Westwards

Ponchos and Plantains on Ecuadorian Markets

For more photos from Ecuador, see: February 2012 
A boy is pulling two pigs over the famous Panamericana, which is a disappointingly medium-sized road here in the North of Ecuador. We are here for the renowned Saturday market of Otavalo and on our way to the animal market, which we finally find behind cardboard boxes full of chicklets and rice bags full of guinea pigs. The guinea pigs are a delicacy in Ecuador and we see prospective buyers probing the belly of the cute rodents .

From a loudspeaker mounted on a van some loud announcements are blaring over the cows – a cattle auction, we guess. But no, after a while of listening we can make out that it is an educational sermon about prostate cancer. A closer inspection of the van confirms this: the car is decorated with appropriately grizzly pictures. Next to the van an ice-cream seller is stomping through the mud carrying a plate of ice-cream and cones on her head. In spite of the location and the unpleasant weather she easily finds customers. Those craving more hearty snacks or an early lunch try their luck with intestine soups and whole roasted pigs in the stalls all around the animal market. A few blocks away from the animal market the town is teeming with other, less smelly items being sold. In Otavalo, several roads in the centre are closed for traffic, and rows of temporary market stalls connect the food, textile and handicraft markets set up on all the squares.

A few days later we are visiting another weekly market in the small town of Saquisilí near Latacunga. Contrary to Otavalo there are almost no proper stalls, everything is just laid out on the concrete floor under the multi-purpose roof that we see in all the Ecuadorian villages. We try Moroccho (a sweet rice porridge drink). „Isn't it really good? If I have two glasses of it, I don't need anything else until the evening“ an indigena lady tells Natascha. We can stock up on cookies and fruits before we head for a three-day hike in the Quilotoa area.

Hard bread and soft liquorice – The joys of Swedish food

Food in Sweden – no matter if you dine out or buy your own in the supermarket – is expensive, but of very good quality. During our one-week stay we tried to sample as many Swedish specialties as we could.

As it was summer, and even warm, we had ice-cream. Our favourite: Liquorice Ice-cream. Every Swedish ice-cream parlour sells one or the other variety. We tried Finska Liquorice, a nutty ice-cream with small candy-like liquorice pieces, and Raspberry Liquorice – raspberry ice-cream with soft chunks of salty liquorice. If you don't like liquorice in the first place, its taste in ice-cream might be difficult indeed, but if you do like liquorice you will love the ice-cream as well.

Most Swedes apparently have fond childhood memories of fruit soup, so we tried the Nyponsoppa: rosehip soup. Rosehip soup can be eaten warm or cold; usually a dollop of cream and some tiny almond cookies are added. The taste was interesting, but we guess only those who start at a very early age become seriously addicted.

We really liked a local variety of kefir, the Filmjölk, and also became quite interested in the differences between the many types of hard-bread. We even learned to bake our own and bought a kruskavel: a special variety of rolling pin that makes the dimples in the bread!

 

Alexandria All-you-can-eat

(for more Egypt photos, click here: March 2007,  June 2011)

Alexandrians are soo sophisticated - they like eating out and can choose from the full range of fancy cafés, old-fashioned coffee-shops, clean modern fish restaurants and retro Hotel Bars with high ceilings and fans. Even without all the museums, mosques and Roman ruins, checking out the restaurants is a veritable sightseeing task.

So where is El-Fellah, we ask Khaled and Azza, our local contacts. Both stare in disbelief: „You really want to eat there? It's rather … down to earth!“ A hearty smell comes from the restaurant. El-Fellah serves traditional liver dishes, and we are vegetarians...

On the Corniche, we wonder where the Fresca sellers have gone, who should be offering honey wafers. But in these temperatures, everyone is eating ice cream, also one of Alexandria's specialities.

After a long day on the Corniche and in Downtown, we end in the modern quarter of San Stefano. And there, all these sophisticated Alexandrians are back in force, gathering in the food court of Alexandria's newest mall for pizza, pasta and Chinese noodles!

The Ethiopian Connection

Ethiopia has the best coffee in the world and a number of other highlights.

However, its Internet connections are among the worst in the world.

In nearly two weeks, we haven’t managed to upload a single picture, and we don’t expect this to change in the less touristy regions. Thus, our travel photos will have to wait until February.

Kölsch for beginners

Below the Cologne Cathedral, dozens of traditional breweries uphold a tradition of tiny 0.2 litre beer glasses and brusque waiters. We took a tour to get a better understanding of the Kölsch beer tradition.

These days, Köbesses have useful tools for serving beer

A prospective bride in green and yellow frills, a printed t-shirt and ill-fitting Mickey Mouse ears stares gloomily at her beer, while her friends chatter away. Then she gets up once more, trying to sell useless small items to passers-by. Although it is a cool and grey Saturday, the beer hall on Cologne’s Alter Markt is crowded. Even the tables on the pavement outside are all occupied, so that our small guided “Kölsch Knowledge” tour has to remain standing while we consider another brand of hop-intensive top-fermented filtered alcoholic beverage.

It is only since 1986 beers bearing the label “Kölsch” are required to have been brewed within the city limits of Cologne. Today you have to be at least 16 years old to buy beer and even small children learn that too much of the yellow barley drink is bad for your health. But a century ago beer was considered a healthy beverage, that is: a relatively germ-free liquid very suitable for everyday cooking and even for children? “When I was a child, I often had lunch at a friend’s house. His parents ran a pub and they would always give us beer with the meal,” J. recounts the early postwar period. “But I wouldn’t tell my parents. I don’t think it was considered proper then.”

The beer may have been lighter then than it is today, but it certainly had a similar taste. When the Cologne brewers started producing the stuff in the Middle Ages, however, making beer was still a matter of luck. Fermentation occurred spontaneously due to yeast spores in the air (mysteriously, it worked better near bakeries), and dirty water could hamper the whole process. Taste, apparently, also depended on fate or good luck more than on skills. The better-off pub visitors would bring not only their own fancy glasses – normal folk only got a ceramic beer mug – but also a piece of nutmeg and a grater to add some spice.

We have long moved to another beer hall, and the Köbes appears to gruffily exchange half-empty glasses for full ones. All the waiters in the Kölsch beer halls are called Köbes, meaning Jacob, a remnant of the time when they were pilgrims bound for Santiago de Compostela stranded in Cologne and trying to earn some money for the next stretch of the journey. Today's Köbesses stick to their “tradition” which dictates that the Köbes rather than the customer is king. If you don't want another glass of beer, you have to put the coaster on top of your glass – the typical Köbes won't ask for preferences and certainly doesn't like to serve anything but the standard Kölsch in its thin 0.2 litre glass.

Chocolate, waffles and fries

Of course the museums, history and culture of Belgium were the focus of our stay in Bruges and Gent. But here’s the ever-present food:

For more sweet photos from Belgium, click here

“Wow, that’s it! Now we can talk!” The young family disappears into a chocolate shop. Bruges boasts well over 50 chocolate specialty shops, selling huge Belgian pralines and marzipan. In a week in Bruges, we ate our way through violet cream pralinés and marzipan balls. In the end, our favorites were the candied orange slices covered with dark chocolate.

In addition, nearly every café produces rich Belgian waffles made with yeast and lumps of half-molten sugar. Oh, sugar cubes, we comment, but the baker frowns: This is pearl sugar, he insists. The Waffles are sold with different toppings like cream, chocolate or warm cherry sauce.

Legend has it that the Belgians invented Potato Fries during a particularly harsh winter.  In one village the people liked to eat small fried fish, but as the river was covered with a thick layer of ice, they cut potatoes into a similar shape and size and fried them instead. 

We learn that the Belgian fries are double-fried and thus, believe it or not, contain less fat. “I recommend the ‘Sauce Toscana,’ a bit spicy, you will like it!” The man with the thinning grey hair leans confidentially over the greasy refrigerated counter, which holds an array of plastic buckets filled with mayonnaisy sauces. “By the way, my wife is also German,” he adds, somewhat randomly. We decide, as always, on the non-oily Piccalilli-Sauce, mustard pickles with a lot of vinegar. In Belgium, after all, it’s the sauce rather than the fries that let you gain weight.

Short on food in Northern Senegal

(Click here for more Senegal photos)

At the turn-off to Podor, a village at the banks of the Senegal river, washed-out signs announce half a dozen different organisations with lengthy acronyms: AHMP (Association handicapé motorique de Podor), Maison FED etc. A battered pick-up fitted with benches in the back is waiting for people returning from the market that has been taking place at Tereji, on Senegal’s No 2 Highway. Over the next days we understand why they went all the way to the highway 30 km away to buy food.

After a lengthy walk around town we finally check into the guest room at the Maison de la Femme. The “House of the Woman” once obviously was an ambitious project – a purpose-built meeting place with a large seminar room and guest rooms. A badge on the house wall indicates the formation of a women’s mutual savings association, but the compound is deserted and overgrown now, and the room has not been cleaned for weeks or even months. Furthermore, we have the occasional cockroach as our roommate. The family in charge of the keys – and entitled to receive the rent – lives next door: In a pleasant courtyard Deck chairs are arranged, and a boy just opens a laptop computer.

 Since we are always hungry we venture into the market, which is in full swing: About 20 women in voluptuous robes sell fish. A few others have a bowl of mint leaves placed in front of them or a napkin with small piles of pumpkin or carrot cubes. Each heap of three or for cubes costs about 10 or 20 cents – most buyers apparently can not afford a whole carrot. Shops in the wooden huts around sell onions, potatoes, milk powder and concentrated tomato paste by the spoon. Twice a day the bakery offers fresh and very tasty baguette, but nothing else.

The Muslim holiday of Tabaski is near, and in front of every house and in every courtyard, a sheep or goat is lashed to a withered tree or an old tyre. The next morning, boys are bringing the animals for a bath in the River Senegal. While a little boat ferries passengers in bright orange life vests to Mauritania on the other side, they struggle in pairs to lead their white goats and sheep into the water, scrubbing them vigorously with soap. Men in colourful boubous are walking to the mosque with their sons. Little boys proudly carry their prayer mats. By now, the only free space is in the uncovered street leading up to the mosque, where the Imam is going to cut a sacrificial sheep’s throat. It is a symbolic re-enactment of Abraham’s sacrifice of his son Isaak. When the prayer is over, everybody returns home. In each courtyard there are a few animals awaiting their fate. Pits have already been dug in the soil to take up the blood. In some families, the pater familias does the work himself. If not, young men working in pairs are ready to seize the sheep and quickly draw their freshly sharpened knife across its throat. Children swarm after them, keen to watch but shocked when the blood suddenly spills out. The mother is holding down a dead but still kicking goat when the butchers have long moved to another courtyard. Apart from a woman selling small bananas, the market is deserted today, but the baker sells warm and fresh bread as always.

Because of Tabaski, all transport has stopped,and we were stuck in Podor for three days. We found a much nicer room with balcony on the river side (sometimes even a W-LAN wafted through the air) and lived mainly on bread and bananas until transport started again and we could continue our journey.

Liquid bread in Germany

Lauter tuns in the Bavarian Brewery Museum in Kulmbach
(For more Germany photos, click here: 2007, May 2008, August / September 2008, October / November 2008.)

„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!”

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.

 

Taking the milk bus to the mountains

Camping at the Laguna de la Plaza  (click here for more Columbia photos)
“Si Señora, and a pound of cheese.” The shop assistant takes one of the big round pieces of soft local cheese out of the fridge. It is 5:45 in the morning and still dark, but the small grocery store at the plaza in the village of Cocuy is already open and well visited. Men wearing brownish woollen ponchos and quite fashionable brimmed hats are having strong coffee and a sweet Danish pastry before starting their day.
We pack the cheese carefully in the top pocket of the bag-pack and board the daily milk bus, the only way of transportation to the pastures above Cocuy. The milk bus is a veteran school bus that has four blue 180 litre milk barrels installed in the rear, instead of seats. Apart from the poncho-clad local farmers we are seven tourists on the bus, and as soon as the first snow fields come into view the Columbian family puts on sun lotion and UV filter sun glasses. The bus stops every few meters and a local with visibly Irish ancestry collects some bottles, buckets or canisters full of fresh creamy milk, while the driver precisely notes down the quantity.
After a bit more than an hour the bus finally drops us at the entrance of the Parque Nacional Natural El Cocuy. At 3700 m, the air is crisp and chilly, and we are looking forward to our hike to the Laguna de la Plaza. “An easy day hike of about seven hours,” the girls at the park office had assured us. Although the path rises very gently, we are soon panting and have to reduce our pace. Maybe it wasn’t such a smart idea to do the trip from the Caribbean coast up into the eastern Cordilleras in just two days, we realize. We decide to stop every 30 minutes in order to make sure we drink enough. For a while this plan works out quite well. Between podgy succulents we progress, somewhat short of breath, through the dry mountainous landscape. After about 2 hours the path becomes steeper and we pass some turquoise blue lagoons that have formed in clusters amid swampy yellow pastures. Snow-capped mountains with names like Pan de Azúcar (sugar loaf) and Pulpito del Diablo (devil’s pulpit) peek over the lower crests. “This evening we can make a great risotto with onions, carrots and this yummy-looking white cheese,” we are still discussing our menu when we begin to notice a faint pressure in the forehead and the sinuses. We shorten our walking-resting rhythm to a ratio of 25:10 minutes and strive for the Cusiri pass, at 4300 m the highest point in our route. Despite the recommended frequent rests and drinking a lot of water we both feel miserable by the time the pass comes into sight. “No, thanks, I don’t feel like eating” Isa faintly declines a cookie. Checking our different maps for the route on the other side of the pass, we find out that the pass is more likely 4500 m high than 4300 m. “Huh, but we aren’t acclimatised!” With the added psychological momentum our stomachs rebel. We decide to track back to the small lagoons and to camp there. In about half the time we had needed uphill we reach a nice campsite, but it takes us ages to put up the tent. Every bend forward to fetch something out of the backpack, or even more difficult, to hammer the tent pegs into the ground, leads to sharp pain in the head and a disgusting accumulation of saliva in the mouth. “Urgh, the cheese! I’ll put it here outside the tent!“ The mere thought of risotto makes us feel sick. An hour later we drop onto our thermal mats. “Is this my sleeping bag?,“ Isa asks feebly before nodding off.
The next morning we feel much better. We find that the word “risotto” evokes positive associations, and after a hearty breakfast of porridge and coffee we make a new attempt climbing the Cusiri pass. This time we have enough breath to marvel at the views, and at yesterday’s turning point, we triumphantly eat some crackers.
From the Boqueron Cusiri (the sign posted here gives its height as 4410 m) we descend on a steep gravel path into the next valley and through boggy terrain up to the next mountain pass. Patio Bolas is just 60 m lower than the Cusiri pass, but we feel still fine and can enjoy the yellow and red shrubs and cactuses. Nevertheless it takes us about 6 hours to reach the Laguna de la Plaza at 4300 m, and we are glad when we can pitch our tent at the designated campsites at the shore.
This evening we have a delicious risotto, and although the temperatures go below zero during the night we sleep very well. The next day we hike all the way back to the road, where the milk bus passes in the morning and brings us to the village of Guican, from where we take another bus back to Cocuy.

The Geisha in the coffee fields

(Click here for more Panama photos)

“Geisha Coffee? I wish I had some,” Olga sighs, “but people buy it like mad!” From Olga’s Café we move on to the Boquete Roasting Company, where the owner shrugs apologizing: “Sold out. We were supposed to receive a pound today, but…” It seems that as soon as a package of the famous brand reaches the shops, it is instantly sold. The Geisha Coffee is grown at the Hacienda Esmeralda, near the charming town of Boquete in the highlands of Panama. Originally an Ethiopian Arabica variety, Geisha has recently been rediscovered in Panama and has since won several international cupping contests. The “Esmeralda Especial” coffee is currently praised as the best organic coffee in the world – and priced accordingly: It has been sold at auction record for $130 per pound.
“If you like strong coffee, then the Geisha is not for you,” Terry says firmly. “It is very lightly roasted with orange and blueberry flavours. Almost like lemon tea.” We have signed up for a tour of the Kotowa coffee estate with Terry. Most of the cherry-like red beans are already picked at this time of the year, but a sudden waft of chocolaty aromas comes from the roasting mill. Making our way from the coffee fields to the warehouse and on to the tasting room, we learn that the highest quality coffee must not have more than 5 less-than-perfect beans per pound and that even in years with dreadful climate conditions it is possible to produce high quality coffee, provided that you have enough workers who sort out the bad beans.
We ended up drinking only excellent coffee (and much of it) during our time in Boquete, but our hunt for the Geisha coffee remained fruitless.
The coffee town of Boquete has also been given a second life: Since the Modern Maturity Magazine chose Boquete in 2001 as one of the four top places in the world to retire, foreign pensioners (wearing orthopaedic shoes and driving land cruisers) flock to the real estate offices in the region and tour new building lots between coffee plantations and cloud forests. They are joined by crowds of tourists from Panama City and further afield, all hoping to get a glimpse of the elusive, green-feathered quetzal and to lay hands on a cup of Geisha Coffee…
“You know, I’d like to see … the woman … and the black. In any combination: The woman as president, and the black as vice president. Or the other way round… The black and the woman…,” Frank drawls several times. The cable TV programme is full of the American primaries, and we are both amazed how much money, manpower, strategies, broadcasting time and attention the selection of the candidates requires. “That would rock…The woman and the black…” Frank starts again. The middle-aged Texan has shoulder-length scruffy hair and is wearing faded cotton shorts. Drinking beer, he likes to hang out in the hostel for the better part of the day, bothering the other guests, the owner and his family.
Fortunately, travellers like Frank are the minority. In Cerro Punta we met Edith, who had just turned 71. “Last year I was trekking in Patagonia for my birthday”, she says. She is glad that after Panama, she will have “done Central America.” And for this year she is planning Nepal again, because there she won’t have to carry the backpack herself. Travellers like Edith impress us with their bottomless energy and curiosity and make us hope that we won’t ever have to retire to a coffee farm, trying to convince future Franks to exercise their voting rights.
We are now in Panama City , exploring the canal and organizing our onward travel to Colombia. As always we will keep you posted.

Salaam ‘Alaikum from Damascus

Hajj-Returnee's decorations displayed in the souq (click here for more Syria photos)

“What? You really bought only 200 grams of cookies?” our Arabic teacher Ghazwan bursts out. We had just complained that people laugh at us when we try to do that. “When I lived alone once for a month or so, I simply gave up on buying certain groceries or sweets, because nobody would sell me less than a dozen, or a kilo…” Virtually all Syrians live in large families – even young people have at least three or four children and most of them would feel lonely without their parents and siblings around them. Living alone appears outright eccentric. No wonder that the people shopping in our local market street clutch huge bags full of bread, or order 5 different sorts of pistachio pie totalling 6 kilos. The shopkeeper of the hoummous (chickpea paste) stall has consistently refused to take money when we had asked him for “just 200 grams or so in a small bag”.

Beyond the hoummous stall, the baker, and the butchers with their display of sheep’s heads and testicles, the market street turns into an old-town souq specializing in formal men’s wear: Long brown robes with sheepskin lining, red chequered headscarves and the agal, the black ropes used to hold them on the head. A few hundred meters further on the street turns into a spice souq. Following the smell of curry, coffee and cardamom, we pass some chocolatiers and then enter a lane where every shop sells comfortable home wear for women. Our favourites are long frottage shirts in bright colours, with slogans like “Carolina” or “Let it Snow” embroidered across the chest. Finally, the passage is decked in bright garlands and blinking fairy lights. With these carnival-Christmas decorations relatives and friends welcome pilgrims who have just returned from the Hajj to Mekka. Cardboard models of the holy Qaaba are strung under the remains of a huge portico of Roman arches.

The arches once belonged to the Roman temple of Jupiter. Opposite them, across a lively town square, crowds of people enter the Umayyad mosque through a huge carved wooden door. As non-Muslims we have to pay an entrance fee and to don long mud-coloured hooded frocks before we are allowed into the courtyard. When Caliph al-Walid decided to build a magnificent mosque on this spot in 705, the Roman temple had been replaced by the Byzantine John the Baptist Church for several hundred years. He persuaded the Christians who owned the plot to sell it, and proceeded to tear the church down completely. Reusing the material of the church as well as that of the Jupiter temple, he financed a vast prayer hall with an open courtyard, all covered in marble and glittering mosaics. The building’s new style inspired mosque architecture from Northern Africa to Anatolia for centuries afterwards.

We sit for almost an hour at the northern side of the 315 m × 270 m courtyard, watching people. A Spanish tour group with their guide passes. In front of the imposing main entrance to the prayer hall they take a group picture of the women – in their rented outfits they look like a horde of chattering garden gnomes. As the period of the Hajj has just ended, many pilgrims have come from far away and walk around in colourful clothes. All around them, small children happily run across the huge courtyard while their parents sit in the winter sun and nibble some sandwiches.

Most of the parents are rather young: At the latest when they have finished their education, people are expected to marry, but there is no legal minimum age. Marriages are not covered by the French-inspired civil law. For Muslims, the Kadi has to decide whether both partners are mature enough. “If she’s ugly, the Kadi will usually agree, at any age. It might be her only chance,” Ghazwan grinned.

Leben wie Gott im Kaukasus, or A Pleasant Surprise

Old Metekhi Church in Tbilisi

Georgians like to eat and drink. As always, they were out partying when God had just made the earth and was distributing the land, so by the time they came back nothing was left. “But we have been drinking to your health”, they pleaded, and God gave in and let them have the heavenly bit of land He had reserved for Himself.

And indeed the Georgians never lost their love for partying and drinking that the legend evokes. Most families grow grapes in their garden or on the rooftops and make their own wine.

“To peace!” “To women!” “To democracy!” With each toast, our host Suliko emptied another glass, drinking horn, porcelain shoe, or other curiously shaped vessel. Admittedly, his pace of wine consumption required a lot of toasts, but when did we hear someone toast to democracy?

Originally a textile designer, but now working on construction sites, Suliko is not among the winners in Georgia’s transition to a market economy. He and his family live in a rickety old house with (cold) running water only in the morning. His wife Mediko spent much of the day cutting up leeks and peppers. “So we can have pickled salad in winter, when we can’t afford vegetables,” she explains.

In Tbilisi we passed a political demonstration in front of the parliament. Policemen with rolled-up sleeves stood behind the crowd, casually listening to the speakers. Our first impulse was to change to the other side of the road. Suddenly, we realized how used we had become to arbitrary police controls and repressive militia during our four months of traveling in China and Central Asia.

“Previously, it was easier: you could just buy a driving licence.” Sophie has just turned 18 and had to take an exam and a driving test to get hers. Nevertheless, she greatly prefers President Saakashvili to his predecessor, Eduard Shevardnadze under whom corruption blossomed and the economy deteriorated.

Michail Saakashvili became president through the so-called rose revolution. After flawed elections in November 2003, Georgian citizens took to the streets. Unarmed, but distributing roses, they forced Shevardnadze to flee the parliament, and eventually Saakashvili convinced him to resign. In January 2004 Saakashvili was elected president with 96.6% of the votes. The political reforms initiated since then have inspired great optimism in Georgia and abroad.

The small part of Georgia we saw was lovely – we bet on Tbilisi as the next Prague –, and the Georgians are extraordinarily friendly and welcoming people, but we both felt even more attracted by the cosmopolitan charm of Baku (although Azerbaijan is ruled by yet another ex-communist father-son dynasty). Situated at the deep-blue Caspian Sea, it feels at the same time oriental, Mediterranean, and Western. Although the majority of the population is Muslim, headscarves are rare. At the beginning of Ramadan, a lot of people were out in the sun eating ice-cream and snacks at the palm tree-fringed sea-front. Some of the plentiful oil money has been used to restore the beautiful houses in the Old Town, and small specialty shops and boutiques invite to stroll around.

Where our guidebooks for the Caucasus invoked a region full of crime and corruption, remnants of civil war, and dirty business that we would best rush through, we found the most liberal and inviting places we had seen for months.