Monday, January 15, 2024
Kingston Jamaica
One of the infrastructure finance projects I worked on when I was with Price Waterhouse was a water and wastewater finance project for the city of Kingston Jamaica, and the project necessitated several trips to work with Claudia Hunter (the manager at the National Water Commission there) and a water expert from South Carolina whose name I do not recall. I do remember that he and Claudia often had trouble understanding each other's english. He couldn't understand her Jamaican accent and she couldn't understand his Southern accent. So I would translate English to English for them. Anyway, when we visited Kingston we stayed at one of the only business hotels in the city, I believe called the Pegasus hotel. Kingston was and I believe still is an increidbly dangrous city, with very high crime rates, and the hotel was surrounded by a 20 foot high barbed wire fence.
When we first arrived at the hotel I recall being very surprised that we were met by a driver that would take us the 8 blocks to the NWC offices for meetings. On Day two or three I decided it woudl just be easier to walk and arrived at the offices ahead of our meeting. They were all very suprised as they hadn't sent a car over and asked how I got there. They were horrified that I had walked and impressed upon me that I should NEVER leave the hotel alone again and not walk anywhere in town. I don't recall if I was running much at that point, probably not, but it wasn't ideal to be trapped in the hotel whenever I wasn't working. One thing I remember though is that the water commission had a map of the city with certain zones marked off in red - these were the zones where they wouldn't send anyone in to collect payment because it was simply too dangerous. As I got to know a few of the people working at the NWC a little better I learned that they all had full time, armed security guards stationed outside their homes to protect them from breakins. The juxtposition of the tropical climate, beautiful flowers and armed guards everywhere was odd, to say the least.
One weekend one of the team members, a Jamaican guy named David I think, offered to take us up to Montego Bay to stay in a condo he owned there. I don't remember much at all about where we stayed, but I do remember going to the famous falls that you see in all the postcards - Dunn's River Falls. The falls themselves are essentially reinforced with bags on concrete or something to make the steps that you walk up - so they look great in pictures but close up it feels very artificial. And there are two different rates to enter the falls - one for tourists and one for locals. That seemed fair enough to me, but it was interesting that it was listed so clearly on the sign as you entered. I also recall that there was a huge rainstorm and the resort lost power. We wound up at a bar drinking all afternoon and they served everyone free Buffalo wings while we sat and watched the rain. The beaches there were beautiful but full of ladies who would come and ask you if you wanted your hair braided or a massage, and men who wanted to sell you a joint or have you pay to have sex with them. Apparently lots of American women wanted to sleep with a Rastafarain and they were happy to oblige.
The funniest part of the trip was that one afternoon back at the Pegasus hotel pool, I struck up a conversation with a guy that I assumed worked for the hotel. He asked me how my stay was, etc. and I wound up talking to him for half an hour or so. Apparently after I left the hotel someone there must have given him my contact information because he started calling me at home in Maryland. He wanted to be friends and come visit - and while I had little intention of inviting him to stay I was hesitant to be totally rude and tell him to buzz off. One night he called at 1am and I answered the phone from bed and said without thinking "do you have any idea what time it is?" He said simply "Ya mon - same time as 'ere." I did finally tell him not to call me anymore.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Osh
Apparently, while doing vodka shots for an hour and a half with Uruzbaev (the former KGB colonel), I had made such a good impression that he decided to offer me a “free” trip to Osh, to see one of the other airports in the system, and get a better idea of the assets and infrastructure of Kyrgyz Air.
Thus commenced my MOST frightening commercial (if you can call it that) air travel experience I have ever had. The flight to Osh travels over a pass in the Tien Shan mountains at about 16,000 feet. However, the aircraft the flew the route, at least the day I took it, was not pressurized. The pilot and co-pilot wore oxygen masks (THANK GOD) but we passengers just sat in the back as we climbed over the pass. The turbulence was incredible up in the passes, and we bounced within feet of rocks and the sides of mountains. I also developed a splitting headache as a result of the rapid change of altitude (I was told that’s why they stuck so close to the pass and didn’t fly higher to avoid turbulence). When I arrived I didn’t even ASK how long it took to drive back, but arranged to have my driver (Turbek – also former KGB) sent down from Bishkek to pick me up. Turned out it was a relatively short drive – 6 hours or so.
Osh is an incredibly interesting place, very close to the border of Uzbeckistan, and very Central Asian feeling (unlike Bishkek, where there were just as many Russians as Kyrgyz). The market there was loud and colorful, with dozens of women selling homemade sour cream that they would ladle over and over again – it was perfectly acceptable to run your finger quickly through a stream of sour cream as they ladled to taste it and decide if you wanted to buy a jar. Butchers sold meat from tables buzzing with flies, and you could tell what it was by the head of the slaughtered animal, which they hung over the table as a kind of ignpost. A group of men and boys slaughtered a sheep by the side of the road, cutting its throat and letting it bleed out into the gutter.
Outside of Osh, there's a rocky mountainside that people hike up to the top of. I think because of the language barrier, I never really got specifically what the attraction was (since Central Asians aren't big hikers just for the sake of the great outdoors). At the top was a section of rock worn smooth as a playground slide - which of course we all promptly slid down. It was only later that our driver managed to communicate to us that the point of that was to increase fertility! Yikes!
The hospitality we received in Osh was incredible. Our local office manager, a man who had built his own home for himself, his wife, and three children, invited us to dinner. Because one of the girls traveling with us was a vegetarian, they had slaughtered three chickens for the dinner (the concept of pure vegetarianism is difficult for them to grasp). She ate the chicken, to be polite. His wife cooked chicken “plof” – essentially pilaf, with rice, and onions, and tomatoes – in a huge pot over an open fire, and we sat on a wooden platform with backs on three sides, cross legged, with the food in the center in front of us. Neither his wife nore his children joined us at the table. It was a relatively cool evening (Osh is at the foothills of the mountains) and I was a bit cool. Our office manager offered me a sweater to wear, which I took gratefully - he then told me his wife made it from the wool of their black sheep, and I complimented her on how pretty it was. When we went to leave at the end of the evening, they kept insisting I keep the sweater - I practically had to throw it out the window of the car. They had so little, but were willing to share everything they had. Really wonderful folks.
Thus commenced my MOST frightening commercial (if you can call it that) air travel experience I have ever had. The flight to Osh travels over a pass in the Tien Shan mountains at about 16,000 feet. However, the aircraft the flew the route, at least the day I took it, was not pressurized. The pilot and co-pilot wore oxygen masks (THANK GOD) but we passengers just sat in the back as we climbed over the pass. The turbulence was incredible up in the passes, and we bounced within feet of rocks and the sides of mountains. I also developed a splitting headache as a result of the rapid change of altitude (I was told that’s why they stuck so close to the pass and didn’t fly higher to avoid turbulence). When I arrived I didn’t even ASK how long it took to drive back, but arranged to have my driver (Turbek – also former KGB) sent down from Bishkek to pick me up. Turned out it was a relatively short drive – 6 hours or so.
Osh is an incredibly interesting place, very close to the border of Uzbeckistan, and very Central Asian feeling (unlike Bishkek, where there were just as many Russians as Kyrgyz). The market there was loud and colorful, with dozens of women selling homemade sour cream that they would ladle over and over again – it was perfectly acceptable to run your finger quickly through a stream of sour cream as they ladled to taste it and decide if you wanted to buy a jar. Butchers sold meat from tables buzzing with flies, and you could tell what it was by the head of the slaughtered animal, which they hung over the table as a kind of ignpost. A group of men and boys slaughtered a sheep by the side of the road, cutting its throat and letting it bleed out into the gutter.
Outside of Osh, there's a rocky mountainside that people hike up to the top of. I think because of the language barrier, I never really got specifically what the attraction was (since Central Asians aren't big hikers just for the sake of the great outdoors). At the top was a section of rock worn smooth as a playground slide - which of course we all promptly slid down. It was only later that our driver managed to communicate to us that the point of that was to increase fertility! Yikes!
The hospitality we received in Osh was incredible. Our local office manager, a man who had built his own home for himself, his wife, and three children, invited us to dinner. Because one of the girls traveling with us was a vegetarian, they had slaughtered three chickens for the dinner (the concept of pure vegetarianism is difficult for them to grasp). She ate the chicken, to be polite. His wife cooked chicken “plof” – essentially pilaf, with rice, and onions, and tomatoes – in a huge pot over an open fire, and we sat on a wooden platform with backs on three sides, cross legged, with the food in the center in front of us. Neither his wife nore his children joined us at the table. It was a relatively cool evening (Osh is at the foothills of the mountains) and I was a bit cool. Our office manager offered me a sweater to wear, which I took gratefully - he then told me his wife made it from the wool of their black sheep, and I complimented her on how pretty it was. When we went to leave at the end of the evening, they kept insisting I keep the sweater - I practically had to throw it out the window of the car. They had so little, but were willing to share everything they had. Really wonderful folks.
Kyrgyzstan
I returned to Kyrgyzstan several times. The third time I went was for an project seeking private financing for their airport infrastructure. Kyrgyzstan lies right in between Asia and Europe, at least as the airplane flies, and they were hoping that they could justify some investment as a cargo transfer hub or at least refueling stop. The primary airport, Manas, in Bishkek, is pretty run down, to say the least. It’s telling that no international carriers will land there (in fact, they cannot land Boeings there, as anything with a wing-mounted engine is in danger of sucking in a rock from the crumbling runway and blowing an engine) – and when Air Force One visited the year before I was there, they had local farmers come sweep the entire runway free of debris by hand with brooms.
All of the airports and the airline were nationalized under Kyrgyz Air – this was pretty standard in the FSU. Kyrgyz Air was now run by a Col. Uruzbaev – previously of the KGB. Prior to our beginning work, I had to obtain a signed statement from Uruzbaev that he would provide me (World Bank) with requested operational and financial data, and in exchange World Bank would pay for the study and financial planning, and keep the data confidential (standard NDA). You’d have thought we were signing an international peace accord.
I met with him at his offices for the signing. Soviet-era offices are really interesting – they are HUGE, incredibly drab concrete buildings, and in the specific office suites of high-ranking executives, the furniture ornate but cheaply made, so that the whole effect is kind of like a poorly executed stage set. Uruzbaev had set up a table for two with two chairs, two fountain pens, and two copies of the agreement, where he and I sat. With great formality, he signed the document as several unintroduced staff members (hit men?) looked on. They clapped when he put the pen down.
I stood up to leave, but my translator, Sveta, told me that we would now go into the reception room (vaguely reminiscent of a bordello with red velvet settees and coffee tables with chipped inlays) for some refreshments. Refreshments translated to cookies, and vodka. I should mention a couple of things here. One: it was 3 in the afternoon at this point and two: while I can definitely hold my own as a drinker in the states, I cannot hold a candle to the Russians with vodka shots. Ninety minutes later, I was barely able to sit on my chair, and I begged Sveta to get me out of there. Although there was still vodka on the table (it’s considered rude to leave if your host still has drinks on offer), she made some excuse about having to call my boss and managed to extricate me. They sent one of the goons in the car with me with a bottle of champagne to make sure I didn’t sober up on the drive home.
Luckily for me, my boss at the time (whom they made me call, just to make sure my story was bonafide), was an understanding guy, and only mildly shocked that I was three sheets to the wind at 5pm Kyrgyz time. I believe it was 6am at home, so I undoubtedly woke him up. However, since I had access to his email, and therefore some pretty juicy personal secrets, he laughed it off and sent me home. Mama Rosa, as we all called the woman whose apartment I shared, wagged her finger at me, tsking, and sent me off to bed.
All of the airports and the airline were nationalized under Kyrgyz Air – this was pretty standard in the FSU. Kyrgyz Air was now run by a Col. Uruzbaev – previously of the KGB. Prior to our beginning work, I had to obtain a signed statement from Uruzbaev that he would provide me (World Bank) with requested operational and financial data, and in exchange World Bank would pay for the study and financial planning, and keep the data confidential (standard NDA). You’d have thought we were signing an international peace accord.
I met with him at his offices for the signing. Soviet-era offices are really interesting – they are HUGE, incredibly drab concrete buildings, and in the specific office suites of high-ranking executives, the furniture ornate but cheaply made, so that the whole effect is kind of like a poorly executed stage set. Uruzbaev had set up a table for two with two chairs, two fountain pens, and two copies of the agreement, where he and I sat. With great formality, he signed the document as several unintroduced staff members (hit men?) looked on. They clapped when he put the pen down.
I stood up to leave, but my translator, Sveta, told me that we would now go into the reception room (vaguely reminiscent of a bordello with red velvet settees and coffee tables with chipped inlays) for some refreshments. Refreshments translated to cookies, and vodka. I should mention a couple of things here. One: it was 3 in the afternoon at this point and two: while I can definitely hold my own as a drinker in the states, I cannot hold a candle to the Russians with vodka shots. Ninety minutes later, I was barely able to sit on my chair, and I begged Sveta to get me out of there. Although there was still vodka on the table (it’s considered rude to leave if your host still has drinks on offer), she made some excuse about having to call my boss and managed to extricate me. They sent one of the goons in the car with me with a bottle of champagne to make sure I didn’t sober up on the drive home.
Luckily for me, my boss at the time (whom they made me call, just to make sure my story was bonafide), was an understanding guy, and only mildly shocked that I was three sheets to the wind at 5pm Kyrgyz time. I believe it was 6am at home, so I undoubtedly woke him up. However, since I had access to his email, and therefore some pretty juicy personal secrets, he laughed it off and sent me home. Mama Rosa, as we all called the woman whose apartment I shared, wagged her finger at me, tsking, and sent me off to bed.
Moldova
In 1996, I did a “whirlwind” tour of most of PW’s offices in the former Soviet Union – for me my first foray into Central Asia and Eastern Europe. There are dozens of stories from that trip, and I subsequently returned to several of the places I visited on my first tour. I was supposed to be rolling out a new Human Resources program that changed the way we titled people, so in addition to doing a presentation I was meeting individually with most of the folks in each office – so I would spend between 3 days and a week in each location.
I started in Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan, moved on to Russia, and then flew from Russia’s Vanukova airport to Moldova on Air Moldova. This has to have been the second scariest flight I have ever taken (see Kyrgyzstan for the winner), although at the time I hadn’t yet taken the scariest, so it made a big impression. The old Tupolev aircraft we were in had certainly seen better days, and the interior had been stripped of most of the nice plastic lining that just about every other jet I’ve ever traveled on has. In addition, the overhead bins were actually just overhead shelves, a la Amtrak. Finally, when they boarded the flight, they seemed to have none of the concerns about stowage of carryon bags that US carriers do – in fact, not only did your bags not have to fit under your seat, but you could put them in the main aisle if you liked! One woman carried on a crate with chickens in it and placed it smack in the middle of the aisle across from us.
On takeoff, the plane groaned and I believe nearly stalled, shuddering up to about 300 feet (I could see the vibrations of the “skin” of the plane, since we were missing the plastic on the inside). At that point, it leveled off, just about 50 feet above the treetops, for what seemed like miles and miles, until we slowly started climbing again. (I later learned that they routinely overload the planes with cargo and that they typically have to burn off a little jet fuel until they are light enough to keep climbing.) Meanwhile, several items that had been placed overhead had descended suddenly onto our heads at takeoff, and my traveling companion, Karen, who had not been outside the US before except for one trip to Europe, was sitting holding a small stuffed animal she had brought with her with tears silently streaming down her face.
When we landed in Moldova, one of the first things I did was ask my assistant there to find out if there were any other airlines serving the Moldova airport (none), or if there was any other way than getting back onto an Air Moldova flight that Karen and I could get out of there to Kiev Ukraine (our next stop). She made a few calls, and reported back that it was a 10 hour drive to Kiev by car (the roads were bad). I immediately told her to find us a driver.
Our drive was for the most part uneventful, although our driver kept trying to tell stories about his escapades with his younger girlfriend (he had a wife too, of course). Since I didn’t speak Moldovan, he was telling me these stories in French, which I speak a little bit of, although thankfully not enough to understand the gory details. When we arrived at the border between Moldova and Ukraine, however, things got a little dicey.
There were several armed soldiers at the border station, which was at a small town that featured an enormous silver statue of Lenin in the otherwise bleak square on the other side of the gate. They were all armed with kalishnikovs and had no qualms about pointing them into the backseat at us while demanding our passports. They then took our passports and disappeared with them into the guard’s barracks. Close to 2 hours passed, and no one came or went from the barracks (nor did anyone else attempt to cross the border in a car, although a couple of donkey carts did pass through the gates without even stopping). Finally, one of the soldiers emerged, and came to the car. He didn’t talk to us, but to the driver. I asked the driver, in French, to tell me what was going on, and suddenly wished that my French vocab was more extensive, even if it would have meant some pretty dismal mental images of the gold-toothed driver with his girlfriend. I got enough of a gist to understand that the soldier and his friends would prefer that instead of heading on to Ukraine this evening as planned, that we spend some time with them in the local bar having some vodka. Since American women have a (hopefully undeserved) reputation for being “easy,” it was also clear that he and his buddies expected they might get lucky as part of the bargain. I gotta say, those machine guns might be pretty persuasive.
Needless to say, we were pretty desperate for an alternative, and the most expedient in this type of circumstances seemed to be bribery, and fast (“No, sir, I don’t have the necessary border crossing papers, but will these little green papers help?”) Through the driver, we negotiated a bribe of about $100 American, enough to get the whole town drunk for at least one night. He took the money, left for an excruciating 10 minutes (we didn’t have any more cash) came back with our passports, and waved us through. I haven’t returned to Moldova since.
I started in Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan, moved on to Russia, and then flew from Russia’s Vanukova airport to Moldova on Air Moldova. This has to have been the second scariest flight I have ever taken (see Kyrgyzstan for the winner), although at the time I hadn’t yet taken the scariest, so it made a big impression. The old Tupolev aircraft we were in had certainly seen better days, and the interior had been stripped of most of the nice plastic lining that just about every other jet I’ve ever traveled on has. In addition, the overhead bins were actually just overhead shelves, a la Amtrak. Finally, when they boarded the flight, they seemed to have none of the concerns about stowage of carryon bags that US carriers do – in fact, not only did your bags not have to fit under your seat, but you could put them in the main aisle if you liked! One woman carried on a crate with chickens in it and placed it smack in the middle of the aisle across from us.
On takeoff, the plane groaned and I believe nearly stalled, shuddering up to about 300 feet (I could see the vibrations of the “skin” of the plane, since we were missing the plastic on the inside). At that point, it leveled off, just about 50 feet above the treetops, for what seemed like miles and miles, until we slowly started climbing again. (I later learned that they routinely overload the planes with cargo and that they typically have to burn off a little jet fuel until they are light enough to keep climbing.) Meanwhile, several items that had been placed overhead had descended suddenly onto our heads at takeoff, and my traveling companion, Karen, who had not been outside the US before except for one trip to Europe, was sitting holding a small stuffed animal she had brought with her with tears silently streaming down her face.
When we landed in Moldova, one of the first things I did was ask my assistant there to find out if there were any other airlines serving the Moldova airport (none), or if there was any other way than getting back onto an Air Moldova flight that Karen and I could get out of there to Kiev Ukraine (our next stop). She made a few calls, and reported back that it was a 10 hour drive to Kiev by car (the roads were bad). I immediately told her to find us a driver.
Our drive was for the most part uneventful, although our driver kept trying to tell stories about his escapades with his younger girlfriend (he had a wife too, of course). Since I didn’t speak Moldovan, he was telling me these stories in French, which I speak a little bit of, although thankfully not enough to understand the gory details. When we arrived at the border between Moldova and Ukraine, however, things got a little dicey.
There were several armed soldiers at the border station, which was at a small town that featured an enormous silver statue of Lenin in the otherwise bleak square on the other side of the gate. They were all armed with kalishnikovs and had no qualms about pointing them into the backseat at us while demanding our passports. They then took our passports and disappeared with them into the guard’s barracks. Close to 2 hours passed, and no one came or went from the barracks (nor did anyone else attempt to cross the border in a car, although a couple of donkey carts did pass through the gates without even stopping). Finally, one of the soldiers emerged, and came to the car. He didn’t talk to us, but to the driver. I asked the driver, in French, to tell me what was going on, and suddenly wished that my French vocab was more extensive, even if it would have meant some pretty dismal mental images of the gold-toothed driver with his girlfriend. I got enough of a gist to understand that the soldier and his friends would prefer that instead of heading on to Ukraine this evening as planned, that we spend some time with them in the local bar having some vodka. Since American women have a (hopefully undeserved) reputation for being “easy,” it was also clear that he and his buddies expected they might get lucky as part of the bargain. I gotta say, those machine guns might be pretty persuasive.
Needless to say, we were pretty desperate for an alternative, and the most expedient in this type of circumstances seemed to be bribery, and fast (“No, sir, I don’t have the necessary border crossing papers, but will these little green papers help?”) Through the driver, we negotiated a bribe of about $100 American, enough to get the whole town drunk for at least one night. He took the money, left for an excruciating 10 minutes (we didn’t have any more cash) came back with our passports, and waved us through. I haven’t returned to Moldova since.
Sarajevo
This must have been in late 1997, since it was the last year that I was with Price Waterhouse. We were doing a lot of international privatization and private finance work, and we had several contracts with World Bank and USAID. I got an opportunity to go to Sarajevo (this was just after the war) to put together an educational program for local transportation officials about private financing options for infrastructure (there was a tremendous amount of damage to roads and bridges as a result of the war).
When I first flew over there (I returned a couple of months later for a different project), there was no commercial air transport, and I flew through Frankfurt, to Zagreb, and from there got onto a military aircraft the rest of the way to Sarajevo. You fly the redeye to Frankfurt and then fly early in the morning the rest of the way, so I guess I expected to go straight to the office. As a result I was dressed for work, and at that time, PW dress code was business. Not business casual, but business. Which meant a suit and blouse. It had been a couple of years since they had lifted the “no pants for women” rule, but for some reason I decided that I would wear a pale pink skirt suit with a flaring tulip skirt, nude hose, and heels.
So, in this outfit, I finally find the boarding area for the civilian military flights into Sarajevo, and board the windowless aircraft with a troop of marines from the Ukraine in their distinctive camouflage pattern (I’d later learn to identify soldiers from different countries by their different patterns). They didn’t say much but certainly stared as a struggled to belt myself into the 5 point seat belt in my skirt. Oddly, although there were no amenities at all on the plane (I’m not even sure it had a bathroom), there was a sergeant that passed around a tray on mints before the flight.
When we arrived in Sarajevo, of course there’s no baggage handling, so they dump my suitcase and duffel bag (I was there for several weeks) next to the plane. I grab both bags, plus my laptop and purse, and start to wobble across the airfield to the fence where I can only hope my car and driver are waiting. It took about 15 seconds for two of the marines to flank me, grab my bags in addition to their own, and precede me over to the gate. I was, needless to say, mortified the entire time.
When I first flew over there (I returned a couple of months later for a different project), there was no commercial air transport, and I flew through Frankfurt, to Zagreb, and from there got onto a military aircraft the rest of the way to Sarajevo. You fly the redeye to Frankfurt and then fly early in the morning the rest of the way, so I guess I expected to go straight to the office. As a result I was dressed for work, and at that time, PW dress code was business. Not business casual, but business. Which meant a suit and blouse. It had been a couple of years since they had lifted the “no pants for women” rule, but for some reason I decided that I would wear a pale pink skirt suit with a flaring tulip skirt, nude hose, and heels.
So, in this outfit, I finally find the boarding area for the civilian military flights into Sarajevo, and board the windowless aircraft with a troop of marines from the Ukraine in their distinctive camouflage pattern (I’d later learn to identify soldiers from different countries by their different patterns). They didn’t say much but certainly stared as a struggled to belt myself into the 5 point seat belt in my skirt. Oddly, although there were no amenities at all on the plane (I’m not even sure it had a bathroom), there was a sergeant that passed around a tray on mints before the flight.
When we arrived in Sarajevo, of course there’s no baggage handling, so they dump my suitcase and duffel bag (I was there for several weeks) next to the plane. I grab both bags, plus my laptop and purse, and start to wobble across the airfield to the fence where I can only hope my car and driver are waiting. It took about 15 seconds for two of the marines to flank me, grab my bags in addition to their own, and precede me over to the gate. I was, needless to say, mortified the entire time.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
The idea for this blog
So, I was reading through 20 Years of Outside (or maybe it was 25) - basically some of the best writing in Outside magazine during the first 25 years of it's existance. It occurred to me that most of the stories in there were tales of the dark and light sides of travel around the world, and that I've been to a lot of places and had many interesting experiences. I figure someday, I'll forget half of them, and that's the point of starting a blog. Perhaps, when I find time here and there, I can post a story or two, in no particular order, to the blog. I can edit them if I remember details, etc. Some of the ones I intend to include:
- Getting held up (almost literally) at the border of Moldova and Ukraine
- Getting on a military transport to Sarajevo in a pink skirt suit
- The Andes pass between Argentina and Chile, recently graded
- Attracting an audience in India while we waiting for someone to clear the accident in the road
Anyway, here we go! I'll try to scan in some photos so I can include them as well.
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