On the Road in Thailand and Laos

By John Keeble

Life is never dull when you use the buses and sawngthaews of Thailand and Laos... something is always happening because you are joining a travelling community, taking from it and enriching it with your strangeness at the same time.

Of course, you can use public transport just because it is cheap - it costs not much more than a UK restaurant meal to travel from one end of Thailand to the other on public buses. Or you could use it because it is efficient: on time, with crews of two or three who organise and run the buses as efficiently as airliners, often even down to giving you bottled water and snacks in with the fare.

Or you may just like it. The bustle of food sellers at main bus stops, the sights and photographs you would never enjoy if you were travelling by limousine, the feeling of being part rather than observing through the distortions of the tourist bubble.

And you can combine it with other transport, including cars sometimes, to get the best of the experience in any area.

Many of our best memories come from bus journeys. One of the funniest was when we were exhausted and leeched of blood after a rainy season jaunt in a Thai jungle area and we stopped for four nights in a beautiful four-star resort at Khao Lak (later badly damaged in the tsunami). We arrived by bus... and when we went, by then friends with the Thais used to less interactive package tour sunseekers, the reception got one of the elegantly uniformed baggage staff to wheel out our beaten-up bags and wait at the bus stop with us for the bus.

In Luang Prabang, the city of temples in northern Laos, we stumbled into another amusing incident. We had rocketed 300 miles down the Mekong on a fast boat and done the last 12 miles by sawngthaew (like a tuk-tuk but bigger to seat six or eight). We were windswept and not quite looking our best (to put it mildly)... we went for a room at the Villa Santi, the best place in town, and the receptionist said $40 a night... we said OK and moved in.

The next day they revealed the receptionist had thought us backpackers and was so shocked when we said yes to $40 that he had given us a room reserved for two guests jetting in within hours. We smiled, thanked them and said we’d move out... but they let us stay and found another room for imminently expected guests.
A little later in that trip, we were on a bus on Route 13. It wasn’t long after the army had declared the road safe from bandits, but no one was really sure about that. The bus broke down on a lonely mountain road and the crew of three set about repairing the prop shaft - the bus was carrying an amazing array of spares. As we sat in the sun, part of this fabulous environment, the hypnotically beautiful sound of a hill tribe woman’s song floated down from mountainside fields high above.

Then there was the caring Thai bus crew who would not let us off their bus when we picked a doubtful destination on Phuket...

And travelling with 20 tons of cement in a truck bus out of Pakse, southern Laos, after stopping a few nights in a converted palace...

Helping mend a woman’s rice bag which had split getting it on the bus in north-east Thailand...

Taking a ride from the Vietnam border to Savannakhet in Laos with 70 people on a 40-seater already jammed with such items as a mini-tractor engine and feeling, on the rough tracks, like being with Jean-Luc during a Borg attack... 
        
Sitting in a monsoon storm after getting off a bus at Champasak in southern Laos... 
        
Waiting for six hours or more at bus stations where no one speaks English, and we’ve no idea whether there will be a bus going where we want to go but, all the same, being enjoyably absorbed into the travelling community Laotians... 
        
And all the stops on the way somewhere, the colours, the bleakness, the beauty of dawn in some remote place full of hill tribe people...

If you are tempted, try it. Best to start in Thailand, which is far better organised than Laos. Pick any destination that interests you, get a bus from one of Bangkok’s big bus stations, link with other buses in other cities or towns. Be adventurous: it will all work out somehow.
It is better to take bags that can survive a bit of a pounding (definitely leave your designer matching cases at home), pack your clothes in waterproof bags before putting them into your travelling bag - they might end up on a songthaew roof sometime, or you might be on a river and the spray soak them. Just the humidity can leave everything damp if not protected.

Dress like the local town or city people, just ordinary clothes rather than ‘hotel’ or ‘beach’ specials. Thailand and Laos are friendly and safe countries, generally, so just relax and take the routine kind of precautions you would in the UK, while staying open to the friendly people you will meet. Thais rarely tell you what to do, so be sensitive to their advice; they know the local conditions and you do not.

In Laos, medical facilities are almost non-existent and you should be aware of the UXO risk in many areas (though not in major tourist areas apart from the Plain of Jars); Thailand has excellent medical facilities in cities and many towns. Good insurance is vital, just in case of illness or accident.

Make sure you travel on the same transport as local people. In Thailand, that includes aircon VIP buses (well worth the few extra bahts for long journeys; you can just turn up but it isn't a bad idea to book a few days in advance if you are worried about time). Be cautious with tourist buses: in Nong Khai, up on the Mekong in north-east Thailand, we met a couple who had spent as much on a tourist bus from Bangkok as we had spent on three weeks of travel all through the region and they had seen very little.

Just take your Lonely Planet to help you identify bus station locations and routes, and some idea of hotels. And pack your sense of humour and patience. If you smile a lot and try to communicate, you’ll have a wonderful time.

One problem is that Thai and Lao local buses are built for smaller people than many Westerners ... if you are taller than 5 feet, expect to be a bit cramped unless you can get the back seat. On air conditioned long-distance buses, there is plenty of room.

First published in VISA 69A (Oct 2006)

Beyond the Alhambra (Spain)

By Helen Matthews

I passed through the doorway and was almost overwhelmed by the cloying scent of jasmine and citrus that filled the courtyard. It was a quiet, calm refuge in the centre of the city, and I appeared to have it to myself. Walking round the cloister, I came to the refectory, a simply furnished room with wooden benches, whitewashed walls and a dark wooden ceiling.

Next was the chapter house, in a similar simple style, with just a few paintings adorning the walls. Outside, the paving stones of the cloister were interspersed with memorial tablets to deceased monks, some of them peeping out from beneath aspidistra pots. The sacristy was another simply-furnished room, which did nothing to prepare me for what was to come.

At length I came to the main church of the monastery. I stepped over the threshold and was transported to a different world. It was decorated in breathtaking contrast to the simplicity of the rest of the monastery, with deep ceiling relief, exuberantly painted walls and ceiling and a gilded altarpiece. A recording of baroque music was playing, so I lingered, enjoying the atmosphere.
Outside the monastery the helpful bilingual plaque explained the disconcerting contrasts within. The monastery of San Jerónimo itself had been founded by the Catholic Monarchs, Ferdinand and Isabella, and given to the Hieronymite order. Later, the Duchess of Sesa had obtained the main chapel to use as a family vault and it was her architects who had wrought the transformation in order to provide more fitting surroundings for the family memorials.

Near the monastery is the hospital of San Juan de Dios. This is another Renaissance building but its courtyard is very different from the austerity of the monastic cloister. It is decorated with colourful wall paintings and ceramic tiles – perhaps how the monastery would have looked if the Duchess’s decorators had been let loose on the whole monastery . The surprise here is that the building is still in use as a working hospital, and its highly decorative courtyard is full of signs directing patients to various clinics.

Later, wandering around the town, I came across a street market at which old coins, stamps and postcards were for sale. At the end of the street was a large open square thronged with people. At first I imagined that this was a continuation of the market, perhaps selling bric à brac or antiques. On closer inspection, I realised that the women were not fighting over bargains but were seated around tables working with their lace pillows and bobbins. Around the edge were stalls selling patterns and equipment. To add to the feeling of unreality, Mickey Mouse was wandering among the tables selling balloons to the children.

In the nearby Plaza Bib Rambla, Winnie the Pooh was selling the balloons and children were also enjoying rides on a roundabout. At first this appeared to be just an ordinary ride for small children. But on closer inspection, the horses, reindeer and dragons they were riding were made out of old rubber tyres, and the roundabout was powered not by a smelly, noisy generator, but by a bespectacled man serenely riding a bicycle. This was Granada’s ‘ecological carousel’.

My visit to Granada had been full of surprises. Of course I visited the obvious sights as well - the Alhambra, the Royal Chapel and the Cathedral, but sometimes the most memorable parts of a trip are the things that you were not expecting.

First published in VISA 83 (Feb 2009)

Eurostar to Bruges (Belgium)

By Elizabeth Johnstone

Brugse Zot, ‘Bruges Fool’, is a delicious beer brewed in the picture perfect Flemish town of the same name. It could also describe those like myself who fall under the town’s spell.
Bruges by Eurostar is a popular destination from the south of England. I booked hotel and train as a Cresta Holidays package through my local Co-op Travel. Ever since the ash cloud, I have booked ATOL-protected packages where possible, although I grant that Eurostar is unlikely to be disrupted by volcanic rumblings in Iceland.

My husband and I live just north of London and our train line goes into Kings Cross Station. It is literally a few steps across the road (avoiding the pupils en route to Hogwarts on Platform 9¾) to St Pancras Station, from where Eurostar leaves. I was impressed by my first trip on Eurostar. The whole operation was slick, and check-in and security were faster than at the airport. We went out in Standard Class, which was not over-spacious but slightly better than the plane. We were upgraded for our return to Standard Premier Class which was definitely roomier and included a light meal with wine. I love being abroad, but I am not a good traveller. The advantage of Eurostar is that the worst bit – the Tunnel – only represents about 20-25 minutes underground. You can easily do that travelling about in London (but then I don’t like that either!)

We left the Eurostar at Brussels South Station. Unfortunately, our connection to Bruges was running late and a twenty minute wait turned into nearly an hour. Once aboard, however, the journey was a pleasant ramble through a flat countryside enlivened by the odd windmill and dozens, if not hundreds, of solar energy installations. The serried ranks of bikes in the bike park at Gent St Pieters Station were absolutely spectacular.

On arrival at Bruges (which, incidentally, is its only name in the UK– no-one has heard of Brugge), we decided to walk into the historic centre. As we trudged past sunbathers in shirtsleeves snoozing in the park, we rather wished we’d taken the bus. We checked into the Hotel Aragon but our room wasn’t ready, so we headed back out into the city. The hotel is well located, a couple of blocks from the Markt, or main square. It was unspectacular but clean and cosy. An unhurried breakfast is always a treat on these trips, and the Hotel Aragon proved no exception.

We bought a three-day Museum Card for 15 euros each and more than got our money’s worth. Unfortunately the Belfort, the 83 metre high tower in the main square, was closed for renovation, but we visited almost everything else on the card. For me, the highlights were the Groeninge Museum with room after room of Flemish masters, the Hospitaal Museum with the fabulous Memling in St-Jan and the Onthaalkerk Onze-Lieve-Vrouw with one of the very few Michaelangelos outside Italy. But, in my opinion, the charm of the place is not so much in outstanding individual pieces. It is a harmonious ensemble of many beautiful buildings whose perspectives are constantly changing as you stumble across a bridge, a reflection or a gilded detail. 
        
Eating and drinking were fabulous. We treated ourselves to excellent meals at 'tHuidevettershuis in a lovely location overlooking the canal and at De Koetse not too far from the Markt. I adored the gracious living of the Pâtisserie Prestige – a perfect venue for “ladies who lunch”. Prices were not cheap, however we are used to London prices. It was a no-brainer that the nearer you were to the Markt, the pricier everything would be.

As for famous Belgian food and drink – we made a thorough investigation of the following items, purely for scientific purposes, you understand...

• Chocolate: Belgian chocolate is our gold standard. Can one town support so many fabulous, expensive, artisan chocolate shops? Evidently yes. Some of the goods are obviously bought in, but in many shops you can see the chocolate and other sweets being made at the back. We could hardly walk past these shops without exclaiming to each other at how exquisitely everything was displayed. And of course with Easter coming up, there were lots of bunnies, eggs etc.

• Mussels: I love these and had them twice in different restaurants. The easiest implement with which to extract them is an empty but still hinged pair of shells. Don't forget crusty bread to mop up the broth.

• Belgian chips – under no circumstances to be called French fries - are simply perfection, made from fine local potatoes and cooked twice for extra crispness. The mayonnaise with which they are served is more of a mustardy dip. Delicious and surprisingly chic in their dainty paper cones balancing in a wire frame.

As for beer… 600-700+ varieties? Choose your beer from a menu as carefully as you would choose wine, and look out for the strength. Some get up into the 6, 7, 8, 9% strengths, the strongest being those brewed by the monks. I wonder why? My fellow countrymen are famous for coming over and deliberately or naively knocking back these mighty brews as though they were weak English beer with predictable results. Bruges fools, indeed.
Waffles: plain and crisp are best, I think. I had a waffle with bottled cherries which was delicious, but it made the waffle soggy.

Bread and pâtisserie: I shall get into trouble for saying this, but these are up to French standards both in variety and quality. Yes, yes, I too am a native of a small, proud nation perched on the shoulder of its bigger neighbour…

A highlight of the trip was the monthly get-together of West Flanders Mensa in De Vlissinghe which claims to be the oldest pub in town, dating back to 1515. The format was a Games Evening, and our hosts courteously spoke perfect English to us and to each other. Super fun and friendly – Mensa at its best. Just as enjoyable was a delightful long walk out to the windmills and drinks with a Mensan friend on the Sunday afternoon, talking about everything and nothing. I was intrigued about the languages we would find in a bilingual country. The default language of hospitality in a tourist honeypot is English and Bruges was no exception. As a languages teacher, I am always keen to speak in a language other than English, but I was concerned that French might not go down too well in Flanders. I need not have had any such concern. I have a neutral look and could be any northern European nationality. If I was not actually consulting a map, I was addressed variously in Dutch, French and English and any responses in French were met with Gallic courtesy.

My husband and I did all the touristy things except for a horse and carriage trip. I know from experience I am horrendously allergic to whatever a horse swishes around with its tail. The canal boat trip was a better bet and gave a different perspective on the architecture we had admired while strolling about.

Our return trip was straightforward. No problems getting to Brussels, although we had some time to kill once we got there. The Eurostar pulled out of the station just before 3pm local time and I was walking through my front door 3 hours and 15 minutes later. The new concourse at King’s Cross, open that day for the first time, is quite something.

I am a definite convert to Eurostar now and I will retain fond memories of Mensan hospitality in the treasure house which is Bruges. Or even Brugge!

First published in VISA 103 (Jun 2012)

In the grip of dreams (Laos)

By John Keeble

It cannot exist: it is just a place of dreams and you know, deep down, that you will never find it, never taste the tantalising promise of stimulating peace and relaxation. But then, unexpectedly, it is there – still dreamlike but real, suspended between paradise and the modern world.
This is Luang Prabang in the north-west of Laos, a tear in the reality of a country of poverty caught for centuries at the nexus of international and regional greed and state violence. No theme-park design; no crude anything-goes-for-tourist-cash town. It has been shaped by Buddhist monks and kings as the City of Temples; by French colonialists, leaving architecture and baguettes; by Lao government hunger for foreign currency; and by the modern world’s tsunami of leisure travellers.

Timeless, apart from the occasional monk with a cell phone glued to his ear, and an old-fashioned charm masking its subtle, sophisticated efficiency in serving the needs of everyone from backpackers to the very rich.

I came to Luang Prabang – not for the first time – down the Mekong, two days in a slow boat with other tourists, stopping overnight at Pak Beng, a staging-post village that wakes with the evening arrival of the boats plying on the 500km stretch of river between Huay Xai (opposite Chiang Khong, Thailand) and the City of Temples. Even then the waking is short, intense, with a police curfew in place at 11pm and sleep, in the peace of the isolated, until the dawn of the port’s working spasm.

The silt-laden Mekong, which rises in Tibet and meanders more than 4,000 kilometres to the sea, is punctuated by rocks jutting from its bed, working silt terraces farmed and washed clean by monsoon floods and tiny sandy coves where local people travel, trade and live. It is home to the world’s largest fresh water fish and, further south where Laos falls off the edge into Cambodia, there are pink Irrawaddy dolphins, now said to be more numerous as their population recovers from the murderous attacks on them by the Khmer Rouge.

Luang Prabang announces itself with the cliff-face shrines at Pak Ou, where people worshipped the river spirits for hundreds, maybe thousands, of years before Buddhism edged into the metaphysical consciousness. Today, throughout Laos and Thailand, Theravada Buddhism is part of the living spiritual environment that includes spirits that protect or threaten the human world.

Maybe half an hour later on the slow, powerful flow, the town of Luang Prabang comes into view… a gentle wash of colour and shape as the evening sun lingers, lighting up the temples, looking strange as the boat heads into it after 12 hours travelling east before the river contorts to a confluence with the Nam Khan, boundaries of the old royal city.

The headline facts when anyone speaks of Luang Prabang are the 30+ working temples and maybe several thousand monks and novices, who take to the streets in huge phalanxes every dawn to complete their historic ritual and duty of giving the people an opportunity to make merit. At one time, only devout Buddhists were there, waiting in the cold to witness the bare-footed monks holding their bowls for tiny offerings… today, they are outnumbered, in the tourist season at least, by trigger-happy snappers from a score of countries, many kneeling in peculiar obeisance to get the best shot.

The private media frenzy can be so great that one prominent Laotian figure proclaimed that many visitors who go to Luang Prabang think they are on photo safaris – and the monks are the big game. There is some truth in that, but I saw generally well-behaved visitors and monks who had seen it all before and faced their ritual’s trials with blank indifference.

What is less talked about, but certainly appreciated, is the UNESCO world heritage town itself – the historic quarter between the rivers, with the residential and working areas stretching far out where visitors go by accident or pass through, eastwards, on the bus to the playground of Vang Vieng and on to Vientiane or west to Huay Xai and the ferry into Thailand. 

Luang Prabang gently gets a grip on you, slowing you, easing you into a relaxation with its pace of life, its temples, its places beside the rivers or in the town where you can drink coffee or eat wild dishes… sparkling, spicy noodle soup with peppermint and lemon tea for my breakfast… baguette with brimming filling and coffee for you?

You find yourself walking through the town’s quiet streets of French-style buildings, flowering trees and palms, dignified monks and smiling, welcoming, local people – everywhere you look, there is something of stimulating interest or beauty set in an aura of tranquillity.
And it finally dawns on you that you cannot stay more than four or five days. Or you may never leave again…


First published in VISA 101 (Feb 2012)

Eruption Night (Italy)

By Neil Matthews

I was watching an Italy-Germany football match on the TV at a pavement gelateria. Watching with me were a German couple and two small fair haired boys; a chain-smoking, middle-aged Italian in a baseball cap; two chatterbox young couples guarding quiet prams; and a long table of young Germans, national flag painted on cheeks. On each table was an Italian flag. Behind the tables, more locals and tourists gathered, talked, laughed and watched. 4

The game went on at a good pace, from end to end, but scoreless. Locals cheered when a German player was booked, and used hand-held hooters intermittently. The young Germans responded with chants. Someone on a nearby apartment roof marked half-time with a fireworks display. More fireworks went off elsewhere in the town. Normal Sorrento was suspended. Usually you have to watch out for Vespas; this evening, there was no traffic, motor or human.

Full-time approached; still no score. Finally the whistle blew to signal extra time. This time, there were no fireworks anywhere in the town. The match gripped everyone, except one of the young blond boys, now asleep, until his father picked him up and held him close, producing a tearful awakening.

In extra time, the Italians hit woodwork twice. Nobody was hooting, chanting or cheering much now. Two minutes remained when the ball came to Perlo. Every local around us pleaded for Perlo to shoot. But he didn't. He passed to Grosso, whose left foot shot curled precisely through a crowd of players into the right corner of the net, past the keeper's despairing dive.

The gelateria erupted. As the Germans watched in stunned silence, locals jumped up and down, hugging and shouting and hooting. Fireworks echoed across town. The Italians scored again and then it was over. Italy was through to the World Cup final.

The gelateria, and the street, turned into a heaving mass of noise, colour and celebration. Suddenly the traffic was back: cars, Vespas singly and in convoys, many displaying the Italian flag, passengers or even drivers waving it; some slowing down to greet the crowds, others racing through. At the street corner, a gaggle of teenage girls in azzuri tops screamed, whooped, hollered and cheered at every passing vehicle, producing hoots from the cars and Vespas, whose responses produced more cheers and whooping in return. One man used a gigantic chequered Italian flag to wave vehicles down, Formula 1-style. Cameras flashed.
In Vesuvius's shadow, the eruption continued unchecked for hours. Normal, laid-back, casual Sorrento had gone. Fiery, passionate, exuberant Sorrento had swept it away.

First published in VISA 81 (Oct 2008)

In from the Cold (Kyrgyzstan)

By Helen Matthews

In what seemed like a scene from a spy novel of the Cold War era, we waited at the border for our contact. And we waited. Although it was late July, and we had left Kashgar in brilliant sunshine and searing heat, up here on the Torugart Pass through the Tien Shan mountains, it was snowing.

Eventually, our Kyrgyz transport arrived, and we jumped out of the 4WD into ankle-deep snow, said farewell to our driver from Kashgar, and trudged over to the other (very dirty) 4WD vehicle. Here the world of Le Carré gave way to the new realities of post-Soviet Central Asia. Our new guide, Alex, was a Korean Christian from Kyrgyzstan. His father was born in Uzbekistan and his mother in Tajikistan, but he had ended up a Kyrgyz national. The driver, also called Alex, was an ethnic Russian, but also a Kyrgyz national, heavily-built with brown hair and blue eyes. Driver Alex bore an ironic resemblance to the classic Russian mafia "heavy" as seen in many films. We drove to the Kyrgyz customs post (much shabbier than the Chinese one), where the vehicle was driven over a scary-looking inspection pit whilst we got out and completed customs declarations. There was then another long drive to the final Kyrgyz checkpoint.

Driving through the snow we could not see anything - the rear and side windows were caked with dirt, and all that could be seen through the windscreen was an expanse of white. The road surface was very poor and we were jolted around in the back of the 4WD. After passing the last checkpoint, as we descended from the pass the weather improved and the landscape gradually changed to grassland, which contrasted with the desert on the Chinese side. Peering through the windscreen, I spotted my first marmot.

The first place of any size on the Krygyz side of the border is Naryn, a small town by our standards, though I read later that it is to be the site of one of the campuses of a new University of Central Asia. The Celestial Mountains Guesthouse is English/New Zealand owned and is said to be the best accommodation in Naryn. Hardy souls keen for the authentic Kyrgyz experience can opt to stay in a yurt (circular tent) in the garden, but inside, it seemed a bit run down, like a British seaside boarding house of thirty or more years ago, with peeling wallpaper and shared facilities. But after the long journey it was a relief to get there, and a surprisingly tasty dinner of Russian salad, mutton soup and chicken did much to revive my spirits.

Naryn has relatively few amenities, but there was a new mosque with domes covered in silver polyhedrons. It had a strangely futuristic look, and made me think of alien spaceships. I later noticed many more mosques of this design in other towns and villages we passed through. Our guide Alex explained that these were funded by Arab donors, and made it clear that as a Christian, he strongly disapproved of this form of foreign investment.

Leaving Naryn the next morning, in a freshly-cleaned vehicle, we passed a sign by the side of the road saying (in English) "Have a good trip! We hope to see you again." There was also a statue of a deer. We were to see many such statues of deer or eagles in other towns and villages we passed through. As we drove north through the mountains, now able to see through the windows, I noticed groups of yurts, where Kyrgyz had returned to their traditional summer pastures or jailoos following the break up of the Soviet Union. There were also stalls beside the road offering kumiss (a traditional alcoholic drink made from fermented mare's milk) for sale. But this was not simply a return to the ways of old. The yurts on the jailoos are now an important part of the tourist economy, offering an authentic Kyrgyz experience to adventurous tourists.

The mountain scenery and outdoor pursuits are Kyrgyzstan's main attraction for foreign tourists. There are few historic sites or monuments, though those that do exist are not without interest. The Burana Tower is an eleventh-century minaret that is all that remains of the old Silk Road town of Balasagun. The tower itself was restored in Soviet times, but the city is merely a grassed-over heap of rubble. There is a small museum containing finds from the locality, including Buddhist and Nestorian carved stones and Chinese coins. Guide Alex took pains to point out the Christian artefacts. The most interesting and unusual feature of the site is the number of strange, head-shaped grave markers.

The capital of Kyrgyzstan, Bishkek, is a modern Soviet-style city. There are wide streets, parks, and politically significant statues. As with many former communist capitals there is an ex-Lenin museum, now a historical museum. The President lives in the White House - a huge building with massive fountains. It could be anywhere in Eastern Europe - if it were not for the yurt in the airport departure lounge.


First published in VISA issue 80 (August 2008) 

Such a Lovely Place? (Albania)

By Neil Matthews
Albania was a natural candidate for this year’s holiday. Helen has developed a strong interest in Albania over many years, including the sponsorship of Kondelia, a student from Durres who has just completed university. We wanted to see as many of the major sights of this mysterious Balkan country as possible, and also to visit Kondelia, as she had visited us and other sponsoring families in the UK in previous years. We opted for a tailor-made package from Regent Holidays, run in partnership with Albantours. The adventure started and ended in Tirana, the capital. It also visited various other locations in the centre and south, including Durres, Kruje, Apollonia, Vlore, Saranda, Butrint and Gjirokastra. This was possible through the use of a guide and chauffeur-driven Mercedes. Although the trip was expensive as a result, it would not have been possible to do in any other way, for reasons which will become clear.

My own interest was not just in the inherent attractions of Albania, but in trying to form an impression of whether the country is ready, willing and able to launch a successful drive to expand its income from tourism. At the end of eight days, I concluded that, to coin a typical Albanian phrase, “It’s hard to say”.

The country has many qualities which should attract more tourists than at present. Like the other Balkan nations, its history is complicated, with some of the earliest inhabitants being the Illyrians. (Lovers of Shakespeare will recognise Illyria as the location for Twelfth Night.) The Greeks, the Turks – through the Ottoman Empire – and the Italians all exercised major influence on the territories which finally came together in 1920 as Albania. The Russians, and then the Chinese, have loomed large in Albanian affairs since Enver Hoxha’s Communist Party took power after the Second World War. Democracy arrived in the early 1990s, although it suffered a major setback in 1997 with the collapse of the pyramid banking schemes and subsequent riots by people now worse off than they had been under Communism.

For anyone with an interest in ancient or modern history, there is much to absorb and intrigue. The Ethem Bey Mosque in Tirana provides a rich display of floral art, produced by the Bektashi Islamic sect and hence different from the geometric style which one can see in Istanbul and elsewhere. Ethem Bey was the only mosque in Tirana not destroyed after the Second World War by the Communists, who preferred to leave it as a ‘monument of culture’. Although the paintings are over 200 years old, they remain vivid. The caretaker explained that this was due to the use of quince leaves boiled in raki to derive the colours. He was also happy to chat about the career of Yusuf Islam, formerly the 70s pop singer Cat Stevens, who has donated £160,000 towards the maintenance of a mosque in Durres. Interestingly, although the country is a mixture of Muslim, Catholic and Albanian Orthodox, there does not appear to be much religiously-based conflict. Maybe the political conflict takes up all the activists’ energies…

The new and very smart Skanderbeg Museum in Kruje charts the life and times of this 15th century national hero, who frustrated the invading Turks for over 25 years by choosing and defending castles across mountainous terrain. One of the highlights of the trip was a visit to Apollonia and a virtually deserted archaeological site. If Roman town halls, amphitheatres, gymnasia and so on fascinate you, this is a must-see. So is Butrint in the south of the country, a better-known site.

For more modern interest, try the castle at Gjirokastra. This houses an interesting weapons museum, from which, unfortunately, many exhibits were looted in the 1990s; and a truly eerie main entrance, where you run the gauntlet of an assembly of menacing looking cannons and other weaponry. There is also an American Lockheed fighter plane, shot down by the Communists in Cold War times, when they claimed it was on a spying mission; and the remains of cells where political prisoners were held by the regimes of King Zog in the 1920s and 1930s and of Hoxha thereafter.

Quirky insights abound. The ethnographic museum in Kruje gave many insights into the traditional Albanian ways of pressing olives, grinding corn, making clothes and much else. The enthusiastic local guide even gave us a handy hint for guessing which part of Albania a local hailed from, by the shape of their hat – pointed hats for mountain dwellers, rounded for those from the hills and flat hats for people from the plains. One of the churches in Berat displays ostrich eggs – apparently “to keep spiders out” – presumably by falling on them. In the Onufri museum in Berat, we discovered that in Albanian religious iconography, St George kills brown dragons with red wings, while St Theodore slays red dragons, or people wearing red robes. A dragon in a blue wrap might stand a chance. Back in Tirana, Enver Hoxha’s old house still stands in “The Block”, a prestigious area of houses once inhabited by Communist officials (and nothing to do with Jennifer Lopez). The house is now used by a private American association with religious / educational aims, and is awash with the latest computer equipment and motivational posters extolling the virtues of leadership.

If you don’t want to bother with the past, there is breathtaking scenery. The combination of lakes and mountains is more than vaguely reminiscent of Italy or Greece. Berat clings proudly to a hilltop, earning its nickname ‘city of a thousand lights’ from the way in which the windows of the town’s houses light up at night. For those willing to take on the Albanian road system – of which more later – dramatic mountain drives, such as that from Vlore to Saranda, await you.

If your holiday habits dictate that life’s a beach, then once again Albania has plenty to offer. The beaches at Durres and Saranda, the latter being the proverbial stone’s throw from Corfu, provide excellent, fine sand and shallow bathing ideal for families with small children. Saranda’s evening promenade of locals is a very Mediterranean affair.

When hunger calls, the range of clubs, bars, cafes and restaurants has expanded enormously in the past ten years. As you might expect, there is much Greek and Turkish influence on the local food, with Italian recipes becoming increasingly popular, too. We encountered and enjoyed familiar specialities such as baklava, involtini, seafood, risotto and tsatsiki - a yoghurt dip with cucumber, although it has a different name in Albanian. There was also the opportunity to sample Albanian mountain goat. Although Albanian cuisine offers salad options, a strict vegetarian or a vegan might struggle to find much variety. Collectors of amusing menu entries would have enjoyed the appearances put in by “hard cheese”, “grilled screwier” and my favourite “mixed croquet” – which, sadly, was unavailable that evening. Maybe they had run out of hoops?

One of Albania’s greatest strengths is its people. Our guide and interpreter, Ilir, and driver, Jonadri, could not have done more to ensure that we enjoyed our stay. Mr Hoxha – no relation to the late dictator - from Albantours was also extremely helpful. In Tirana, a casual expression of interest in visiting one of the universities led to a short but illuminating interview with the Rector and Vice-Rector, who were more than happy to discuss structural, funding and other issues. Both had spent much time in UK universities, namely UMIST and Exeter, which might have explained their willingness to talk with us. Ilir commented that he would have been most unlikely to obtain access to these people on his own. As we don’t speak Albanian, it can only be a guess, but maybe the Rector thought we were someone important. The city’s Archaeological Museum was closed on our initial visit, so Mr Hoxha arranged for it to open on our final day in the country, just before we left for the airport.

Kondelia’s family took us out to dinner for one evening and kindly invited us to their home the next evening. While sampling the local delicacies of cherries in preserve and Albanian pie in filo pastry, I asked Kondelia’s father what was best about being Albanian. He had no doubt: “Albanians will give hospitality to anyone who needs it. And, once you have the word of an Albanian, he will honour it.” Having been in touch with Kondelia for almost ten years, it was a great pleasure to meet the rest of her family.

However, while people are Albania’s greatest strength, they are also its weakness. Corruption remains either endemic or widely suspected. On our orientation tour of Tirana, Ilir explained that it is common for police to supplement their meagre salaries by stopping cars, demanding that the driver display the relevant documents and then extracting a fee. Less than five minutes after this explanation, a policeman stopped our car. No money changed hands on this occasion. This may have been because Jonadri remained calm and polite, or possibly because of the presence of two tourists with cameras in the back of the car. Although sceptical of our guidebook’s claims of regular phone tapping, Ilir was concerned enough to enquire further with his contacts in the police – with inconclusive results. Car washes are widely rumoured to divert water supplies illegally from homes in order to operate. On a greater scale, many potential foreign investors leave disappointed by the excess of red tape, the propensity for backhanders to local firms and the inability of Albanians to complete contracts at all, never mind on schedule or within budget.

While Albanians may be naturally hospitable, the service culture, and the instinct to compete for and satisfy customers, has only taken root in patchy fashion. This may be a legacy of the Communist regime, or it may be natural antipathy to market forces, or both. The elderly caretaker of the museum at Apollonia didn’t seem too pleased to see us at all, at least until we bought one of his pictures. He then grudgingly agreed to give us a tour. This led to one of the more memorable pieces of conversation in which your correspondent has ever been involved.

Through Ilir as interpreter, I asked: “Why are these statues headless?” In other words, had the Christians or Barbarians removed the heads, or were they displayed elsewhere, or was there another reason? The answer given was: “Because they have no heads.”

The reply was positively Delphic in its ambiguity. It was impossible to say whether the local guide had taken the question absolutely literally; whether the subtleties of the question had, as it were, gone over his head; or whether this was the Albanian sense of humour at work. When I followed up the question, the guide concluded magisterially that “It’s hard to say”. I asked Ilir to thank him for an illuminating response.

Another example of the Albanian approach to customer service occurred in the Archaeological Museum in Durres. Again, we were the only visitors. As a local guide took us round, another employee turned out the lights of each area as we left them. It was very tempting to ask if we could go round again, if only to see how the museum would have coped. Similarly, at the Skanderbeg museum in Kruje, we examined some murals in one room before going upstairs to view further displays. When we returned to the murals room, an attendant had turned out the lights because nobody was in the room. It was not clear where he thought we had gone.

The various hotels in which we stayed displayed variable qualities. Our Tirana base was the Hotel California - spelt Kalifornia in the brochure, inexplicably. We chose it simply from a perverse mental association with the Eagles’ classic pop hit of the early 1970s, from the lyrics of which the title of this article is taken. By a Kismet-like feat of serendipity, the Albanian national symbol is the eagle. Our perceived status as honoured British visitors undoubtedly led to us enjoying one of the most luxurious rooms in which we have ever stayed, at the Hotel Arvi in Durres. Two cream sofas on which to lounge was a dizzying choice of facilities by our normal standards.

On the other hand, we also stayed at that traditional nightmare of British tourists, the unfinished hotel – the Hotel Palma in Saranda. The hotel boasted a superb view of the harbour, but this was offset to some extent by the sight of toilets in the reception area, waiting to be installed in the rooms. Only through Ilir’s intervention in the morning did we receive any breakfast – he was told by the management that this couldn’t be helped, as the staff came in to work late. Although the hotel was far from uncomfortable, there were some unnerving hints that the hotel staff might have thought that Fawlty Towers was one of the training videos made by John Cleese after he hung up Basil Fawlty’s hat.

However, we did at least have reliable power and hot water supplies, which is more than most Albanians receive. Revealingly, when Kondelia’s cousins dropped in to visit on the same evening that they entertained us at home, the first question asked by each family of the other was: “How is your water supply?” It is apparently common for families to have only one hour of hot water per day…unless you live in the same street as a government minister, in which case (so the gossip goes) the supply is extremely reliable.

For an ambitious young Albanian such as Kondelia, who grew up as the country discarded Communist one-party politics for multi-party democracy, the whole scenario is depressing with no solution in sight. “Many young Albanians are leaving the country because there is no hope here,” she said, “And the Government does not seem to care. How can a country function without reliable power and water?” Many Albanians do go abroad to seek their fortune. They often send money home to help with building projects, with the result that many buildings are left unfinished until the next instalment of foreign earnings arrives.

If the power and water problems are solved, that leaves the roads, which are truly terrible. Apart from one major highway between Tirana and Durres, and a couple of new roads, the local transportation is a potholer’s delight. Jonadri, an excellent and careful driver, spent much of his time slaloming from one side of the road to the next to make the most of what road surface there was. When done on precipitous drives up narrow mountain roads, this can be terrifying. It is hard to enjoy the views when you think that you may be hurtling towards them at any second. At one point, Ilir asked Helen: “Were you expecting a road as bad as this?” She replied: “I was expecting a road.”


One of the few positive side-effects of the poor road system is that Albanian drivers are careful and courteous, invariably observing the speed limit and using the horn as a warning of overtaking, rather than as a rebuke. Crossing the road in Tirana is not the death-defying act it would be in Paris, for example.

The country’s airport - note the singular - is in Tirana. This is so small that it is impossible to get lost once inside. It was still being constructed as we left. Having said that, our flights to and from Heathrow to Tirana, via Budapest, all arrived on time. The rail system consists of a few single track lines on which you are more likely to see grazing cows than trains. Kondelia told us that local buses were scarcely more reliable.

**

It is clear that, if Albania wishes to expand its share of the European tourism market, there is an enormous amount to do. As a starting point, the infrastructure needs massive and sustained investment. Of course, it is fair to observe that power, water and transportation are basic human necessities for the Albanians, regardless of tourists’ needs or wants.

The combination of excellent beaches and nightlife at Saranda with a major archaeological site at Butrint cannot be properly exploited at the moment because the country’s only airport is many hours away in Tirana. One way round this might be to promote Saranda as a long weekend destination in combination with a visit to Corfu.

The implications for an aggressive drive to promote tourism go deep. To take an example: one of the reasons that we had the site at Apollonia virtually to ourselves was because it is so difficult to reach. If anything like mass tourism takes hold, how far will that compromise the unspoilt quality which could be Albania’s biggest selling point? And which market should Albania aim for in any case? My suggested answer to that question would be: families with small children (beaches etc) or mature couples with interests in flora, fauna or history. The 18-30 brigade should be left strictly to the Greeks and Turks. Albania is competing for the tourist Euro – or dollar, or pound, any of which its locals seem happy to accept - with three neighbours, Italy, Greece and Turkey, which have over 30 years’ start and established reputations for attracting and satisfying holidaymakers. It may take years before guide books to Albania are anything more than a temporary basis for negotiation, in terms of the reliability of their content. The Blue Guide to Albania and Kosovo (3rd edition, 2001) which we used was very hit and miss in the accuracy of its advice.

In its own way, our visit was summed up by my encounter with Customs officials at Tirana airport as we attempted to reach the departure lounge on the final day. The official to whom I gave my passport studied my face at length and then gestured for me to remove my hat. This did not seem to dispel whatever his doubts were as to my suitability for leaving Albania. (In retrospect, he may have been wondering how I got into the country because, on entry, my passport was stamped on a page already bearing a stamp for a previous foreign trip, and hence the Albanian entry stamp was easy to miss.) After conferring with a colleague, he called me into a small office behind his own booth, leaving Helen behind to wait. I met two other officers, one of whose English, like that of many Albanians, was excellent, and this conversation followed:

Customs Officer: “When did you enter Albania?”
NAM: “The 11th of July.”
CO: “What was your purpose, business or tourism?”
NAM: “A holiday.”
CO: “Where did you stay?”
NAM: “Tirana, and I travelled around too.”
CO: “Did you travel alone?”
NAM: “No, I was with my wife.”
CO: “Is she English or Albanian?”
NAM: “She is English.”
[Pause]
CO: “Did you enjoy Albania?”
NAM: “Yes.”
CO (smiling): “Would you like to come back?”
NAM (also smiling): “I have to be allowed to leave in order to come back…”

At this point, the officials either accepted the inexorable logic of my last statement, or thought that I was a dangerous lunatic best out of the country. Whatever the reason, smiles broke out all round and I was allowed to proceed to the departure lounge. The inherent friendliness, but also the red tape, the bureaucracy and the interrogative manner, seemed to me to be quintessentially Albanian. But, on reflection, there is no doubt that I would return to Albania. It is, after all, “such a lovely place (such a lovely place)”.

First published in VISA issue 53 (December 2003)

Benny Hill and the Devil's Throat (Bulgaria)

By Helen Matthews

I realised that I might have made a mistake when the first thing our guide for the week wanted to know was whether our travel insurance covered helicopter evacuation. It had seemed like a good idea when I saw the email advert for an eco-walking holiday in Bulgaria’s Rodopi mountains. I had been on botanical walks in the Cretan mountains before – how different could this be?

Very different, as it turned out. But hypothetical helicopters aside, it was not too alarming at first. The other members of our group of ten who assembled at Sofia airport were not athletic twenty-somethings, but middle-aged and older. I didn’t anticipate any difficulty in keeping up with them. Having met our guide, Svetla, we were driven to our overnight stop in Asenovgrad, the ‘gateway to the Rodopi mountains.’ I was surprised to see that virtually every shop we passed in Asenovgrad sold bridal wear. I later found out that this was because it used to be a silk producing centre. Although the gowns are no longer made from silk, it is still something of a tradition for Bulgarian brides to go to Asenovgrad for their wedding dress. That evening I tried out the TV in our room, only to find a dubbed version of Carry on Doctor followed by The Benny Hill Show.

Our first full day was scheduled to be a gentle start: a visit to Bachkovo monastery, followed by a drive to Chudnite Mostove (Wonderful Bridges), from where we would have an ‘easy’ afternoon walk around the flank of Mt. Kamuka to the village of Zaburdo, where we would be picked up by our minibus and driven to Yagodina, our base for the week.

We arrived at the monastery to find what appeared to be jumble sale taking place in the courtyard. On closer inspection this turned out to be a stall selling clothing and towels as gifts to the Virgin, to whom the monastery is dedicated. I was interested to note the number of satellite dishes on the monastery building and wondered whether the monks were secret fans of Benny Hill. A liturgy service was underway inside the monastery church. To my uninitiated eyes the scene inside was chaotic and incomprehensible. The monks kept appearing and disappearing from behind a curtain for all the world as if they were participating in a Demis Roussos lookalike contest. Meanwhile, oblivious to goings on behind them, women were rearranging candles whilst members of the congregation kissed the icon of the Virgin, and bestowed their gifts of tea towels

'Wonderful Bridges'

The ‘wonderful bridges’ proved to be huge natural rock arches overlooking a gorge. To my horror, I found that we had to scramble up a steep and rocky slope to the top. No, I couldn’t wait at the bottom for the group to come back – they weren’t coming back. I didn’t have much time at the top to bask in my achievement in scrambling in an undignified fashion up a slope that locals could run up and down in flip-flops, as we were off down the trail on the other side. The path passed through a woodland, where, slippery with pine-needles, it sloped sharply to the left, then emerged onto an open hillside, where the pine-needles gave way to loose stones. As I concentrated hard on remaining upright, I heard one of our party observe how nice it was to have such an easy start where she didn’t have to be watching her feet all the time.

The penny dropped. The rest of the group were serious walkers, equipped with poles, expensive walking boots and fancy rucksacks with built-in water supplies. The purpose of these walks was not to look at the local flora and fauna, as had been the case with my guided walks in Crete, but simply to walk. When we eventually reached the minibus, I looked again at the itinerary, which had seemed so appealing when I booked. Now, it looked terrifying. Why on earth had I thought that ‘a spectacular trail that runs high along the flank of the Buinovo Gorge’ was my sort of walk? How on earth was I going to survive this week?

The following morning we set off on foot down the road from the village, accompanied by one of the village dogs, whom we nicknamed Jerry. This was not so bad, after all. But after twenty minutes or so, our guide Svetla disappeared through a gap in the bushes. This was the start of the walk proper. The trail that ran high along the flank of the Buinovo Gorge was, I am sure, spectacular. The drop down to the gorge was steep, but the path was narrow. Unfortunately I only made it a short distance along before my fear of getting stuck and needing that helicopter got the better of me. Gracefully declining the offer of a walking stick from a little old lady, I made my way ignominiously back to the safety of the road. Jerry had far more pluck than I did; he accompanied the rest of the group all the way to the other end. I decided to spend some time exploring the village, instead. 
        
As it was a Muslim village, the main square was dominated by a mosque, rather than a church, but it had a rather deserted appearance. We later learned that the custodian had to open it up if two worshippers turned up. It wasn’t opened very often. An elderly woman sat outside a cafe, eating chocolates. She offered me a strawberry cream. The houses all had large gardens full of apples, pears, raspberries, beans, squash and tomatoes. And the occasional chicken. Sunflower heads were protected with old ladies’ tights. Every house also had a massive woodpile. It was like stepping back in time, except for the satellite dishes. Benny Hill was evidently very popular.
         
The next day I decided to brave the walk, which was due to start in the Chairska gorge and end in the village of Trigrad, from where we would visit a famous local cave, known as the ‘Devil’s Throat’. The walk began in the bottom of the gorge, following a wide, level path that was a former Roman road. There were no scary precipices to worry about initially. After an hour or so, however, we found ourselves scrambling over rocks, and Svetla looked around rather anxiously. There had been a rock fall, and the only way to reach our destination was to climb up a 20 foot slope to the path above. Somehow, I made it, mainly because Svetla, who was stronger than she looked, hauled me up. The next section of the walk involved a steady climb, but as the path was wide and flanked by trees rather than a sheer drop, I was finally able to regain a little self-respect by overtaking some of the more experienced hikers in the group. We all felt that we had earned a rest when we stopped for our picnic lunch in a quiet meadow. Stopping on the way only to sample some sweet yellow tiny plums tasting like greengages, we made our way down to the village. 

Rodopi Mountains

The Devil’s Throat is the largest cave in the Balkans. It is allegedly where Orpheus emerged from the underworld (though it is not the only cave to claim this distinction). I was amused to note a stack of beer and Coke crates just inside the entrance. The road to hell is paved with Coca Cola. It is said that anything which falls into the waterfall which enters the cave never emerges from the other side. In an experiment, even dye took two hours to come through, instead of the few minutes expected. For the intrepid, there are around 188 steps to climb up past the waterfall and out of the cave. I preferred to retreat back through the entrance and look for the elusive wallcreeper bird which is supposed to live in the vicinity. The only glimpse I caught of it was on a souvenir postcard. Whilst I waited for the others to emerge, I noticed a zip-wire across the gorge. I might have been tempted to have a go, but the bandaged arm of the operator did not inspire my confidence.

The following day, encouraged by my success, I opted to go on the longest walk of the week – a circuit of Mt Durgada. I’m ashamed to say that I was secretly rather pleased when two of the party turned back, citing a dodgy knee, whilst I went on to complete the walk with a real sense of achievement. I was officially no longer the only wimp on the expedition.

First published in VISA 90 (Apr 2010)

On Days Like These... (Sicily)

By Neil Matthews


‘On days like these, I wonder what became of you
Maybe today you’re singing songs with someone new...’




Piazza IX April

Sicily has had to learn many songs in its time.  The Greeks, the Romans, the Vandals, the Arabs, the Normans, the Hohenstaufens, the Angevins, the Spanish, the Bourbons: they all occupied the island at one time or another.  Now Sicily is part of Italy.  As the midday sun burns down on the chessboard pattern of Piazza IX April in Taormina on the east coast, the two guitarists sitting under one of the oleander trees give yet another rendition of ‘Volare’.  There are plenty of Englishmen (and women and children) walking past, or slumped in cafe seats, but it’s too hot for them or the dogs to get particularly mad.  The soundtrack changes to ‘New York, New York’, perhaps as an indirect tribute to those Sicilians and other Italians who sought a new life across the Atlantic.

After a break for a strawberry granita – a type of runny sorbet, very refreshing – it’s time to saunter down the Corso Umberto, Taormina’s main street.  The town sits on the side of a hill and little side streets and alleys offer plenty of opportunities to stray from the central path of retail therapy. Vicolo Stretto is the narrowest, requiring a sideways turn to gain access.  Curious crowds brandishing camera phones look on, as a model and photographer dart on and off the Corso for their latest assignment.  The model totters into a side street and lounges across the steps in her slinky black dress and steep heels.  She is long-haired, slim, young and attractive: the photographer is the opposite in every respect.  He has to be diplomatic; if the model decided to hurry off further down the side street, there’s no guarantee he could squeeze into the gap to follow her.

Back in the Corso Umberto, all retail life is here.  Designer clothes devoid of price labels include some more improbably high heeled shoes and fur coats from the new winter collection; one shop window even has a throne which must be the last word in chintz.  Antique wooden furniture spills out into the street, while paintings and knickknacks sit awaiting buyers.  Postcards of local views of the sea and of Mount Etna, fridge magnets, puppets of Saracen soldiers all abound.  Street traders take little jelly-like objects and throw them onto towels on the pavement where, with a splat, they roll up into balls with dots for eyes and a mouth.  It’s hard to avoid wondering if anybody ever buys any of this.  The street is a real and figurative shop window for Sicily: bright and cheerful, the shadows inside.
At the far end of Corso Umberto, past the road which leads to the ancient Greek theatre, is the BAM bar.  It claims to offer tea, on an island where coffee rules, except at hotel breakfast tables.  Coffee, granitas and brioches seem to be the most popular items with its customers. 

Strawberry granita

Yet, implausible as it may be, tea could have gained a place in the life of Sicily, if history had taken another path. This year is the 200th anniversary of a short-lived British constitution in Sicily, in the middle of a nine year period in which British troops occupied the island.  The island, with its strategic position in the middle of the Mediterranean and close to British-held Malta, saw almost 15,000 British troops arrive by mid-1806, aiming to keep sea lanes open and to act as a springboard for attacks on Napoleon’s southern flank.  A succession of British representatives took varying views on how to secure the island, and whether political rule was needed in addition to military occupation.  A new constitution complete with British-style bicameral parliament came into force in 1812, but it failed to be effective, not least due to its refusal to vote to raise taxes.  Eventually, as the war turned Britain’s way, the new Foreign Secretary, Lord Castlereagh, believed that possessing Malta and the Ionian Islands would be enough: keeping control of Sicily might alienate British allies such as Austria.  By the end of 1816 the British constitution had been abolished and Sicily returned to rule from Naples – until a certain Garibaldi arrived in 1860.

That wasn’t the end of English invasions: from then on, they usually came in the form of tourists.  As the 19th century wore on, a growing section of the newly prosperous middle classes – and a smaller proportion of working people – obtained the time and the money to start to travel abroad.  Following in the pioneering footsteps of Thomas Cook, a number of new travel agencies sprang up, with Italy and Sicily among the destinations they covered.  One of these was the Toynbee Travellers’ Club, a society set up within Toynbee Hall in London, whose object was ‘to provide education and the means of recreation and enjoyment for the people of the poorer districts of London and other great cities’.  By the late 1880s the Travellers’ Club was organising educational tours to the Continent, with reading lists and lectures held in advance. 

A logbook still survives of an autumn 1901 trip to Naples and Sicily for 29 members of the Club – 19 men and 10 women.  They departed on 2 Oct from Cannon Street in London, going to Ostend, Lucerne, Milan, Bologna, Rome, Naples and Sicily.  They would spend 13 days in Sicily. The cost was estimated at £20 including second class rail, first class steamer, accommodation, ‘plain’ breakfasts, lunch, attendance and tips – with wine extra.  (Around this time a skilled industrial worker in full employment could expect to earn over £200 per annum; an elementary school teacher could expect to earn around £150 per annum.) 
The unnamed female author of the logbook recorded that the steam ferry to Messina contained ‘Sicilian gentlemen in riding boots, Piedmontese soldiers, nuns, Toynbee travellers, and peasantry with fruit.  There was also on board one of the Nelson family, who still own an estate on the island [at Bronte].’  Local life was easy to observe: ‘The home life of the people is almost public as every crowded living room gives on to the main narrow street, all the doors are open and the people live on their thresholds, chatting, knitting, mending or preparing cooking with their swarthy little bambinos crawling and scrambling around their feet.’  Some of the party climbed Etna in time to see the sunrise: the logbook author noted dryly that ‘any man may climb Etna but only a fool does it twice’. 

The tour visited Palermo, Agrigento and Syracuse before starting on the return trip to the Italian mainland and eventually home - ‘Travelling teaches one that the necessities of life are few, and the luxuries many!’  The tour leader, Thomas Okey, received a number of gifts from the group including a revolving bookcase.

The Toynbee group, like many who have travelled before and since, saw themselves as ‘travellers’ possessing more taste and discernment than mere ‘tourists’.  However, though Thomas Cook’s business had started to open up Europe for more English travellers years before, true mass travel would not arrive until the jet age of the 1960s. Meanwhile, Taormina’s reputation grew, and not just for mainstream family tourism.  DH Lawrence stayed here for a few years and wrote Lady Chatterley’s Lover.  Gay men found a refuge from the prevailing (dis)tastes of their era, as some of the saucier postcards on sale in the Corso can testify.

Even today, however, some things about Taormina are recognisable from its long history as a tourist resort.  Part of this is due to its location, accessible only by one of those hair-raising drives around hairpin bends which Italian coaches negotiate with inches to spare.  The locals may not live their whole lives in the streets any more, but they still preen and pose on the passeggiata (evening walk), pausing to wait for a newly-wed couple to emerge from one of the local churches.  Then there are the waves of day trippers (from cruise ships these days), stopping here for a brief glimpse of the town and some lunch before moving on to the next stop on their itinerary.  It’s far too hot to explore much beyond the town, so who is wiser - those who dip in and out of the town like the shallow end of a swimming pool, or those who wallow here for days without exploring further?

For, make no mistake, Taormina is a tourist trap: a bright, sunny, welcoming trap, to be sure, where you can wander from one cafe to the next, or take the cable car down to the coast or a bus to the archaeological park in Giardini Naxos. Or, if it’s the dog days of July and August, with temperatures in the nineties, you can find the shade and read one of Andrea Camilleri’s crime novels, set in south-western Sicily and featuring Inspector Montalbano.  The French used to say that Paris is not France; Taormina certainly isn’t more than a glimpse of Sicily. You’ll have to go further – to Palermo or Agrigento, or south to Syracuse – to find out more.  But as an introduction to this large, mysterious island, Taormina probably can’t be bettered.  And on days like this, as the heat bleaches everything around you, and you’re looking for a good place to eat pasta con sarde (pasta with sardines) or the best ice cream in town, then – to coin a phrase – I’ve got a great idea...

First published in VISA 105 (2012)