Last year I trekked into the Moroccan Sahara desert on a very trusty camel named Aszu. In the evening, my guide, Jusef, a sixth grade educated Berber nomad, surprisingly fluent in six languages, fixed me a tantalizing chicken tangine. All that it lacked was a glass of wine, unfortunately verboten for Muslims just days before Ramadan. At night we slept under the incredible desert night skies. Never before had I seen so many stars, stretching from one horizon to the other – the stars so bright and numerous, it was difficult to make out the constellations. That was Morocco, a kaleidoscope of sights, sounds, smells, and experiences. From Morocco I traveled on through much of Europe, Russia, Mongolia, China, and finally concluding my trip in Japan. This year's trip will take me to Romania, Ukraine, Georgia, Central Asia, India, Nepal, Southwest China, and Indochina. At times I hope to report back on my experiences and observations, perhaps posting a few pictures and videos that may be of interest. I've posted below a few pictures and videos from some past trips. For my blog on my travels through East Europe check out my blog at http://tallinntovarna.blogspot.com.

I’ve been asking myself lately, is there a theme to all this? Maybe not, but one thing I can say that piques my interest, is the dangerous nexus between religion and politics that engulfs the world today. In Morocco, where the King is both the head of Mosque and State, a Muslim, during Ramadan, can end up in jail for doing nothing more than drinking a glass of water under the scorching daytime heat – his crime, the thirsty Muslim broke the fast. Imams in Morocco claim that such an abhorrent act defies the teachings of God, infringes on the religious liberties of practicing Muslims, and is deserving of serious sanction. Of course, such a violation of an individual’s personal freedom could never happen in America. Or could it? As I write this, the U.S. Catholic Bishops are ferociously attacking President Obama’s Affordable Care Act for requiring institutions to provide birth control under their insurance policies. Like the Imams, the Bishops consider it not just an affront, but an existential threat, to their religious liberties. A poor woman, without the means to support a family, let alone a brutally raped woman, should not expect any sympathy from these Catholic institutions, as they, like their Muslim brothers, are scripturally bound to impose their beliefs on others. Does it matter that no one is telling Muslims that they cannot fast or Catholics that they cannot abstain from sex?

Now that I think of it, I’d like to dedicate this blog to Americans United, a terrific nonpartisan educational organization dedicated to preserving the principle of church-state separation as the only way to ensure religious freedom. Before I move on though, I’d like to share with you this political satire piece I wrote a few months ago when Senator Rick Santorum had a chance of being the Republican nominee. It pretty much sums up my take on what a large segment of the American population would like to see should their wildest dreams come true. Finally, I begin this blog with three postings from last year’s trip just to give you an idea of who I am and what you may or may not come to expect as I embark on this year's trip. If you have something nice to say, I'd love to hear from you.

Wednesday, July 25, 2012

Sevastopol, Ukraine


There are traffic cops everywhere in Ukraine — along some highways every two to three miles. It was only a matter of time before I was going to get pulled over. According to my GPS, I was to take the second exit off the turnaround. Oops, there it was a red shield with an X through it. I was going up a wrong way — not the first time my GPS had given me the wrong directions. Two police officers in a patrol car were waiting and signaled me to pull over. The officer who approached me didn’t speak English, but let me know: driver’s license, passport, and car registration. He talked to me in Russian, but I didn’t understand a word of it except that I was going the wrong way on a one way street. With a smile bordering on a grin, he motioned me to get out of my car and into the police car with the other officer whose English was non-existent and who appeared to be writing up a ticket. From the two, their gestures and conversation told me they wanted to take me to the police station, but were afraid of leaving my car behind. “Strafe,” the officer in the car next to me said, a word I recognized from German as meaning “fine,” but I pretended not to understand. The officer wrote on a sheet of paper $50. I looked at his note and feigned dismay, shaking my head, and pointing at my driver’s license. “Send the bill to my address here,” I said, something that Taras had told me to say in situations like this. However, the officer persisted, pointing to the amount on the ticket. I smiled and told him again, “Send the ticket to my home address.” This went on for a while. Finally, he returned the smile and said something to the officer outside, who promptly opened the door and motioned me to leave. And, that was it! For the first time in my life, I had just talked my way out of a traffic ticket. “Nice guys,” I thought.

An hour later, as I was passing a slow moving tractor-trailer, I ran into another traffic control point. “Now what could I possibly have done wrong?” This officer didn’t speak English either. Motioning me to produce my driver’s license and passport, he pointed to the faded center white line on the road, indicating that I had driven over it. Due to the rutted and frequently patched road conditions, I hadn’t noticed the white line, sometimes solid and other times broken. Certainly the other traffic seemed impervious to its purpose. The officer motioned for me to get out of my car and come with him to his car. The routine I had experienced an hour earlier repeated itself. Again he used the word “strafe,” but in a hushed up way, clearly suggesting this was a bribe and that he would write up a ticket if I didn’t give him $50. It’s amazing how well people can communicate when they don’t speak the same language. Again, I pleaded ignorance, telling him, “Send the bill to my home address.” However, the officer outside didn’t seem too pleased with the situation. “Maybe, I had pushed the limits with these guys?” I fumbled through my wallet and pulled out a hundred-grivna bill (about $12.50). The officer snatched it from my hand, tucked it into his shirt pocket, and motioned to me to quickly leave. “Shit,” I thought, “I should have held out a little longer. They’re clearly in a hurry to make their quota.” 
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