Gobekli Tepe: The World’s First Temple

Via Smithsonian.

A new theory of civilization
11,000 years old
6,000 years older than Stonehenge
6,000 years before the invention of writing

"There's more time between Gobekli Tepe and the Sumerian clay tablets [etched in 3300 B.C.] than from Sumer to today," says Gary Rollefson, an archaeologist at Whitman College in Walla Walla, Washington.

This is so cool!

Clean on arrival; Bucharest: Part 1

“What the Fuck was that???” “Yeah man, you just got disinfected.” And yeah, so I was covered in disinfectant because I did not put um my window as I was crossing the beautiful (sunset over the danupe river) border of Romania and Bulgaria. My face, shirt, and the entire train car were covered. Oh well. I was just happy to be in Romania after a very long affair of getting there. See, originally I had tried to get on a bus but I think that I ruined that option for myself. I got in a fight. Over the phone.

So I called the bus company in Ruse, the border town that is maybe two hours from Bucharest, Romania. The women on the line spoke so fast, and when I asked her to repeat herself, she seemed to get really angry. I got off the phone and realized that I was not exactly sure about the information that I received from her. So I called back, and she was all like:
Her: “Mr. I have told you this already, why do you call me again.”
Me: “Look, I am not Bulgarian, as you no doubt can tell” But I am trying really hard to use your language. If you want, we can continue this conversation in English…but I don’t think that you know how. Now, do you think that you could be a little nicer to people who are a little different than you? Your job is to give people like me information, please do not be mean to me when I ask you to do your job. It is what you are paid to do. Will you please talk slower for me.”
Her: “I am sorry Mister, the bus you need leave at 14:00.”
Me: “Thank you!”

I felt so good, like I really accomplished something here: not only does it seem that fluency is really reached when you are angry, I helped change some of the nasty customer service attitudes that are so prevalent here.

I was so wrong.

I arrived at the bus station and quickly found the ticket office for the international company. I locked eyes with HER and we both knew right away who we were to each other. I asked for a ticket and she smiled:
Her: “No.”
Me: “Why”
Her: They are finished, sold out. Have a nice day.”

Oh, how happy that made her.

I found myself to the train station, it was 13:00, and there was a train that was scheduled to leave at 14:00, but it was 5 hours late. Oh well. I bought a ticket (8 euro…not bad) checked my luggage for the hours before the train and walked around ruse a bit. Ruse is a beautiful place. Maybe it is kinda boring, but thus for it is my favorite place to just sit, have a coffee and WATCH everyone walking by. It was sunny and nice. And I was happy.

When the time had come for me to get back to the train station, I arrived on the platform and found a flock of Romanian women waiting with enormous bags of Bulgarian bought products: blankets, sheets, socks, cloths ect. I started talking to one of the women, because she spoke a little Bulgarian, and I tried to understand from her why they were buying all these things. I guess I figured that the economic situation for Romania was similar to Bulgaria when, in fact, it is more developed. The infrastructural differences in Romania was clear as soon as we crossed the boarder: the train stared moving faster because the rails could handel speeds not permitted in Bulgaria. The woman, however, stopped talking to me immediately when I started asking her about the products. Oh well.

I was waiting a loooong time for the train to come, and I really had to piss. I started dancing all over the platform, and I knew that as soon as my train would come I could use the on board restroom. Oh but the train was not coming! And I was too afraid to go and use the bathroom downstairs in case the train did! come. So there was this OTHER train right behind me, which was waiting for my train to arrive to leave on the track that MY train was coming on. I knew I could just hop on this train real quick, piss, and jump off. But the problem is, these trains, have no septic system: just plop, piss, squirt on the tracks. But I was beyond embarrassment: I asked the conductor waiting outside the train door if I could use the toilet.

HER: “No, it goes right on the tracks.”
ME: “I know, but, it, I, ok.”

Then I did a little dance for her, so I could express my PAIN with something other than words. It worked.

HER: “Ok, it is a little one, that you have t make, right?”
ME: “Yeah!!!!”

I jumped on, did my thang and jumped off. The nice conductor lady even watched my bags. How nice. I resumed my pacing on the platform, and a couple minutes later, the conductor approached me and, in a low whisper, said:

HER: “Since I did you a favor, you can do one for me, yeah?”
ME: “Yeah of course, what do you have in mind?”
HER: “Do you have anything that I could…smoke?

And I knew that I had some left over VICTORY brand Bulgarian cigis somewhere in my bag. I pulled them out and she got all disappointed.

HER: “Oh, I thought that since you where American you would have something….. else.”

But she took a victory anyway. Strange, huh? I wonder what she was expecting…..

YES! So I got on my train eventually. And arrived at the big, dark, scary, shadowy GARA DU NORD train station in Bucharest. I felt: big, scared, small, and important all at the same time. I was alone, did not speak that language. Shit: I hadn’t even changed my Euros into Romanian Lei yet. I have traveled a lot since joining the peace corps- Macedonia, Albania, The Netherlands, Germany…but each time I was taken care of. I found a place to change my money…checked the exchange rate on the cell phone to see if it was OK, it wasn’t bad, got some lei and found my way out to the taxis. Now, in Sofia, if you are a foreigner who does not speak Bulgarian you are likely to get entirely fucked over by the taxi drivers. I decoded to have a smoke and just use the time to watch: which taxi drivers were only picking up foreigners? Which taxi companies were Romanians using to drop the off AT the station? What were the differences in the prices? I finally decided on a cab, walked up, and negotiated the price. 20 lei for a 10-minute ride. Yeah, it was not so bad I think. I arrived at the hotel, 21:00.

the village of seslav

goodbyes are too soon. bye jake.

rrrrazgrad! aka, home

"the nature" and bat shit....Senovo!

ain't no party like a pc party.....in plovdiv

pri6tigavo....alex's village

sofia is.......

and then my best friend arrives.......

waiting at the airport for jacob!

and we wait....and we drink.....at the airport

we are lost in a cave

Resunki!

The Roma Youth Network of Bulgaria (the youth I work with) hosted an essay and picture painting contest. These pictures are all the entires in the age bracket 7-10 years old.

Husmen4o's graduation!

"


A roma village party in true village style. These are pictures from one of my better friend's graduation from high school.

I'm Back!

pop! of the week: Shantel

I'm not quite sure what's going on here, but it seems like the rest of the world is waking up to the fact that we here in the jello mold of the Balkans know how to kkkkiiiccckkkk it. So here is Western Europe catching on to our Balkan beats, Roma horns, and the curious way of pronouncing disko.

Shantel: Disko Partizani
This video takes place in Turkey (Istanbul I think)


Seriously, if you can get ahold of this album, it is well worth the trouble.

you want more?



and please, check out the website: Disko Partizani

Thanks John!!!!!

Integro!

I just uploaded this video about my organization to google so we can share it easier. Thought you might be interested.....

blogstarzzzz

There is something new to hit the Internet! Here is your treat for this week: Blogstars (but i say it like blogstarzzz). This is a new blog that I will contribute to every Monday. Us Blogstarz will be guiding readers through a exploration in the wacky and wonderful of Bulgaria. I hope you enjoy!

Inaugural pop! of the week post:

"It's hard to say exactly what's going on here, but from what I can tell, the sky is just a little bluer and maybe the birds have starting singing a little louder. Yes, that's right my friends, the nauseating and disappointing smell of perhaps the last seven months is quickly dispersing in the quick and fresh spring air. Daily awkward moments thrive in the sunlight, and I’m once again free to walk the streets without fear of snowballs launched at me. Oh there are many things about spring in Bulgaria that we wait throughout winter with anxiety for. Most obvious of course are the cute little sweethearts that eventually turn into street roving maniacs. Well, sure, it is open season for cat sex; but cut and dry, straight to the point, I'm talking about Bulgarian Music Idol.

To the best of my knowledge, there is nothing more serious here (save maybe Hristo Botev's beard) than our annual competition showcasing the best-voiced beauty in all the Balkans.

Look what at what we came up with last year:


and of course, the Balkan Whitney Houston:


This year gets off to an even better start: Ken Lee!


In this weekly Monday post, we will explore all the complexities of Bulgarian pop music. Stay tuned, the fun is just starting."

youth development #two

The first weekend of March we organized a meeting for the more active members of our youth network to establish concrete plans for our April campaigns. April 8th is International Roma day and our youth of decided to organize three activities: 1) An essay and painting contest for primary and high school students 2) April 8th concerts showcasing Roma dance and song and 3) Earth day clean-ups in both southwest and northeast Bulgaria. We have so much work to do, and so much of my job seems to be about putting out fires between dramatic (and dedicated) youth as well as pushing adults to do what is necessary to help them. Along the way, I have a bunch to learn myself about how to actually do this job. Oh my!

This week I will travel to Sofia to attend a workshop on applying for grants through the new Bulgarian fund created by USAID. then I'm off to Bugras for a celebration of Saint Patrick's day. I'll be sure to bring the camera. Oh, and I just have to tell you about my new kitten. But that will be for later.

4ao.

random

Before peace corps I had the amazing opportunity to work with many incredible people who lived with Autism. This is a fascinating article (and be sure to watch the video) that explains the relatively new approach of respecting communicative attempts and nontraditional ways of thinking. The Truth About Autism: Scientists Reconsider What They Think They Know

This weekend I am going to Veliko Turnavo with a big group of youth from around the country. We will be planning campaigns for April (Roma day turned into month), developing website ideas, and brainstorming for exchange visits (that I just, minutes ago, got approved!) between other youth networks in Macedonia and Albania. Thankfully another volunteer will be coming with the youth who are from southwest Bulgaria. I am kinda freaking out, because this will be a big test of my 1) responsibility and 2) my Bulgarian.

Also this weekend is a national holdiay celebrating spring, followed by a national holiday celbrating the overthrow of Turkish oppression! Fun!

Next Week promises for you:
1) a full report, with pictures! of Turnavo
2) The return of Chalga Star of the week
3) a surprise.

4ao

Döner

The Döner kebab, for vegetarians also known as the french fry sandwich

bread

On cold Bulgarian nights, when the Internet is not stealing my soul, I return to my source and I do the one thing that I know without a doubt I am super at: baking. I am absolutely ecstatic, and maybe a bit silly from drinking leftover beer, because I have come across the most fabulous recipe for beer bread from my : new favorite blog. I have experimented with several different flavors so far but first lets cover the basics. (Disclaimer: I don't measure in any proper or scientific way. And I never have. oops!)

First, establish your measuring base unit. For me, I use this nice 290 gram yogurt container.

What ever you use, try to make sure its bigger than a cup, and just stay consistent through out the recipe. :)

Basic recipe:

*3 Yogurt cups of flour. Use white, or combinations of white, wheat, rye, corn..... whatever. Be sure to use enough wheat (or spelt) to ensure gluten (stickiness) or use a gluten replacer (not available in Bulgaria!) Try to theme the flour to your overall flavor goal.
*Big spoon of baking powder (not soda!)
*Big spoon of honey or white sugar or brown sugar or molasses or maple syrup
*Little spoon of salt
*2 cups of beer. Be creative, and think about the type of bread you want. Use local beer if you can. Because local beer is special. Think about the flavor of the beer, it's sweetness and depth and think about how you want your bread to taste with it.

addons!

1) cirene, goat or sheep or cow 1/2 yogurt cup (or fetta if you are not lucky enough to live in Bulgaria) and rosemary and savory (big spoons)
2) Kashkaval 1/2 yogurt cup (again, Bulgarian cheese. substitute with a basic white cheese) walnuts, roasted cumin
3) Tomatoes and basil and cirene and garlic


whatever!

Mix dry ingredients together. Add addons. Add beer. You want a thick, goopy dough. If you don't think it is goopy enough, add more beer. I don't imagine this will hurt it any. Be careful when adding the beer to the dry, it will fizzzzzz. Line a banista pan (if you don't know what that is, you are not in Bulgaria. In case you could not tell. Use bread pans or metal bowls) with sunflower or olive oil and add batter leaving 1 1/2 inch to the top for rising! I have found that if you drizzel a wee tid bit of beer on the top, it crusts in the nicest way.

oh yeah: bake at 375f for 45 mins. If the top of the bread gets toooo brown, pull it out. You could try to splash a bit of cold water in the oven to play with the consistency of crustiness. Let the bread cool for at least 10 mins because the bread will continue to bake on the inside from steam.


taka!

two places

I have been amazed at the contrasts that I have seen. I am a Peace Corps volunteer in Bulgaria, but also in the European Union, which is to say that I see two very different places existing in almost the same place. Bulgaria in a country of roughly 9 million people, give or take for immigration to richer western European countries. Out of 9 million, roughly 800,000 of these people are “Roma,” which means that they belong to one of several different sub-groups of European “gypsies.” As a general rule, these two populations, Roma and Bulgarian, live in two worlds. One is for Bulgarians, and it is an incredibly dynamic place that tries its best to integrate into the new Europe. It is not without its own problems: unemployment is high, inflation is up, corruption and organized crime are real, and most able young people prefer to move than to stay. Bulgarian Bulgaria knows that it exists in this in-between place, between two continents, between a thousand cultures, and between a recent past and a future that seems to move faster than they can hold on. Roma Bulgaria is decidedly different. Many Roma live in their own neighborhoods called Mahalas. Some Mahalas are incredibly nice and look exactly like Bulgarian Bulgaria. However, most do not. In the worst Mahalas, roads serve as sewers, children are married at 12, and people live in houses made of trash. When the roads become complete sewers, the only vehicle that can maneuver them is a donkey cart, effectively ensuring that the police and their police cars hold no jurisdiction. When you walk the imaginary line between the two places, you walk between worlds. This past weekend I visited both places. I went to the city of Stara Zagora to visit my friend at her work. She works in the Mahala, in which over 27,000 people live. Here are some pictures:







The last picture is of a school outside of the Mahala, just for contrast. The are pictures of the school yard for the Roma kids. Please note the river of muck that flows through the playground.

After we left the Mahala, we traveled by train to the fabulous city of Plovdiv to celebrate the birthdays of two of my friends. We rented a room in a hostel and went out on the town for two nights, staying up well past 5 am each night. This contrast was really hard for me to take. The issue of equity, for me, now moves beyond fault and into responsibility. One little boy in the Mahala ran up to me and in his impeccable Bulgarian accent yelled “xhello!” When he turned back towards his friends I saw that his ear was covered in gummed up blood that had yet to scab over. The issue here is responsibility, because I have the option to take responsibility. And the realization: my life is different than this little boy not because of any choice I made, or that my parents made, or that his parents made. My life is different because I was born in San Diego County and he was born here….in the mud and excrement of a world that we are really good at forgetting. I don’t know what to do.

My direct bus home from Plovdiv left at 7:30 in the morning, which was exactly 30 minutes after I went to bed. Instead, I woke at 10, and hoped a bus to Sofia, the capital where there were many direct busses to Razgrad. I had a bit of a layover, so I found my way to the fabled vegetarian restaurant, the Dream House, and had the most amazing buffet ever. I say had, because I prolly ate the whole thing….I don’t quite remember, I was tired.





Peace and Blessings.

holy wars

-“Let’s have the American tell us about what’s going on in America!”
-“Ok, What do you want to know?”
-“Maybe we can start with the war in Iraq? Your president started it, and then you reelected him. Now, according to the TV, most of you don’t like the war. Why?”
-“Well, America is a big place, with a lot of different opinions. I worked on that last election, and in my opinion American’s are easily scared by things that they have had little exposure to, or don’t know much about. That is part of the reason I am here, so Americans can learn about people who are different than them. By playing to that fear, our politicians seem to get away with a lot of unpopular things.”
-“Ok, well what do you think about the build up of NATO forces in Afghanistan?”
-“What do you think about it?”
-“I’m against war. And I am afraid. I am afraid that America will come and bomb our Mahala (Roma neighborhood). I don’t want Americans to kill me and my family because I am a Muslim.”

This was a recent conversation that I had with a young man that lives in my colleague’s village. I traveled to village last month to observe the end to a very special Muslim Holiday. I was welcomed with open arms to pray in their Mosque with all the village men, and everyone wanted to stress to me that their God is practically the same as the God that my country worships. We just worship differently. How do I tell this man that his Mahala is under no threat from our government, when to him, the people that we bomb are exactly the same as him? This young man that I spoke with had some sort of developmental disability that led him to be taken out of school at grade 2. He only spoke Turkish and Romany, so I spoke with him through a translator. I must admit that when he first said “Let’s have the American tell us about what’s going on in America!” I assumed that he was going to ask maybe about if I was friends with 50 cent or Justin Timberlake…which I have been asked about in the past. His depth of understanding in international politics was incredible. And scary. He displayed a perception that many people have. And I think that you should know about it.

youth development

water! lights! ghosts!

A few nights ago the radiator in my spare room exploded in an eruption of water and steam that made it all the way down to my down stairs neighbors’ apartment. The police got called, and I became fluent in Bulgarian. But there is a back-story.

About a week after I moved into my flat here in Razgrad I was laying in bed talking on the phone at about 10 pm at night when my door bell buzzed its toxic ear shattering beep. On the other side of the door was a cranky old man who pointed at me, shaking his finger like a catholic nun, and told me I was a bad boy. He told me a lot of things, but at that point my Bulgarian was way underdeveloped. I basically understood that he felt I was being wayyyy to loud in my apartment. Music? I asked. Nope, he answers “ You make that:” “Ti pravish tova!” and he proceeds to stamp his foot on the ground. Okay, not only was I lying in bed when he complained, I wear, in the grand Bulgarian tradition, special house slippers. How could I “praviya toba” with house slippers?

Starting that week I started receiving visits just about every week from my neighbors. At first only the old man showed up, but now his cranky old wife started coming. Her finger waved even more, to the point where the old man would interrupt her ravings to say “relax a bit, he does not know Bulgarian.” Her answer: “oh, He knows, he knows he knows. He is a bad boy.” At this point she decides to introduce their next catch phrase: “Cled put, polistiya!” “Next time, the police!” “Ti pravish tova” had already become a popular joke in my office, with the general understanding that the noises these old people where hearing were in their heads, and not from my floor. Their visits were increasing, and I decided, along with my landlady, to try and set things right. We planed a visit to their apartment with a fresh batch of my own chocolate chips cookies. (Note: the concept of chocolate chips IN cookies is new for Bulgaria, and thanks to yours truly, hitting by force.) Please understand that in Bulgaria, surprising your neighbors with a visit (called na gosti: literally “to guest”) is a high honor that is not to be turned down. This is strange for me, since in America to show up uninvited without calling is extremely rude. However, not only were we refused entrance into their apartment, they wouldn’t even try my cookies. At the door, my landlady negotiated a truce. I would be “quiet” after 10 pm and they were not to bother me under any other circumstances. But it was a lie, I could see it in their eyes, they meant war.

And they gave me war. I imagined them sitting in their apartment every night, waiting for ten, absolutely quiet and absolutely angry at the world, listening for the noises. When they thought they heard something, they would start banging on their roof, my floor, with a broom handle. (Note: As everyone reading this who is in Bulgaria knows, my account is at this point flawed: no brooms have handles in this country. Oops.) My favorite instance of broom handle bangin’ was when my friend Tyler was over. We were sitting on my bed, playing an apparently raucous game of scrabble when the bangin’ started. I have been tempted to bang back, but rather I (gallantly, maybe) let them express their anger without response.

But then a week later they came up to my apartment again! With them came more finger wagging, more accusations (I can understand them now) and more police threats. Little do they know that I have already called the police, and informed them that they may receive these bogus accusations about me. I also had created a coalition of neighbors who love me and are more than willing, probably already have started, to spread vicious rumors around the block. So I reached into my pocket, pulled out my cell phone and handed it to them. “Cled put?(next time)” I said “ne, polistiya trabva da zniat sega che ti imash problem c men. (No, the police should know now that you have a problem with me.)” Low and behold, calling them on their bluff not only made them turn around and go downstairs, but I did not hear from them for weeks. That is, until about 5 in the morning two days ago.

Now, I tell the next part of this story with some hesitation. I live alone, and it is the dead of winter. There are some nights, when wind is howling outside my windows, that I honestly get freaked out, that I fear break ins, ghosts, any number of things that go bump in the night and might be out to get me. So maybe you think I’m crazy, but in the past two weeks some things have been a little strange. Doors left open when I feel for certain that I closed them. Certain personal belongs of mine, like books or cds, I found in peculiar positions. Positions that are not strange per se, but maybe in ways that I don’t quite remember leaving them. Then, the night before the incident with the spare room, I was completing my nightly routine of brushing my teeth turning off the light in the bathroom, and then walking down the dark hallway to my bedroom. I do this every night, and the hallway is always dark because the light does not work there. This walk feeds my fears of communist ghosts. Expect this night the door to the spare room, which is right next to my bathroom, had light showing from the other side. I opened the door, turned of the light, and went to bed. I slept until I was woken by my doorbell, which buzzed its toxic ear shattering beep, and low and BEHOLD my cranky neighbors were on the other side saying something about water. The burst into the apartment, and walked into my spare room, which was a thick fog of steam and hot water. See, the radiators here work on a centralized water heater that flushes them with a constant stream of hot water. This, being the spare room, had its radiator disconnected from the valve that controls the water. On this night, the valve was turned all the way open, and the seal that covered the disconnected pipe had broken. The problem was fixed by simply turning off the valve.

And I was left with a room full of water, and two cranky old people who at this point had started to ask me for money. “What are you going to do about this? Why would you do this? You are a bad boy. We want money.” And here is when I achieved fluency, or at least the semblance there of. I don’t really remember what I said to them. But my rant lasted about five minutes, at the top of my lungs, all in Bulgarian. Yes sir. I stormed out of the room, and decided to call my coworker. He answered, thank god, and I gave the phone to my neighbors. He told them to go down stairs and leave me alone. Five minuets later, my bell buzzed again, and I opened the door, and it was a police officer. The police officer, it turned out, was the son of my down stairs neighbors. He came in with a set of tools, and replaced the seal on the pipes. As it turns out, he is a nice guy. He is worried about his parents and in our discussions my cranky old neighbors become, for me, somebody’s parents. To my disapproval, compassion was dripping into my consciousness for these lonely old pensioners.

My landlady has taken over the deals with the radiator, and my neighbors. I don’t know if they will or have received money. And I don’t want to know. I want a bar lock on my door. And I am about to go get one.

Cheers my loved ones!