Westwards

Oktoberfest for Beginners

(Click here for more Germany photos: May 2007, May 2008, August/September 2008, October 2008)

“It seems you have almonds, over there.” Andre belches and leans over to view the end of the bench. “What was your name again?” he adds clumsily. But the girl in the lilac mini-dirndl isn’t keen on sharing her roasted Caipirinha almonds, let alone a conversation. “That’s a false impression,” she shrugs and continues munching. It is half past eleven, the world’s biggest fun-fair, the Munich Oktoberfest, has just closed for the day, and the local train is full of cheerful people who are tipsy but rather entertaining. 

Many of the young men are wearing traditional knee-long lederhosen, although some combine them with stylish white sneakers and cosy fleece sweaters.

In specialised Trachten shops all over Munich, the lederhosen are marked down already. Next to them glare flashy mini-dresses in pink and turquoise, with patterned blouses and many frills. They are certainly not traditional garments, but they resemble the classic dirndls just enough to create a stout Bavarian beery atmosphere. “So many people are wearing these fake dirndls,” we had commented to a Bavarian friend. “Fake? Oh, the ones with petticoats? They are called Wiesn dirndl, made especially for the Oktoberfest.”

For the weekend, S. and T. from Bochum are coming to visit the Oktoberfest. The idea of enjoying huge quantities of beer in large beer steins and riding merry-go-rounds seems rather strange to them. Even Isa, who has been to the Oktoberfest only once before, can almost feel like an insider. When we meet S. and T. at the station on Friday afternoon, some of the teenagers in lederhosen are already drunk. They are wearing them a couple of sizes too big and well below the groin. Never mind. S. is keen to taste the Bavarian beer and see a bit of Munich, and T. is toying with the idea of a roller coaster ride.

The Oktoberfest is held every year for 16 days - strangely in late September and only a few days in early October. The festivities date back to the wedding of Crown Prince Ludwig (later Ludwig I) and Princess Therese of Saxe-Hildburghausen in 1810. Originally, they organised a big horse race on the meadows outside town for the citizens of Munich. Apparently the crowds liked it and some sort of fair was repeated almost every year from then. From 1835 a parade has been added to the festivities, which today forms an important part of the Oktoberfest: Almost 8000 people in traditional costumes walk through the centre of Munich, to the fairgrounds on Theresienwiese. The traditional horse races, however, were discontinued after WW II. Today the Oktoberfest is still a highlight in the Munich citizens’ calendar, but many visitors come from other parts of Bavaria, Germany, and the world. “Italians!” a friend sighs. “But mind you, after a couple of those one-litre steins they don’t live up to the cliché…”

The next day we mingle with the Oktoberfest crowd. A bunch of giggling girls in turquoise gingham skirts jostles past us. Gingerbread hearts screaming „Darling“ or „I love you“ in sugar icing dangle at their hips like handbags. They are wearing neon-coloured wristbands. They are among the chosen. The chosen thousands, that is, who can still get entry into one of the 14 beer tents. For those who don’t have a reservation – like us – the tents remain closed. Inside there may be music and dance, roast pork and pretzel, beer and Oktoberfest atmosphere, but today they have been closed at least since 11 am due to overcrowding, and we can’t even get a glimpse inside. Outside, there is also beer, pretzels, and Oktoberfest atmosphere, but it’s raining. Dripping wet, T. returns from the roller coaster. He admits to having closed his eyes all through the loopings, but is nevertheless enthusiastic about the world’s biggest mobile rollercoaster. Like the other thousands of none-chosen, we resort to the fairground rides and the outdoor foodstalls: they offer all the Bavarian classics from roast pork to smoked mackerel and from Magenbrot to roasted almonds. Those are not simply caramelised – the stalls offer a wide choice of classic, vanilla and chocolate-strawberry almonds; but this year’s selling hit are the Caipirinha almonds.

Liquid bread in Germany

Lauter tuns in the Bavarian Brewery Museum in Kulmbach (for  more Germany  photos click  here)

„We have the highest density of breweries in the world!“ Michael, our guide, takes regional pride in the area's beer culture. „Today there are around 1200 breweries in Germany, about half of them in Bavaria, and 204 of these are located in the region of Upper Franconia.“ The small village of Aufseß alone, with a population of around 240, boasts 4 breweries. We are on a tour of the old Maisel's brewery in Bayreuth. When the factory moved to new premises, the Maisel family decided to conserve the old production facilities as a museum for the public. Listed in the Guiness Book of Records as the most comprehensive brewery museum in the world, it shows the beer brewing process in goneby times. We follow Michael through the malt drying room to the mashing and lautering facilities, where an aromatic liquid is produced. In the fermenting room, finally yeast is added to the mixture. It is the yeast that metabolizes the malt sugar into alcohol, thus creating a first, raw form of beer. “Better not drink it,” our guide grins: “The young beer induces very strong bowel movements...” The fermentation process also produces carbon dioxid, and thus brewing could be a dangerous business – occasionally workers have passed out from the toxic gases. „But I haven't heard of anyone dying in the brewing process.“ Drinking, well, that's a different matter.
Like most German breweries, Maisel's uses only the ingredients authorised by the „Purity Law.“ The famous regulation, which was first formulated in 1516 in Bavaria and applied until the 1980s,  restricted the ingredients for beer brewing to water, malt, yeast and hop. The original sole use of barley was intended to prevent price competition with bakers for wheat and rye, but later, wheat malt was also accepted as an ingredient. Nevertheless, there are countless variations on the exact mixture and ratio of ingredients and their processing, resulting in dozens of different beers. 

Whereas some sort of grain (and often added sugar) were part of the brewing process since the earliest times of beer (around 3000 BC in ancient Mesopotamia), the hop was a later addition. It adds bitterness and flavour to the beer and became en vogue as a beer ingredient around the 14^th century. Only the unpollinated female hop is suited for brewing, and 30 grams are enough for flavouring about 38 litres of beer.

With the strong odour from the hop storage room still in our noses, we continue to the workshop. In the past, every brewery had its own barrel making facilities on the grounds. But the permeation of the flavour from the oak barrel into the liquid, so desirable for exquisite wines, has to be prevented in the case of beer. The inside of the barrels was therefore clad with pitch. In fact, today all beer barrels are made from steel, even those that have wooden planks on the outside for the benefit of traditionalist Oktoberfest visitors.

The last exhibition rooms show a wild mix of beer paraphernalia: 3,300 beer glasses and jugs and 400 rare enamel signs from various breweries and beer brands, as well as a collection of beer mats. After 2 hours of beer theory we are glad to sit down in the tasting room and have a well-earned Maisel's Hefeweizen. “Quite a twirl” a holidaymaker from the Rhineland region remarks appreciatively and starts a debate about Kölsch versus Hefeweizen. “Doesn't a a top-fermenting Kölsch taste rather similar to a bottom-fermenting Pils? “Rubbish,” a beer afficionado sitting next to us exclaims, “that is such a difference in taste!”

A little sugar in my bowl

The old Rosenthal factory building near Selb, today a porcelain museum (Click here for more Germany photos)

„But how does the cavity get into the “Maria” sugar bowl, then?,“ smiles the attendant with the bleached 1980s haircut. She has just poured thin porcelain slip into a compact cast and is straining a bit to recite her little speech. „Oh yes, it took me ages until I figured out how it works,“ a petite woman with a mop of greying hair and stylish horn-rimmed glasses avidly agrees. Her two companions nod understandingly. The two men, apparently her husband and the father-in-law,  have been in the porcelain business for decades and today they are visiting the Rosenthal porcelain museum together to reinforce the new family member's knowledge of the production processes.

After a few minutes our guide checks the texture of the porcelain cream in the cast, swivels it one more time and then pours out most of the liquid. Triumphantly she shows us the hardened porcelain layer that has been left stuck to the walls of the cast. „The plaster of the cast dehumidifies the porcelain slip,“ she explains. „And thus only a thin wall of porcelain remains sticking to the cast.“ In an hour or so, the cast can be removed and the squarish Maria-design sugar bowl will be ready for firing – first at 900 degrees, and later, glazed, at 1400 degrees. During the firing process it shrinks by about 39%.

Rosenthal has been producing porcelain in Selb since 1891. The whole region had become a thriving centre of porcelain production after 1814 when Carolus Magnus Hutschenreuther discovered Kaolin here, one of the main ingredients for the elegant ceramic ware. For centuries, the production of porcelain had been a Chinese secret. Johann Friedrich Böttger “discovered” it in Europe at the beginning of the 18^th century. In the lowly developed agricultural region of Fichtelgebirge and Oberpfalz, porcelain painting and porcelain modelling became attractive career choices well into the 20^th century.

„Resting Place for a Burning Cigar,“ bold Gothic letters scream from the ashtray. It looks like a cheap made-in-China product. Back in 1886, it was Philipp Rosenthal's big hit. Originally a porcelain painter, he went on to establish one of Europe's biggest porcelain factories, designing dinner services and porcelain sculptures. In 1916 he named a set of dishes after his wife, Maria, and it became the best-selling service ever produced by Rosenthal, boasting over 170 different items at one point, including a fish bone bowl and knife rests. Today, the collection still includes more than 80 plates, bowls, chandeliers and tea cups in different sizes. While few people would buy the ashtray, generations have grown up with “Maria” on Sundays.

The Rosenthal headquarters have moved closer to the city centre in Selb. In the outlet sales-room we watch a young couple inspecting a seconds 21-piece dinner set. “Is it broken?” they ask suspiciously as the set sells for a third the original price. “No!,” the attendant assures. “Some of the plates have small blemish, but in most cases you won’t even see it.” The factory shop has a whole presentation room dedicated to the Maria series. And of course the Maria sugar bowl is also here, now glazed and decorated with a variety of flowery patterns.

Klösterreich – in the monasteries of the old monarchy

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“But it’s quite reasonable,” the salesclerk defends the high entrance fees. “Just 7 Euro, including the guided tour through the monastery compounds. Melk and Klosterneuburg are even more expensive!,” he then adds a bit too pushy. We buy our tickets and have a look around the crammed monastery shop: Religious paraphernalia, herb liquor made by Brother Stefan, and white milky goat soap.

“The monastery of St Florian is one of the oldest operating monasteries in the world. Founded in 304 AD, it got its name from Florian, the early Christian saint who, according to legends, suffered his martyrdom in the nearby river Ems.” What a pity – he was one of the last victims before Christianity was legalised in 313 by the Roman emperor Constantine. Gerlinde Hofer, guiding our tour in a baggy red dress with a matching jacket wound around her waist, is nevertheless excited to have the popular saint as a local patron. His drowning made him, in a somewhat bizarre chain of reasoning, patron saint against fire damage.

We follow Gerlinde Hofer into the Crypt, where the main attraction is the grave of the composer Anton Bruckner. Bruckner started his musical career as a choirboy in the monastic choir, and later frequently returned to the church to play the huge organ later named after him. Cushioned by the thick monastery walls we hear the sonorous and orotund sound as the current organist starts his practice play. “I imagine Bruckner can hear it too” remarks Hofer, visibly moved (click here to listen to the Bruckner organ: )

“So, do you know when Melk Abbey was founded? It was in 1089, when Leopold II, Margrave of Austria, gave one of his castles to the Benedictine monks.” We follow the friendly local who has offered to show us the way to the campsite and gives us a free introduction of Melk on the way. With his square head, the accurately clipped beard and the light pink shirt he looks like a middle-aged gay television cook. Meanwhile a steady drizzle has started, and with our heavily loaded bicycles we have difficulties holding pace with the cook on his old silvery lady’s bicycle. The abbey suddenly comes into view at an unexpected angle above our heads: Originally a fortification above the stream and town of Melk, the monastery has preserved its castle-like structures, although the interior was completely revamped, Baroque-style with pink-and-light-blue frescoes and inlaid bookshelves, in the 17^th century.

In the next church, Golden putti dance in front of a light blue ceiling and dark brown wooden furnishings. The High Altar with its twisted metallic blue pillars looks like an enormous Christmas tree decoration. Goettweig Abbey is a huge old monastery visible from far and wide along the lovely hills of the Wachau region, and its church has one of the most stunning baroque interiors we have ever seen. But strolling through the church, the Imperial living quarters and the museum, we sense that something is not right. There are no more tourists except us and the place swarms with uniformed clones with yellow id cards dangling around their neck. Has something serious happened? Have we somehow escaped extinction by tourist-eating aliens? “From here, only with press accreditation,” one of the clones barks. Utterly absorbed by the sightseeing we have not realized that the compound has already been closed for the last two hours in preparation for the “Classic under Stars” event this evening: A classic concert held in the courtyard of the abbey.

Not far from Vienna, we visit the monastery of Klosterneuburg. It was founded in the 12^th century, but reached its splendid height under Emperor Charles VI (1685 - 1740), who planned a monastery-cum-palace complex after the model of the Spanish El Escorial. Money ran out and only a fraction of the plans could be realised. Instead, Klosterneuburg became seat of the Austrian Wine Research Institute in 1860 and is now famous for its quality-wines. Highbrow visitors leaf through through the booklets and artefacts in the museum shop – where the best selling Gregorian chorals CD, “Chant - Music from paradise”, sung by the monks of the Austrian abbey Heiligenkreuz, features prominently in the music corner. At the futuristic semicircle ticket counter, a sign informs us about the three tours offered: The “Sacred Path,” the Imperial Path,” and the “Wine Culture Path.” Each tour costs 9 Euro, and combination tickets are available. Luckily we have meanwhile invested in a regional All-you-can-visit card that includes the “Sacred Path,” a tour through the abbey church with its frescoes, the gigantic early baroque organ, and the Verdun Altar. Made by Nicholas of Verdun in 1181, it is one of the finest examples of medieval enamel and goldsmith work, but unfortunately it is quite difficult to see any details of the 51 panels from beyond the protecting iron gate.

As in the other monasteries we visited, the expensive guided tour in Klosterneuburg is designed to lure wine-lovers and culture connoisseurs back into the fold with modern art and video installations showing the daily life in a convent. Brother Johannes is lying flat on the floor at his ordination when we pass the large flat screen in the staircase, then smiling saintly at his bishop.

Even in his priestly robe, he looks very sophisticated and slick. All the monasteries we visited have invested in a modern and sophisticated presentation that also creates a kind of uniformity between the historically quite different convents. We also wonder whether the fancy arrangement of religion and religious art, combined with the high entrance fees, will deter many of their traditional patrons from visiting the beautiful monasteries.

Rolling along the banks of the Blue Danube

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„Oh yes, the church up there on the hill above the Danube: We have just been there, it’s so beautiful," the pudgy couple enthuse in a broad drawl. „I don’t recall its name, though." The look the woman gives us from behind her large eyeshades is not at all embarrassed.

In contrast to the Americans, who proceed to board a Blue Danube cruise ship, we are about to join the ranks of the Danube Cyclists. The Danube Cycling Route between Passau and Bratislava is by far Austria’s most famous long-distance cycling route, and perhaps the most popular one in Europe. We are going to do only the stretch from Linz to Petronell-Carnuntum, a Roman archaeological site, some 40 km east of Vienna.

"This is shortest way to the Information Centre" we advise a group of Austrian senior citizens panting up from the car park at the former concentration camp of Mauthausen. We have just walked around the barracks, the graveyards, the gas chamber, the memorial park and dozens of over-detailed, tedious 1970s exhibition boards. "But the actual entrance to the camp is over there," we point out the iron gate further up. "Oh no, we only want to …" ‘visit the temporary exhibition about crematories in Nazi concentration camps,’ we complete mentally and nod understandingly. Surely they are locals and have visited the memorial several times before. But, "we only want to have a snack in the cafeteria," the day-trippers continue. "What a place to go for a cup of coffee!" we think. But at one Euro per cup the coffee is significantly cheaper than at the nearby pleasant garden restaurant, and the inflation rate of well over 10 percent for food has been the main topic in the news these days.

On Monday morning, the cycle shop in the small village of Grein is busy with repair jobs. "We can help with any saddle problems," they have been advertising over the past 10 km or so. We watch a group of retirees in too-tight black shorts and neon-coloured tricots entering the pharmacy next door, presumably to treat the other half of the saddle problem. Cyclists have become a major economic factor in the villages along the river, with every second house being a "Cyclists’ Stop" or "Bike Bar." Clever hotel owners advertise their bicycle transfer services to Maria Taferl, a village with a well-known baroque pilgrimage church, which is unfortunately situated on a steep hill. Several bus companies specialise in Cycle Shuttles that ferry the cyclists and their bikes from the lower Danube villages back to their starting point in Passau, and countless tour operators offer organised tours, bicycle, spandex and identical saddle bags included.

The most enchanting section of the cycling route is the 30km section through the wine-growing Wachau area between Melk and Krems. Here the Danube winds through rolling green vineyards, and the occasional castle (or castle ruin) sits high on top of one of the jagged rocks that dot the region. In every village, at least two or three pine bushes in front of yard doors or garden gates show that a local winegrower has opened his house and garden this week as a temporary bar, only serving the local wine. This tradition goes back to a decree from 1784 by Josef II, stating that every Austrian may sell their own homegrown wine and homemade food. Along with the very inexpensive and very tasty red Zweigelt or white Riesling, we taste local specialties such as Mohnzelten (a poppy-filled potato bun), and sweet curd dumplings.

After a five-day sightseeing break in Vienna, we continue through the alluvial land along the Danube to Petronell-Carnuntum. The former capital of the Roman province of Upper Pannonia was situated at a strategic crossing point of the Amber Road and the Danube River. At its peak, the city had 50,000 Roman citizens. In 193 AD, the Roman proconsul in Carnuntum was proclaimed as the new emperor, and he turned out to be quite successful: His name was Septimius Severus – the first North African to become emperor of Rome, whose hometown of Leptis Magna in today’s Libya had impressed us tremendously. Although there is not much left today of the splendours of the past, and the open-air museum is dominated by rebuilt Roman model houses reminiscent of an Ancient Rome theme park, we are thrilled by the realisation of just how big and how connected the Roman Empire must have been: Septimius Severus, for instance, had served in Syria before coming here, and the nearby town of Tulln was founded – as the Roman border base of Comagene – by auxiliary soldiers recruited from Eastern Anatolia.

From Carnuntum, we leave the Danube southwards, to visit Lake Neusiedl and taste yet more of the Roman’s most welcome introduction to the region – wine.

Tyrol, as football-free as it gets these days

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"Ochen sladka, very sweet," says the Russian girl opposite us merrily and takes another swig from her bottle of peach-passion fruit syrup. Over the last two hours our local train has been filling up with pale Russians and burly Swedes clad in yellow and blue, swarming from Bavaria and Tyrol into Innsbruck for the Euro 2008 preliminaries.

The girl is eating large chunks of fried chicken, and wondering how they could possibly all fit into the small paper bag, we try to identify the different chicken parts. A wing? A piece of breast? The two pimply boys travelling with her, meanwhile, share a pack of Minifritts potato snacks. After the girl has finished the meat and half of the syrup bottle, she produces a bottle of Mozart Liqueur from her shoulder bag. The ball-shaped bottle is wrapped in gold foil that perfectly matches her golden fingernails and the leopard-spotted ballerinas.

Instead of disembarking at the Innsbruck stadium we travel on to the entrance of the Oetz Valley, where we climb our heavily laden bicycles and follow the Ötztal Mountain Bike Trail uphill. A cycle-friendly shortcut, we think, but after a few kilometres of bumpy trails taking in every village on the slopes, we give up and take the main road. Russia won 2:0 this evening.

„Yes, Vanessa, well done! Doa aihaggln wannz kunscht!" (transl.: Clip the karabiner if you can). Next to us at the Engelswand Climbing Area, a group of 8- to 12-year-olds is scrambling up routes like Lucky Luke and Oetzi’s Path, while we struggle to master Chickpeas. It is our first day climbing outdoors in months. We quite enjoy it, but nevertheless feel a bit anxious. In the afternoon, the children leave, and we are joined by an elderly Swiss couple, fumbling with the rope and climbing even easier routes than we do. Soon a single alpine climber in purple, quick-dry dungarees arrives, who is belaying himself with two karabiners and a lot of complicated knots. This evening the Netherlands win, and our neighbours at the camp site – most of them Dutch – whistle happily while washing up their cheese graters.

One day we rent a Via Ferrata set and head for the Stuiben Fall, with 159 m falling height the highest waterfall in Tyrol. The new Via Ferrata climbs up on the left side of the fall and crosses it on a wire cable just below a natural rock bridge. As it has rained for weeks before we arrived, the stream has a lot of water and we are drenched when we finish. Not a bad thing on a hot day.

Otto Schöpf and his team, we read in the local history museum in Unterried, are the European team scything champions, and they come from the Oetz Valley. Indeed, it is the hay harvest season just now, and most families make use of the sunny weather to cut the grass – often in the traditional manner, with scythes and arranging the hay into "puppets" to dry. The small museum also collects everyday objects of the past, like candle moulds, sausage formers and cabbage graters. Besides that it is also upholding the old traditions: there are flax making sessions, and the old baking oven is used to make bread with bread clover.

„Now that should do it," comments the old woman from Berlin dryly who has set up her orange tent next to ours. 2:1: The semifinal match is nearing its end, and at last Germany appears set to win against Turkey. „At least they know how to stonewall," our neighbour continues. They don’t, but nevertheless in the end Germany wins 3:2.

About 5000 years ago, a guy walked over the Tisen pass to Italy, or from Italy into the Oetz Valley, and died on the way. Only in 1991 was his body discovered in the ice by a couple descending from one of the Oetz Valley mountains. Frozen and mummified, Oetzi was a great find for the scientists. In the wake of the discovery it turned out that this spot is already in Italy, and therefore Oetzi was taken to Bozen. On a particularly sunny day we work our way through deep snow to the site where Oetzi has been found. Here, an urn-shaped monument commemorates him as the "Similaun man" (named after an Italian mountain rather than the Austrian valley) in German and Italian.

"Viva Espana!" a lone Spanish fan announces the outcome of the final match over the yard. Apart from a raging thunderstorm, the camp ground had been empty and quiet for the last two hours, and the victory of the Spanish team does nothing to change this.

The next day a police convoy of several honking cars and motorbikes roars past us as we head for the camp site in Innsbruck situated next to the airport. They escort a green coach with darkened windows and „Espa a" written on its side. The new European champions on their way home, we figure. Viva Espana!

Always Coca Cola……

"Yeah, that’s a good one, you like it?“ The boy nods and pushes the lever at the height of his forehead to fill another plastic cup with Simba Guarana, a gloriously sweet concoction from Paraguay, while his father goes on to experiment with a mix of Peruvian Inca Cola and Delaware Punch from Honduras. In the Tasting Zone of Coca Cola World in Atlanta, visitors can sample around 40 different Coca Cola products from all around the world. Utterly lacking practice in soft drink drinking, we decide to take it slowly and to return for several rounds of tasting. For a starter we have an inch of Fanta Kolita, a strawberry-flavoured Fanta from Costa Rica, before we take in the exhibits in the Welcome Zone.

The first display includes not only dozens of red neon signs flashing the Coca Cola logo in Arabic or Devanagari script, but also the 1972 hip-hugging beach trousers with Coca Cola logo that “everybody wanted back then,” as we learn. The Norman Rockwell painting of “the barefoot boy” is exhibited in a special showcase. One of a series of advertisement pictures, the painting is worth 2 Million Dollars. Beyond the Welcome Zone we are ushered into a movie titled “Happiness Factory” that sparkles with special effects without increasing our knowledge about Coca Cola – or anything else for that matter.

Back in the Tasting Zone, an employee pushing a small cleaning machine works his way over the sticky floor into the corner where a 5 meter high red Coca Cola bottle dominates a rotunda. Here we sample some of the classic Coca Cola varieties as well as more exotic Cola flavours, like Vanilla Coke and Diet Cherry Coke.

 

 

 

 

 

The soft drink Coca Cola was born 1886 in Atlanta, when the pharmacist John S. Pembroke invented a formula for a new type of sparkling lemonade. His bookkeeping assistant came up with the catchy name and the characteristic logo. With an unusual taste and a genial marketing strategy, Coca Cola soon became one of the hits in the numerous soda-fountains of the time. A glass of Coca Cola then cost 5 cent, and the company was able to stick to that price even when the drink was sold in bottles – until the 1950s. Around 1920, the survey found that one out of nine Americans had tasted Coca Cola. World War II catapulted the beverage around the world: The company launched a selfless campaign that guaranteed every GI an ice-cold bottle of Coke in a radius of 5 minutes – whatever the cost. Consequently, Coca Cola plants popped up around the world, with 64 new ones opening in Europe alone.

After the history exhibit our stomachs are steady enough to dare another round of tasting. “Uh, Bon Aqua tastes awful,” a plump German in a flowery dress complains. “I like all Coca Cola products, but their mineral water is a disgrace.” We are in the European section of the Tasting Zone. Here we find the only lemonade we really like: Beverly, a bitter lemon drink only sold in Italy. Before we return to the Exhibit Zone we sample a quick sip of Fanta Magic, a purple grape Fanta from Estland.

On the ground floor of the building, a complete bottling line has been set up. Through large glass windows we see the empty bottles rattling around like on a merry-go-round. In 1915 the company held a contest for a unique bottle that could be found without looking – e.g. in an ice-box full of different drinks. Winner was the Root Glass company from Indiana, which designed the characteristic contour bottle that is today known all over the world.

In the bottling plant, the bottles are first rinsed with a disinfectant and then filled with the brown soft drink. All these plants worldwide are run as franchise ventures, and Coca Cola only provides the Coca Cola syrup, to which water and carbonic acid is added locally. The base ingredient, the syrup, is mixed according to the same secret formula at several highly secret places in the U.S. In 1985, the company tried to introduce an improved recipe, but had to switch back to the old mixture after 74 days, due to worldwide protests of Coca Cola drinkers.

"I can’t taste anything anymore!” a balding pensioner in shorts groans, pushing the lever for Vegitabeta, a Vegetable-Soy drink from Japan. We still have a whole continent to discover: With Bibo Kiwi Mango and Bibo Candy Coconut from South Africa und Stoney Tangawizi from Tanzania, Africa is the undisputed climax of our World of Coca Cola tasting experience. We forgo the free Coca Cola souvenir bottle that every visitor gets, because we are on a stop-over and won’t be allowed to take any liquids on the plane to Europe – and to be honest we feel that we had our fill of Coca Cola for the next few years.   

Stargazing in the Southern Sky

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“This is the best place to be, really!”  Ruiz sounds like the proud owner of a particularly convenient lot that he has carefully selected to settle down. “On the one hand we live at the edge of Milky Way, our own galaxy - thus we can see large parts of Milky Way, but we also have a good view out towards the other galaxies!” he explains the earth’s perfect position to us.

We are in the Northern Chilean desert. The area from around Vicuna towards the enormous Atacama Desert sees 340 clear nights per year, and hundreds of astronomical institutes have set up observatories. The largest of them take decades to build, and their telescopes are several meters long. Astronomers from all over the world must make reservations one year in advance and pay a fee of 10 000 USD to use them for one night. For Chile, the investment is so dear that laws are being changed in order to reduce light pollution caused by streetlights and neon advertisements. When Vicuna voluntarily introduced a low-level lighting system several years ago, American researchers rewarded the town with the purpose-built Mamalluca Observatory for tourists. Thus, instead of bothering astronomers at their expensive work place, we can now take a guided tour around the observatory on a hill outside Vicuna.

The observatory is pitch-dark except for a guidance-system with dimmed coloured lights along the pathways and the sky above us is sprinkled with stars. Ruiz points out a few familiar constellations – Orion is visible from all over the world, we learn. “But you will never see the Little Dipper constellation in the Southern hemisphere.” We also see the famous Southern Cross, which captains used to navigate the oceans for centuries.

Milky Way forms a thick white band above our heads, with two whitish blurs below. “These are the Magellanic Clouds: other galaxies not far from ours, and the only ones we can see with the naked eye,” Ruiz explains. “Magellan discovered and named them during his voyage in 1519-22, but of course he did not know what they are. Ruiz, of whom we only see the blinking dark button eyes, has been a keen hobby astronomer since his early youth. With his soft voice he develops a scenario of creatures living 2000 light-years away. Using very strong telescopes, he elaborates, they could just now observe Jesus growing up.

“No – it’s a sticker!,” a woman with a strong British accent and a hoarse voice exclaims in the dark upper story of the observatory. Some other people jostle around the huge telescope, emitting appreciative murmurs.  The telescope has an electronic positioning system, and from where we stood we had seen Ruiz enter long letter-number combinations for several stars and star clusters he had shown us before. Only a few hundred of the known stars and planets have names, the others are identified by a numbering system. The last position Ruiz entered had been easy: “SATURN.” And indeed, the small marbled ball we see has a clearly visible hula hoop ring around its corpulent waist.

We take another one of the numerous star observation tours offered in the area. Our guide Jorge focuses on the Andean cosmology. The indigenous peoples of the Andes had quite a different concept of the night sky, we hear. The Incas, for example, used for their orientation star constellations consisting of the dark areas without visible stars within Milky Way. And indeed there is a head with a blinking star-eye, and the dark guanaco (a lama variety) we now come to see does have four legs. Unfortunately the rest of the talk turns into a diffuse mix of esoteric stories and theses without obvious links to the Andean cosmology, and we are glad when it is over.

A few days later we stare at Saturn through a much smaller telescope and need a lot of imagination to see the rings. The telescope is part of the furniture in our “Astrodome”, a modern dome tent construction. The sleeping area just below the dome has a fold-away ceiling and we lie in bed watching the shooting stars fall through the firmament. By now we have had enough practice to be fast with our wishes.

 

 

The Devil in the Cellar

Today, the devil in Concha y Toro’s cellar is merely a tourist attraction (Click here for more Chile photos)

“Tour parking,“ states the sign at the entrance of the Concha y Toro winery, and more than 40 cars are parked in lines in the parking area. Are their drivers all here for the wine tasting?

Our guide Carlos starts with a summary of the company’s history: In 1883, Don Melchor Concha y Toro imported the first vines from Europe. By that time he had already spent 10 years in Chile to prepare the soil and to oversee the building of the 30-room mansion. Today the villa has been restored to its original condition and is used mainly for company events: Concha y Toro has meanwhile grown from a family business to a major enterprise on the stock market. Several visitor groups are circling the premises. The wine tasting takes place at a long wooden counter in the courtyard of the purpose-built visitor centre. The first wine, a Sauvignon Blanc, has tears running down the side of the glass, and it not only smells but also tastes like grapefruit juice. An elderly American with a pouch and varicose pale legs sticking out of his pale shorts empties his glass into the lawn with an inconspicuous swirl of the wrist.

The climate and the soil of the Maipo Valley are perfect for Cabernet Sauvignon, explains Carlos between the neat rows of vine hanging with dark blue grapes. “For most grapes, the soil is a disaster: not enough water and no nutriments. But Cabernet Sauvignon likes stress. Just as street kids get stronger with every fight,“ he elaborates. Since Chile is free of grape phylloxera and mildew, in most cases natural weed control is sufficient. At the end of every row of vines, a rose bush has been planted. Roses are susceptible for the same pests as wine and are therefore used as an early indicator for the occasional need to use chemical pesticides. 

Back at the wine tasting counter, Carlos offers us a Carmenere, a grape variety that has vanished from Europe with the phylloxera plague in 1867. The Carmenere has a deep red colour and tastes vaguely like Hanuta hazelnut wafers. “Nutty flavour,“ confirms Carlos and recommends serving it with pasta and red meat. “But it’s not enough just to think about the food accompanying the wine,“ he urges us. “Consider also the people who will drink it!“ Thin or fat? Blonde or brunette? “For every person there is a perfect wine“ he philosophises. “You, for example –“ He points to a slender woman with mahogany bob. “You should drink Merlot!“ “No Carmenere for you,“ rejoices her friend and attempts to seize her glass.

Holding the Carmenere we descend into the 50 year-old wine cellars. Here, the temperature is kept at a constant 11 Celsius, and the humidity is around 95%. Between the rows of wooden barrels, Carlos gets enthusiastic. The barrels are made either from American or French oak and burned out on the inside to enable the wine to take on the wood’s aroma. After five years of use, they are discarded or sold to pisco distilleries. „Do not get me wrong! I have nothing against American barrels – they are square and solid and they do their job! But the French barrels are a dream, you never know where they move!,“ he raves.

The best wines are kept in the Casillero del Diabolo, in the „Devil’s Cellar.“ Back in the 1880s, Don Melchor had invented the legend about the devil in his wine cellar to protect his exceptionally good wines form theft. Today nobody believes that the devil hides in the cellar – but perhaps in the details: the label Casillero del Diablo at least sells well.

„Until 6 months ago the last wine of the tasting tour was a glass of Don Melchor, our premium wine,“ Carlos admits while pouring us a Marques Cabernet Sauvignon. „But now we have more than 500 visitors per day.“ The Marques sits rich on the palate and then rolls off with a velvety finish. While our fellow wine tasters stroll to the car park, we sit in the sunny courtyard and contemplate a „Don Melchor Wine Tasting,“ with three different vintages, in the Wine bar.

 

Ritual and politics in the heart of Polynesia

Unu, wooden boards with engraved geometrical designs,  have been set up on the paved marae platform. (Click here for more French Polynesia photos)

“And here is my bedroom and my wardrobe.” With a sweeping motion Bill, our guide, opens the sliding door and gives free sight of his 250 shirts. We are on a historical tour around Raiatea, and Bill had stopped at his lovely house to show us around, although we had rather expected to have a look at the archeological artifacts he has collected over the last 30 years than at his socks and trousers. An anthropologist who has lived in Polynesia for a long time, Bill must have given fascinating insights into Polynesian culture and society in his “Almost Paradise Tours.” But he has turned 85 two weeks ago and his memory sometimes fails him now, which made it difficult for us to extract information from his pleasant chit-chat.

According to legend, Raiatea is the centre of the Polynesian triangle between New Zealand, Hawaii and Easter Island, and all the founders of the other Polynesian empires came from here. With Bill we visit several maraes, Polynesian ceremonial platforms, in the south of Raiatea. “Today people still come here to pray for important issues – look at those barn doors.” Bill points to the unu, wooden boards with engraved geometrical designs, which have been set up on the paved platform. “They used to belong to local chieftains, and their descendants have brought them here a few months ago to pray for a solution to the political stalemate,” Bill maintains. To us, they look like freshly wood-stained fretwork by a group of high-school students, and we wonder to what extent Bill incorporates legend into reality.

“What are the fools doing?!” Rosina, the owner of the family pension on Bora Bora, spends the evening eating pickled sea-urchin and commenting in turns on the red wine she has been drinking to celebrate her recent or upcoming birthday, and on the heated debate in Parliament being shown on TV. “Gaston vs. Gaston,” proclaims the caption. French Polynesia’s multiple ex-president Gaston Flosse is just being ousted by his rival Gaston Tong Sang in a no-confidence motion. Tong Sang had won a majority of votes in the last election, but Flosse, a long-time manipulator in French Polynesian politics and staunchly against independence, variously accused of corruption and intimidation of prosecutors, had managed to get himself elected president again. His unlikely supporter was Oscar Temaru, the third on the merry-go-round of presidents in the past couple of years. Temaru is vehemently pro-independence and an archrival of Flosse. The prayers for political improvement seemed necessary indeed.

“Many people around here are fed up with corruption.” Captain Rupati sighs as we stare at the blue sea and watch a small palm-fringed island pass by. And with Gaston Flosse, we gather. “Many of the big, expensive hotels have been standing empty for years.” Most of the profits from tourism do not stay in French Polynesia, he complains. The big hotel chains make sure that all the business they generate is on their own premises – bars, restaurants, tour operators, tattoo shops. Though the colony should have benefited greatly from French financial transfers (especially those related to French nuclear tests on two atolls in the Tuamoto island group), most islanders wonder where all that money has ended up.

A week later we stand on the paved stones of the large Marae Ahu O Mahine on Moorea. The inhabitants had abandoned the area in the 19^th century, we learn, and the marae has been rediscovered and restored in the 1960s (by a colleague of Bill). Again, we wonder how much of what we see is unbroken tradition, and how much imagination went into the restoration. As the original name of the marae was lost, it is now named after Moorea’s most famous warrior, chief Mahine. When Captain Cook visited Tahiti,in 1774 Mahine was in the process of fighting bloody wars with his colleague on the next island…