizon, photo op and a place where Bill got a hair cut.
The are large flood irrigated parks and open irrigation ditches and drains. A kiddie sized carnival embedded in the heart of the city park where mini-me sized rides and games entertain all year round.
From Bishkek we followed the Silk Road to Tashkent, Uzbekistan via Shymkent, Kazakhstan. Another crossroad conquered and destroyed by all the great invaders. It lies in the foothills above a great valley. Noteworthy because Timurlane the Great died here, and the city’s forges produced millions of lead bullets for Russia’s WWII fight against Germany.
*click on photos to enlarge
The train left the station at 11:22 pm and lasted 14 hours. We paid for all 4 berths in one compartment assuring us some privacy (approx. $32.00 total). Unfortunately that compartment was only a door away from the WC (water closet/toilet). Thick pads and down pillows were rolled up on the top berth and to my horror there were no linens. 
The ticket collector showed up and plopped down next to Bill and we tried to communicate while he looked to make sure our paperwork was in order. Russian is the “common” language amongst the Caucuses and we can’t speak a word of it. He spoke no English. Overall it worked out well and we had a jolly time. Bill offered him a tip and he walked away happy. 
About 10 minutes later he returned with two sealed bag of clean sheets. Yes!
Bill and I snacked on red wine and potato chips and quickly fell asleep.
Near the Kyrgyzstan border the steward woke us up and told us to wait….. a half hour later young military men showed up at our door speed talking. We said something in English to which they asked back “Do you speak Russian?” Yeah right.
Passport. Check. Then the young man pointed to my suitcase and grunted. I opened my suitcase and he was satisfied after a portion of it was emptied. He motioned to close it, did an about face and left.
Off to sleep again…
At the Kazakhstan border it was a repeat of the whole language barrier, passport scenario……. It’s now 3:20 am and this time the young military man, holding a small 3”x 3” video camera, demanded that we empty our entire backpacks on the bed and then demanded we open our suitcases and empty them. The backpack contents were mounded next to us and left no room for the suitcase contents. So like good passive aggressive people we moved things around and didn’t unload. He dug into Bill’s suitcase – grunting. He didn’t put his hands in my bag and gave up after I moved a few things around. Next the immigration man stepped in and did the passport ritual of photos and stamping our books while the first showed back up with the drug sniffing dog. Geez.
Bill thought he’d be exempt from being hassled at borders because he’s an old guy. Apparently that was just another case of MSU.
By 4 am we were fast asleep again. The fumes from the bathroom had thoroughly permeated our cabin. Nothing like the smell of urine in the morning to make you hop out of bed.
We stood in the hallway in front of the small open window waiting to pull into Shymkent.
We hired their equivalent to Uber to take us to the border so we could do the easy peasy walk through and then grabbed another in Uzbekistan to take us the the capital city of Tashkent.
Uzbekistan is another landlocked country surround by 5 landlocked countries – Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, Afghanistan and Turkmenistan.
By luck of the draw we ended up in a hotel with a great location. Surrounded by tasty restaurants and walking distance (albeit long) to the happening places.
We left Uzbekistan for a day trip to Tajikistan. Brand new cities were being built outside Tashkent much like China.
We ran into the same Road Scholar group from Kazakhstan in the immigration line at the Tajikistan border! Crazy.
Tajikistan – has a slight different feel of remoteness and less homogeneity, having 2 lengthy borders with China and Afghanistan and serious mountain ranges. This remoteness seems to have slowed its movement toward the west, but not the desire.
Many residents migrate to Russia and work summers harvesting crops. The local swimming pool is open for men only 6 days a week and women! About 50% of the city dwellers own car.
Khujand is another 2500 year old city founded by Alexander the Great and built on an 8th century BC fortress and is the eastern most point of his empire. During the Russian era it was known as Leninbad. The army of Genghis Khan later destroyed the town and razed it to the ground. The revival of the city was aided by its geographical position on the Silk Road.
Portion of the original wall built by Alexander the Great
It has a fabulous Alexander the Great fortress, museum and caravanserai.
On a side note – the capital of Dushanbe is home of the famous Buddha in Nirvana or Sleeping Buddha statue founded in 1959 and dating back to the 5th or 6th century. It is the largest clay Buddha statue in the world. America contributed $30,000 toward its restoration.
p.s. The blog is pretty much caught up. As of May 26th we’re still in Uzbekistan. Tomorrow is Bill’s birthday!
We contacted a company (all done by What’sApp) to arrange a driver from Almaty, Kazakhstan to the border of Kyrgyzstan and then another driver on the Kyrgyzstan side to take us to the capital city of Bishkek.
Our first non-English speaking driver had a black Camry that was huge (unlike American Camrys) with leather seats and more bells and whistles than typical – the back seats had electronic reclining adjustments. Very unusual and especially for the price we paid. His mission was to get us there in half the time it should take. Time is money! Poor Bill had to ask him to slow down to help curb my fear of crashing.
The two driver system is genius because the line of cars at the border was insanely long. We just walked on through easy peasy.
The driver on the other side surprisingly spoke English. He had taken it in school 20 years ago and said he was rusty for lack of using it. It was the first time in many, many countries that a driver/cabbie could communicate with us.
Kyrgyzstan is another landlocked country in Central Asia. It borders Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan and China.
Bishkek is another spread-out city with virtually no beautiful historical buildings. It looked and felt like a throwback to Soviet times. The one thing it did have was a long walking park with tall trees and gorgeous roses in full bloom. It included a vast carnival and kiddie park, selling cotton candy at 10 am.
Groups of old men gather in the squares around the old soviet buildings – squatting on their heels ala Viet Nam.
Adorable are the older women with colorful scarves wrapped around their hair. Usually contrasting the colors of their dress to make it visually interesting and beautiful.
Zhang Qian crossed near here and documented his travels in 138 B.C.
Numerous Buddhist and Muslim rock inscriptions surround mosques, temples and Christian churches from the 800s through the 1600s.
In town a vast and bustling market remains. Outside the city nomadic tribes live in their yurts and move, livestock among the foothills and steppes.
We’re wearing out the treads on our shoes as we explore.