Couchsurfing Interview: Transnistria

During my travels, I make many ridiculously bad decisions that cause me to either: a.) waste money b.) offend foreigners or c.) inflict bodily and potentially life-threatening harm on myself.  As you can probably guess, c.) is usually a result of b.), which always comes after a lot of a.) in a local bar.  If not for the helpful people I have meet through Couchsurfing, I would end up broke and dead from trying to display my knowledge of Russian dirty words to the wrong person.

Speaking of Russian, I had an interview in Russian about Couchsurfing in Tiraspol, Transnistria.  Huh?  Transnistria is a country in Moldova -wait, so it's not really a country- but two other countries, South Otessia and Abkhazia, recognize it, but those are not really countries either, however according to the European Court of Human Rights, Russia has "effective authority or at least decisive influence" there, and in fact if we now consider Crimea then...well, fuck, I just went cross-eyed.  Sufficient to say, Transnistria doesn't come up in the spell-check, so that should give you an idea of what we're dealing with here.

I will explain what, exactly, Transnistria is another time.

One of the Couchsurfers I contacted is a journalist.  The interview we had was part of a concert she arranged for me at a local cafe, Freedom Antikafe.  Since Couchsurfing is still a novelty in Transnistria (I can't imagine why), she wanted me to explain what it is, my advice and opinion on it, and what I have done as a part of it for the last 5 years.  Not much, I think.

I got through the interview without completely spazzing out, although after seeing myself on television, I understand now why so many of my friends say I look, and act, like Jim Carrey.  If you are one of the 260 million people who know Russian, great, you will have no problems.  If, like me, the only Russian you know is "vodka," there is a complete English transcript below the video, with my greatest thanks going out to another CS friend for the translation.  This is my live, unadulterated opinion on the Couchsurfing project that has helped me travel so much.

I consider it my greatest achievement that I have become famous in a country that, technically, doesn't exist.  This is far more important than being famous in an actual country, like France.

Let’s meet: this is Raleigh. He is a musician and Couchsurfer. He has traveled for 4 years using Couchsurfing.

Raleigh is not a millionaire, but in the last 2 months he has been to Sweden, France, Luxembourg, Germany, Czech Republic, Slovakia, Hungary, Romania, Moldova and now he is playing a short live concert in Transnistria.

{Interview #1}:

I only knew 3 things about Transnistria: troublesome border crossings, beautiful girls and everything being cheap. It’s all that I knew. And now I am here. I didn't have any problems at the border, I was welcomed at my host’s place, was eating and drinking a lot {in Russian it doesn't mean alcohol}. Also I was talking to a lot of people. I find people here very inquisitive.

Raleigh was welcomed, was feed and was shown around by Olga. They met through the CS website.

{Olga’s interview #1}:

On this website you can find notes and references about people you may host. Raleigh has a lot of positive references. I even remember the exact number - 62. For sure there is some risk...But I read his references and it showed that he is an interesting person. That’s why I decided to risk it and I don’t regret it.

Also on this website you need to point out your availability to host someone. If you have this opportunity, then write how many people you are able to host at once, preferred gender, sleeping place condition, how a surfer can reach your place and other important things.

But if you don’t have an opportunity to host, you can choose a status “meet for a walk\coffee”. Surfers do not have to ask about comfortable conditions. All they need is a place to sleep and someone to chat with.

This was the same situation with Raleigh {exact translation. Not correct even in Russian} when he hosted his first surfer in America [actually Slovakia].

{Interview #2}:

He was a Turkish student. He didn't have a place to stay. I told him: “I just moved into my new apartment, I don’t have furniture, not even a bed.”  So he stayed at my place for a weekend. It was a funny weekend.

The idea about CS came to Casey Fenton in 2000 when he bought a cheap ticket to Iceland but he didn't have a place to stay. So he mailed around 1500 Icelandic students asking if it was possible to stay at someone’s place. After his awesome weekend in Iceland he decided to stop using touristy stuff so he created this community. Now CS unites around 6 million people from 246 countries. They help each other, provide accommodation and it’s all for free. By the way, it is amazing language practice.

{Olga’s interview #2}

He speaks English. It is his native language. And I was interested in talking with someone in English. My son studies it at school, he was interested in it as well.

English is the most popular language in the CS community. But it is always better to know a few more languages because you never know where you might be and what might happen. In 4 years of traveling Raleigh once faced an unexpected situation in Hungary.

{Your interview #3}:

Two people offered me a place to stay. I got there around 9 pm. It was rainy there. I don’t speak Hungarian and most Hungarians don’t speak English. I was repeating one word “university”. Someone showed me the university. I tried to call the CS girl, but no answer. The guy didn't answer as well. I thought: I need to find an internet cafe to send requests. But everything was closed by 10 pm. Cold and rainy. I was scared. But eventually I found a girl who speaks Spanish. A student from Brazil, and she showed me a place to stay at the student’s dorm.

Raleigh says: The most important part of traveling is to think about even small things before and to learn as much as possible about a person who has accepted you.

{Interview #4}:

If a person has some information -read it! For example, I look for musicians. I look for guitars, music, photos with a guitar. I look for Spanish as well because I speak Spanish. Read profiles. It is personal. Don’t write “Hey, I need a place to stay. I will be tomorrow in Tiraspol”. No one going to read it. Everyone wants to know that you've read his profile.

So CS is not just cheap way to travel, but also a priceless experience of meeting with different people.

{End Interview}

If you are adept at video-editing thingies, contact me, please.  It would be awesome to add English subtitles to this video.  My attempts at this so far have resulted in beer-scented tears. 

Guayabo National Monument: Pretty Much The Only Ancient Ruin In Costa Rica

Costa Rica has plenty of outdoor activities to keep your average wannabe ecotourist happy forever.  Ziplining, trekking, climbing volcanoes and feeding monkeys are all the standard package trip to this tropical country.  But after living there for some time, I noticed something was missing.  I've drank on the San Andreas Mayan Pyramids in El Salvador, sunburned myself on the massive Teotihuacan Pyramid in Mexico and offended God in historical churches in Nicaragua.  And no hostel chat in Latin America is complete without some new-age douchebag mentioning the stunning Aztec city of Macchu Picchu in Peru...and how he tripped balls on ayahuasca there.

Where are all the ancient ruins in Costa Rica?

Ancient Guayabo Zipline Facility

I fretted over this for awhile, then got distracted for the next few months by my 50+ hour work week.  I forgot all about it until Barbara, a coworker of mine, announced she was leaving Costa Rica in 2 weeks and invited me to see Guayabo National Monument:

"What's a Guayabo? A fruit?"

"It's just some old stones in Turrialba.  I don't really know how great it's gonna be.  We can still go out in Turrialba that night or find time for kayaking on the river."

"Sounds good.  My roommate's from Turrialba.  She could show us around."

Some Rocks. It Gets Better.

Let's be brutally honest.  If you're a backpacker who's on a Latin America tour and you've already seen Macchu Picchu, Teotihuacan or Copan, then seeing Guayabo is as breathtaking as watching "The Hangover 3" after having just seen the first two.  Really, that's the best they could do?

Regardless, I never say no to a roadtrip.  Especially with Barbara, who is from Slovakia.  This is a country which most people can't locate on a map, but by wild coincidence I happened to live there for 2 years.  As with all Slovak women, she is tall and stunningly beautiful.  Although she was definitely in Costa Rica for 'exotic' Latin men, we still hung out since I knew how to curse in Slovak and "drink like a Slovak."  I looked up 'Guayabo National Monument' and discovered it really is the only ancient archaeological site in Costa Rica.  Well, I finally found some history.

One of Barbara's friends (also Slovak) came with us.  We caught a late bus on Saturday from San Jose to Turrialba.  It was a long 2 hours in drizzling rain through the rolling Cartagao mountains.  The Slovak girls rambled on in Slovak while drinking rum and ginger out of plastic bottles.  I eventually dozed off when I realized I had completely forgotten what little Slovak I had learned...

By good fortune, I had contacted a Couchsurfer, Tete, from Turrialba who agreed to help us with our trip to Guayabo National Monument.  She wasn't able to give us a place to stay that night, but she offered to drive us and be our guide at Guayabo.  When we arrived she took us in her car to various lodgings where we could stay.  We eventually settled on the Intercontinental; for a nice room with 3 beds in the city center it came out to less than 15 dollars per person.

Katka declared she was tired, leaving Barbara and I to experience the nightlife of small-town Turrialba.  My roommate was in town for the weekend, so I contacted her.  She was at a wedding party in Club Nazca, a short 15 minute walk from the Intercontinental.  This didn't seem like a problem until we started asking people about the location:

"Oh no no. That walk is too dangerous at night.  Take a taxi there."

Some Of The Local Men

Turrialba is town of less than 30,000 people.  The thought of this small town being 'dangerous' seemed absurd to me, an American, and Barbara, a European.  Unfortunately this is the reality of living in Latin America; even the smallest villages are still dangerous, especially for obviously 'gringo' tourists who draw attention.  Barbara, being a tall, white exotic European woman, was already getting annoyed with all the catcalls she was getting from the local men on the streets:

"Hey, you speaky English?" "I loves you!!!" "You are sooo beautiful."

It was a short night.

Tete picked us around 9am the next morning and we drove the half hour up a rocky, rutted trail to the park entrance.  Since I was a passenger, I wasn't observing our route, and Costa Rica directions are always tricky.   Based on the maps I've seen, both Route 415 and Route 230 from Turrialba will take you there.  There is a bus that leaves from Turrialba twice daily that goes to the entrance; take the morning one.  Expect rain, expect rain and...expect rain.  Also foreigners, expect to pay more than nationals.  Another reality of the 3rd world.  Tete and her Costa Rica friend paid 600c ($1.20) while us foreigners paid 3000c ($6.00.)

A price increase of 5 times is justified...because we know all English teachers are very wealthy.

No one can really explain the existence of Guayabo National Park.  This is perhaps because, out of the 217 hectares that constitute the park, just 20 hectares are designated as an archaeological site, and only a small portion of that has been excavated.  Delayed development of the park has also contributed to a lack of information.

The archaeological site was first discovered by accident in the mid-1800s by rich coffee barons looking for plots of land to grow their cash crop for export, and to continue feeding their caffeine addiction.  At this time, the coffee industry was the popular kid in Costa Rica and ran around poking all the other little industries with sticks until they cried.  When news of the archaeological site discovery broke, a few nerdy archaeologists got really excited and asked to excavate it.  The coffee barons poked them with sticks until they shut up: "Who cares about this land?  How the hell can you grow profitable coffee beans with all these stones in the ground?"

Remember, this was before the ecotourism industry existed.

Guayabo was pretty much ignored for the next 100 years.  Finally in 1968 one of the less nerdy archaeologists, Carlos Aguilar AKA "Carlos The Eagle," convinced the Costa Rican government to set up a permanent excavation program on the site:

"Trust me, please.  Archaeology is really cool.  Also the gringos will pay us big money to look at these old rocks.  Seriously."

In 1973, the government designated Guayabo as a national monument.  "The Eagle" and his fellow archaeologists finally got to play in the dirt without worrying about rich, over-caffeinated coffee barons poking them with sticks.  Here's what they discovered.  (Or rather what I translated from Spanish Wikipedia.)

Guayabo was a pre-Columbian society that was occupied from sometime between 1000 B.C. to 1400 A.D.  Much like today, it was governed by a quasi political-religious head known as a cacique, which is also the name for Costa Rica's national firewater.  There are many theories on why the society was abandoned including: disease, war and internal conflict.  Surprisingly enough, European Spain's religious, ass-kicking, kill-all-the-brown-people campaign had nothing to do with it, since the site was abandoned at least 100 years before invasion.  The site mainly consists of a series of connected aqueducts, aqueduct locks, large basins where the water was collected and several large streets which aided with water drainage.  In other words, you are paying 6 dollars to look at an ancient sewer system; septic tanks included.

A Cute Crocodile Petroglyph

 Guayabo has much more besides extensive historical plumbing.  There are several monoliths, tombs and stone petroglyphs carved with jaguars, birds and two-tailed crocodiles.  The Costa Rica Board of Tourism wanted to install additional petroglyphs in the park carved with cute, wide-eyed green tree frogs and smiling tree sloths, but the Archaeological Society told them, no, there's already enough fucking cute tree frogs and tree sloths in your current tourism campaign, carapiche mae.

All of these structures are centered around a group of large stone mounds.  They have weathered the years quite well.  I had hoped there was a more dramatic English translation of monticulo, such as "Fucking Stunning Pyramid" or "Giant Damn Epic Mausoleum," but no, they are just mounds.  The other translations (hump and hummock) are even worse.

Guayabo National Monument is certainly not the largest, most breathtaking ancient ruin in Latin America.  Not even in Central America.  It doesn't matter.  After seeing all of the mounds, aqueducts and stones, Barbara, Tete, I and the rest of our friends climbed to the top of the park's scenic overlook.  When we looked down at the site and realized we could see clear to Columbia, we knew we were viewing the most impressive sewer system ever.  Wow.

Unholy Holy Week Processionals In Granada, Nicaragua

God doesn't want me to smoke.

That must be why I couldn't go the Plasencia Cigar finca in Esteli, Nicaragua for Holy Week in April.  It was the longest holiday I would have from the hell that my teaching job at Berlitz Costa Rica had become since January, and I planned well ahead.  So I thought.

(I realize simply because I smoke cigars, many Americans have already put me in the same category as Nazis, child rapists and baby seal murders.  You can go return to your healthy lifestyle of eating bacon & maple syrup milkshakes and getting important updates on Kim Kardasian & Kanye West's baby.)

Three weeks before the holiday I contacted a Couchsurfer who fortunately was an executive manager for Plansencia.  He offered me a place to stay and arranged a personal tour to show me around the expansive tobacco farms - cigars included.  Once I got that arranged I went to Transnica in San Jose to find a bus to Esteli, Nicaragua.

"We have no buses to Esteli for Semana Santa.  All cancel.  Only to Granada."

It's a culturally-significant object

Shit.  I'm going to Granada then.  At least I can renew my visa, get drunk off cheap Flor de Cana rum and buy some real Nicaraguan cigars.  I heard Granada had exceptionally beautiful Spanish colonial-era architecture, so it would be worth visiting for a weekend of picture-taking.  Sometime I care about those cultural things.

The week I was to leave for Granada a Swiss Couchsurfer showed up at our San Jose apartment with no specific plans.  Thanks to my American charm, I convinced her to travel to Nicaragua with me before she continued on to the rest of Central America.  Fortunately, she is as equally sarcastic and cynical as I am, otherwise we would've ended up killing each after the 3 days we spent in close quarters going to Nicaragua.  She did have a Swiss Army knife.

That's not a joke.

Crossing the Costa Rica-Nicaragua border is a pain in the ass...especially during Holy Week.  Basically every single Nicaraguan that works legally (and illegally) in Costa Rica goes back home to see their families and join in depressing religious processionals.  The temperature also magically goes up about 100 degrees when you enter Nicaragua.  This one time I was glad I took Transnica and not the local "chicken buses."  Between borders you have to switch bus routes, which means waiting hours in a infinite line to cross the actual border.  With Transnica you stay on the same bus.

I did return alone by local buses. Ugh.  That requires a separate post.

Swiss Miss and I had a reservation at Hostel Oasis Granada.  She was a serious backpacker, and had many things she wanted to see and visit in the area.  I had put in 3 months of teaching 50+ hours a week, so I didn't want to do shit other than drink, smoke, sleep and get laid.  We agreed to see some of the depressing Semana Santa religious processional and go out in the evening together, but didn't see each other for most of the trip.  It was for the better.  The hostel was in a beautiful historical building with a central garden, a pool, lots of hammocks and free coffee.  I walked around town and took some pictures in the mornings, but spent most of the afternoons sleeping in the hammocks, swimming and playing guitar.  It's too damn hot in Granada to do much else.

We did see one of Granada's Semana Santa processionals (there are many.)  It was depressing.  And extremely religious.

Holy Week Processional

Catholicism is all about suffering, and this ceremony certainly emphasizes the suffering.  You are in the middle of the humidity and blazing midday sun.  There's a sweaty crowd following around a giant statue of a cross-bearing Jesus as a ragtag brass band plays a sad cacophony of noise.  Possibly it's the unbearable heat, or maybe the musicians are hungover from the previous night's party, but no one can find the rhythm, and no one is in tune.  As a musician myself, I felt an urge to smash the uninspiring musicians over their heads with their own instruments.  The cacophony is occasionally disturbed by a long Bible sermon delivered with all the excitement of a Board of Directors meeting fueled by Quaalude & Sizzurp martinis.

I'm sure many Christians are wishing me a swift trip to hell now.  Ironically, this scene of religious fervor is one of my many imagined dreams of what hell is.  Listen:

Neither Swiss Miss or I are suddenly inspired to praise Jesus.  We heard about the nighttime processional and have no desire to see it.  We leave the sad Catholic processional before the sheer depression of it causes us to commit suicide.       

The Beautiful Beaches of Bratislava

There are a lot of nice beaches around Bratislava.

That sounds pretty stupid, doesn't it?  When my Couchsurfer told me she was taking me to the beach for the day, I though she had perhaps drank too many slivovica shots.  Slovakia is a landlocked country known for its mountains and snow.  The thought of a beach here sounds absurd.

Use your imagination.  Go to Bratislava in the summer and there are several nice places where you can lay your towel in the sand, grab a cold drink, get a nice tan and then cool off later with a dip in the water.  And don't worry, there will plenty of nice girls to look at.  This is Slavic Europe.

1. T-com Beach
T-Com Beach is on the opposite side of the Dunaj River from downtown Bratislava.  If it's not June, July or August don't go looking for it because it doesn't exist in the winter.  During the summer months construction crews dump several tons of sand on the riverside and contain it all in wooden partitions.  After that they set up beach chairs, umbrellas and several fancy, stand-alone cafes on top of the sand.  If you want to feel glamorous and have a good view of the Old Town, cross the New Bridge and pick out a spot.

2. Zlaty Piesky
Zlaty Piesky is a small resort with a lake located on the city limits of Bratislava.  Whenever I felt inspired to pull out my guitar and write a song, I would go out here to clear my head.  Take the red tram line 4 all the way to the last stop where Tesco is.  This lake is more relaxed and less glamorous than T-com, but is a great area for camping, picnics and the occasional music festival like the Uprising Reggae Festival.  If you don't feel like jumping in the lake, the surrounding park has places for volleyball, street hockey, tennis and mini-golf.

3. Čunovo Lake
Čunovo is an excellent choice for a short day-trip to get away from the "big" city.  From the city center you can take any connecting route to Bus 91 and you will be at the lake within 50 minutes.  If you want a more scenic trip, rent a bike and follow the Dunaj River south from Bratislava.  I was fortunate enough to have a Couchsurfer with a car.  During the trip south I was looking at a map and realized the road on the other side of the tree grove was where I had painfully crossed the Hungarian-Slovak border the previous day.

It was a hot August day and after parking the car, we immediately jumped into the cool lake.  My host told me that the lake isn't natural and used to be an old rock mine that was later filled in with water.  This may explain an island which is unnaturally located in the exact middle of the lake.  We were both feeling fit and decided to swim to the island.  It took some some effort but eventually we made it to the shore and laid down to dry off in the sun.

Since Couchsurfing is by nature a traveling network, people often meet at random, talk briefly and then leave so quickly that they hardly have time to get to know each other.  You feel like a pinball bouncing from place to place without ever truly stopping.  Barely 24 hours had passed since I had hitchhiked from Budapest, arrived at her place exhausted, made introductions and then promptly passed out on her guest bed.  She had been kind enough to take me down here to this pleasant, scenic corner of Slovakia that only yesterday had looked like hell on earth.  I took a moment to look at this lady and consider exactly who she was.

But not too many moments.  She's in a swimsuit and that would be weird...*ahem*...

She was what I would call a classic Slovak lady: tall, thin, and quiet with a pretty face which made her look much younger than her years suggested.  She had lived in the United States for a while and it had given her a different perspective on the rather traditional life of Slovakia.  We chatted about our respective travels but spent much of the time in quiet reflection. Čunovo Lake will do that to a person.

I needed the peace and quiet.  In another 24 hours I would be hosting my own, rowdy Bratislava Reunion Concert.  

Eternity In The Belgrade Streets

Wake up.  Go to work.  Realize that your low-paying job will take you nowhere.  Realize it pays enough money for alcohol.  Buy alcohol.  Drink it.  Pass out.  Repeat.

It's another day in Belgrade, Serbia.  As a tourist my typical day went something like what you see in the video above.  The only difference was that at some point I could leave.   Every time I go to Serbia I fall more in love with the place and think how nice it'd be like to live there...  Hold on, dreamer.  As one Serbian asked, "American, if you make the same wages as I, will you love the place??" ...

Still the party goes on.  Despite nights at the Belgrade Beer Festival watching great music (including those from the video, S.A.R.S.), the best times came from hours of wasting time on the winding streets of Belgrade.  Nothing important ever happens and at the end of the day you ask yourself, "Where did the time go?"

The next thing you ask yourself, "Who gives a damn?"

We sit at a cafe drinking.  We're relaxing after spending the day wandering the ruins of Kalamegdan fortress.  Some of us have beer or strong coffee while others are content with water.  I don't recall the names or nationalities of all of those sitting with us.  Some are Serbian and others are from as far away as Australia.  We arrived with a group of four, but that changed rapidly.  New people keep arriving at our table.  As soon as they arrive others leave.  But some of them return.  Others don't.  We order another round of coffee and beer.

Belgrade Cafe Gatherings

Our little cafe table is a revolving door of new faces and conversations.  Every conversation starts as an epic plan with someone to travel to some new location in Serbia; Sabac is nice by the river; no, the fortress in Novi Sad; no, no let's go back and party in Nis...  As soon as the plans are set in stone, they crumble and fall apart like the old buildings of the White City.  Someone leaves and another comes to replace them.  New plans begin ever more elaborate than the first; a train to Sarajevo, Bosnia; no let's hitchhike to the Hungarian border; Timosoara, Romania's not so far away; we can go all the way to Latvia if we leave now...

We order another round of coffee and beer.  And another.

I have seen this a million times when traveling.   Plans, plans and more plans that are thrown about like so many darts at a board.  Very few actually make it to the target, but the game was fun regardless of the time spent.  We spend all afternoon on plans for traveling to the ends of Europe and back.  At the end of day we stay at a Couchsurfer's house in Belgrade for the night, completely exhausted from all the dreaming we've done.

  

Bye-Bye Bosnian Baby...I'm Back To Belgrade Again

Sexual.

Sensual.

Selma.

I need a cold shower.  Quite frankly this is sexier than all that American booty dancing.

Selma Bajrami, my fantasy Turbo-Folk girlfriend

The Balkans were formerly part of the Turkish-Ottoman Empire and still has a lot of Turkish and Middle-Eastern influence.  I had a Serbian friend tell me that Bosnian and Albanian girls are the best dancers in the former Yugoslavia because of their Arabic origins.  If that is true then Turbo-Folk singer, Selma Bajrami, is a fine example of that kind of dancing.  By chance I met her in a club in Sarajevo, Bosnia in 2010.  I'm still smacking myself for not asking for her phone number that night.


My current Bosnian baby wasn't mad anymore.  She lay on top of me, moving her hips against mine and touching me under my shirt.  I likewise ran my hands under her clothes and quietly whispered in her ear.  She caught my eye from time to time as we moved together to some psychedelic hippie funk she had put on Youtube.  I lay down in anticipation while she continued her Arabic grinding.  My hands moved lower.

"Hey you American fucker. Get a room...but not here."

I have some great Serbian friends.  My friend told me there was Russian Couchsurfing couple in Nis who had a car and were heading for Belgrade within an hour.  I vaguely remembered meeting a Russian couple during the last 2 days of insanity in Nis.  Nis is always a blur.  My friend explained the deal succinctly, "Ride with them and pay only gas, or wait and pay more for a bus...Fucker."

I had friends I could stay with in Belgrade, and now I had a quick way to get there.

After my friend gave me a travel update, he left me alone again with my Bosnian baby.  We continued moving and grinding together for as long as time allowed.  I wanted her and - as with many others I had meet - I knew it wouldn't happen.  At the moment I needed to see her naked and bare and dancing in front of me.  We were kissing and touching out of urgency and raw emotion.  The chaos of the moment inappropriately made my mind conjure up images of NATO planes flying over Sarajevo.  This girl needs a rescue mission.

Those dreams evaporated in the incredible heat of the Southern Serbian summer.  Before I could reflect  further, I was in the back seat of the Russian couples' little car, staring out the window and cursing myself for desiring a wild life of women, drink and dance over a simple life with just one woman who I truly desired.  I am still thinking about this.

To avoid highway tolls, the Russians drove on the service roads that followed the main highway to Belgrade.  We were in no hurry and stopped in several small towns for sightseeing.  We took pictures in front of historical monuments and they recalled their previous visits to Serbia.  They were a happy couple...one of many Russian ex-pats who lived on the Southern Adriatic beaches of Montenegro so that they could escape the bitter cold of the country they were from.  Serbia was just a brief vacation for them to arrange their paperwork to continue their ex-pat life.


View Larger Map
The Russian and I spoke in English of our countries long love-hate relationship with each other while his girlfriend periodically snapped at him in Russian.  She couldn't speak English but was able to understand everything.  As we approached Belgrade, they checked the map frequently to make sure we were taking the right way to my friend's apartment in the city center.  They wanted to continue sightseeing so we choose a hilly backroad that followed the Sava River.  Although I could see the urban mess in the distance, the winding road we were driving on felt very provincial.  One side of the road dropped off into the glistening river below while the other side meandered away into several green farm plots.  The houses were small, quaint, terracotta constructions that looked of the era before Communism took hold.

The tranquil beauty disappeared as we entered the city limits.  Small rustic houses gave way to the typical clunky, multicolored Communist blocs I have seen in so many parts of Slavic Europe.  The hilly topography of the land contributes to Belgrade's disorder as it makes the city appear to be falling into itself.  Apartments awkwardly pile up and start to tumble head-over-heels into each other.  Trash collects in corners of the streets while the smell of cigarettes and coffee seeps from the cracks in the buildings. The single road we were driving on ceased to meander in one direction and splintered into a million little spiderwebs that got swallowed up in the urban decay.  

It's all so wonderfully, beautifully, ridiculously chaotic.  The 'White City' is falling apart all around me.  I want to fall apart with it.

Spomenik Neznanom Junaku

Nis Fortress Nightlife

Nis fortress walls. Disco to the left.

A day exploring Crveni Krst concentration camp and climbing Bubanj Hill to see a mass execution site can depress the average tourist.  Serbia has a simple, powerful solution to cure this depression: coffee.  Or if that's not strong enough: rakia.  The Balkans can easily convert a sworn coffee-hater into a coffee addict (and potential rakia addict.)

He's sad because the Mafia made him into a disco

Coffee and rakia are two likely reason you will visit Nis Fortress in Serbia.  Nis Fortress is not so much a historical site as it is an organic extension of the city center.  There is no charge to enter and it has been left open to the public to function as a decadent city park.  Local Mafia took advantage of the lenient rules and built a large disco-cafe, Klinika, directly on the fortress stones.

Some people would say it's a tacky, tasteless way to deface a historical monument, but it sure is a fun place to party.  If you don't care to join the beautiful people dancing in the open-air disco, just buy a few liters of Jelen beer at the nearby kiosk, grab your friends and dance on the fortress walls overlooking the disco until sunrise.  You can still hear the pounding music and watch the sun rise from the fortress walls.


I experienced Nis' nightlife for the first time in 2010 and loved it so much that I had to return in 2011 to do it again.  If it were possible I would return to Southern Serbia every summer for partying.  As I had mentioned in an earlier post, Balkan people's flair for living rivals any typical Latino's "vida loca" attitude.  Perhaps due to the Balkans proximity to Asia, there's also a magical Eastern mysticism there that Latin America lacks.  While the world changes, The Balkans seems trapped in a time bubble that remains the same every year.  This night I experienced could have been in 2010, 2011, 2012 or any year...you decide...

I was Couchsurfing with some friends I had met from the previous summer.  I had the good fortune that summer to surf with my friend when he had 2 nice Bosnian girls surfing with him at the same time.  When I meet the girls, they told me (teasingly) that they hated Americans.  Yeah right...  What started as teasing hate over dinner and drinks ended up as love (?) by the time we had arrived at Nis Fortress later that night.

My Serbian friend and I are sensitive modern men, so we cooked a lovely dinner for the Bosnian girls.  After much debate of USA-Balkan politics, foreign food, counterculture (and beer) one of the girls and I ended up kissing in the moonlight in Nis Fortress on that hot summer night.  She fascinated me for being what I wasn't.  She was a wild, dancing, free-spirited hippie who was an expert fire-thrower.  I had my guitar and watched her mesmerizing fire-dance as I sang on the top of the Nis Fortress walls.  The music from Klinika disco below us provided an odd trance accompaniment.

Unfortunately, there were many people partying in the park, including several other beautiful Balkan girls.  I became very distracted.  Dare I say Balkan girls are one of my weaknesses, and a Serbian medical student caught me that at that moment.  While the Bosnian girl was showing off her fire-throwing skills on the fortress stones, I began chatting with the student.  Many Southern Serbian girls get pretty excited when an American guy with a guitar shows up in their town.  I'm a complete liar if I said I don't take full advantage of the situation, and I love my Serbian friends for telling me this.  They are some of the few people I know who will tell me to my face what a complete 'American asshole/fucker/sonofabitch' I am sometimes.

...America, Fuck Yeah!

An "American Fucker" in Nis, Serbia

Rakia and beer flowed freely in the fortress park, and people drifted in and out of my memory.  We danced, drank, sang, reveled and eventually the Serbian and I left for a quieter place.  I didn't notice until the sun was rising what had happened.  The Bosnian girl wasn't happy to find out I had changed allegiances and was in a rage.  When I'm traveling, I can be the naughtiest American asshole.

The Bosnian and I returned to our shared Couchsurfer place in the early hours of the morning.  She was angry and refused to even touch me even though we had to share a bed that night.  Now what do I do?

Managua, Nicaragua Ain't For Beginners

For many gringos living in Costa Rica, Nicaragua is the one-stop country for quick visa runs and cheaper products.  While I could choose to bribe the border patrol a generous amount to get my visa stamped and simply return to San Jose the same day, I'd rather have the 72 hour adventure into the dark heart of Nicaragua's urban mess: Managua.  Don't be afraid.



We already know San Jose taxi drivers are not to be trusted.  Managua unfortunately is worse.  The driver of my Transnica bus informed me of this.  When we arrived in Managua he told me to go with him and his trusted taxi friend.  I found this shady as well, but it seemed better than the other option of standing at the bus station at 9 at night waiting for the other taxi wolves to attack.  The driver took me to pleasant enough Managua Backpackers Inn for a honest price of 5 dollars...

I survived a night there, which was only (literally) dampened by finding my backpack soaked the next day due to the rain that had came through the half-opened window.  Rainy season in Central America is a real bitch.  After handling some hostel business with the manager I left the place for a Couchsurfer, and with a lovely German girl I kidnapped from the hostel we became three.

What happened to her serves as fine example of what to watch out for in Managua.  She was robbed by a taxi driver.  He took her and her gringa friend to a dark alley where his friends were waiting.  The taxi driver and his friends demanded all of their money, their passports and electronics.  Fortunately they were not physically abused.  When I met her I could see she was a tough little German.  She wasn't crying, but was more bent on revenge and how she would survive with the 30 Euros she had cleverly hidden in her sock.  What more can I say: Don't take taxis in Managua.

Have I said that enough?  After finding the Couchsurfer's house we spent the rest of the day at the mall, which has the best thing in Nicaragua for Americans: modern air-conditioning.  This was followed by a night out at various bars where I discovered the most dangerous part of Managua: Lesbian Bar Fights: 

These women scared me.  Those are women - although its hard to tell.  Several beer bottles were thrown about and one lucky girl got a chair smashed over her head during the melee.  We stayed incognito in the corner while this fight went on.  No point in having the gringo draw attention to himself.

Next time I'll stay inside and just drink Flor de Cana and Tona beer.  No, really, I would never stay inside when the club is calling.  Ya bailamos!  Dance all night, and salud, bitches!