Adhering to the credo “Rather Underdeveloped than Enslaved”, Algeria’s worldview and deep mistrust of globalization stem from a fear of losing its hard-won independence and the lingering trauma of the Dark Decades.
Hardly anyone arrives in Algeria truly prepared. Not that it is hard to access (though the visa process can be a test of patience unless you’re blessed with one of those seven lucky passports – Malaysia, curiously, among them). No, the real surprise is that so little is said, written or whispered about this immense, enigmatic land. Politically prickly, culturally complex, and taking up the largest chunk of North Africa, Algeria is the great omission in travel writing. It remains half-unknown and glaringly overlooked in the travelers atlas not for lack of sights or selfie feeds, but because of a long-standing isolation—much of it self-imposed, a legacy of its violent and unresolved past.
A quick gulp of Slim, Algeria’s favourite fizzy fruit soda, while crossing a road in Bab Ezzouar, Algiers.Sardines Frites – a fiercely local lunch ritual of working-class Algiers. Fresh morning catch of the Mediterranean, tossed in flour, fried crispy golden, served with wedges of lemon and a plastic bag of cold crusty bread in the city’s backlane cafes.Worn but steady workhorse: a faithful Peugeot barrels down the A1, Algeria’s Autoroute Est-Ouest, near Sétif with its loyal owner and appurtenances.
Absence and Obsession: Despite years of nationalism and Arabisation, France’s influence still runs deep in Algeria—seen in the buildings, heard in the language, and felt through family ties. Almost everyone has a cousin in France, many speak better French than Arabic, yet the relationship is full of bitterness and mixed feelings. Sunlit fields near Setif in Hauts Plateaux – undulating steppe-like plains sitting between the Atlas Mountains in eastern Algeria at 900 to 1,200 meters. It is one of Algeria’s principal grain-growing areas where durum wheat (used for semolina, couscous, and bread) is the main cereal crop.
Despite being rich in oil, Algeria has consistently refused to sell off its national assets or open them to privatization. Its Constitution firmly declares: “All public property belongs to the national community… It includes the subsoil, mines, and energy sources.”
Algeria’s modern identity is shaped by a harsh colonial experience under France, one of the most violent wars of independence in the 20th century, and a civil conflict in the 1990s so throat-slittingly senseless and gut-wrenchingly cruel that it left excruciating psychological and social wounds. These layers are not just historical—they are recent and still felt in how the country interacts with the world and with itself.
And yet, what stands out to any visitor is not the weight of its past, but the deep heartfelt warmth of its people. Algerians could possibly be the kindest and most generous individuals I’ve ever encountered. The hospitality here is not culturally demanded or performed—it is a genuine welcome and a quiet readiness to assist, to offer food or conversation without expecting anything in return. This is sociologically striking and psychologically perplexing when viewed against a backdrop of political fatigue, economic hardships, and a general mistrust of outsiders rooted in a long history of cultural erasure, broken promises and betrayal.
The contradiction is hard to process at first: how can a country with such a painful and brutal past, one that remains politically wary and deeply private, still be so open-hearted to strangers? But this, in many ways, is Algeria. It is not a place that invites surface-level understanding and content-seeking travel influencers. It demands time, immersion, and humility.
This photo essay is a modest attempt to document what I saw and felt during our twelve days in Algeria’s Mediterranean belt —a land of scars and smiles, of stoic disobedience and astonishing kindness. It is not a comprehensive portrait, but a record of moments: a personal tribute and expression of gratitude to a people who, despite everything they’ve endured, remain remarkably generous and deeply human—even in the face of mass indifference, western misinformation and the flattening forces of globalization.
The face that has seen it all: Place des Martyrs, Algiers. Sun-drenched streets still carry the memory of Algeria’s revolution and also its Dark Decade – the 1990s, when civil war between the state and Islamists tore through the nation, claiming over one hundred thousand lives. The trauma is still visible in a generation that learned to survive by keeping quiet.Wildflowers on the last day of May in DjemilaOran, Algeria’s second biggest city, is known for being more easygoing and less conservative maybe because of its Andalusian heritage, port city mentality and the fact that during French colonial rule it had a large European population.The beaming smile of a producer director after a successful show at the Theatre Regional de Constantine – Mohamed Tahar Fergani in the eastern city of ConstantineWe were unexpectedly ushered in and offered free seats to a play performed for a mostly children audience at Constantine’s historic Italian-style opera house – a grand venue built between 1861 and 1883 by French architect Paul Gion.A shopkeeper in Azazga stands outside his shop next to piles of freshly-harvested garlic and onions, still wearing their stalks – a simple, every morning scene in the Kabyle mountains.The press reflects the country’s linguistic diversity. There are over 45 independent Arabic and French publications alongside four government-owned newspapers (two Arabic, two French), and a growing but still limited number in Berber (Tamazight).Constantine’s colorful open-air street bazaarRiding the cable car from Jardin d’Essai to the Maqam Echahid (Martyrs’ Memorial) in AlgiersIn the evening back streets turn into a busy market in OranA glorious sunset at Cap Carbon in Béjaïa casts a golden light over the Mediterranean, turning the sea into a glowing stage, with cliffs and slopes rising around it like an oceanic amphitheater — nature’s drama at its most breathtaking. Setif, an important highland city perched at 1,100 meters has ancient roots stretching back to Roman times. It was here, in 1945 at the end of WWII, that the brutal suppression by the French of a nationalist uprising marked a turning point in the struggle for Algerian independenceShuttered shops and emptier streets after dark in Constantine Due to a misreading of the Airbnb reviews and descriptions, we ended up spending our first night in a flat in Al Harrach – the suburb of Algiers that looked like the kind of place a minor Taliban warlord might call home on the outskirts of Kabul. But the genial proprietor at the nearby fast food joint grilled a decent chicken sandwich and threw in our first bottle of orange Slim on the house. A girl clutching a bag of baguettes on her way home in Algiers Mother and daughter shopping in OranAn unknown delivery man pauses and turns with a smile to say hello – a fleeting moment of warmth on the street of Constantine Fresh delicious dates sold by the box at the row of shops at the entrance to the Kasbah, AlgiersOran has passed through many hands – Arab, Almoravid, Spanish, Ottoman, and French. It remains beautiful – though in a menacing, time-worn way. Like a rich man’s mansion taken over by his servants, who inherited the building but not the wealth to maintain it.An afternoon at a popular cafe in Constantine on a sweltering dayOran is atmospheric, crumbled and I was told, a little unsafe after dark.The Algerian flag fluttering in the wind atop Fort Santa Cruz in Oran. Algeria achieved its independence on 5 July 1962, after 132 years of French rule. Shopping for clothes before Aid al-AdhaAlgiers is famous for its cats – mainly strays many are well-fed and in good healthPicking the right bread in OranSetif is home to a large proportion of young people. Roughly 30% of residents are under 25 years old contributing to the city’s dynamic social and economic life.The Arch of Caracalla at ancient Cuicul – a gateway to Djemila’s Roman past, still standing after nearly two thousand years.Tea-seller in SetifYoung passenger chomping on a sandwich aboard the train from Algiers to Oran.We met this local in a sailor cap who beckoned us into a traditional home in the Kasbah, guiding us up narrow stairs to a rooftop that opened onto a panoramic view of the harbour and Bay of Algiers.Constantine was founded as Cirta by the Phoenicians about 2,000 years before the French came to colonise Algeria. It became a major city under the Numidian Kingdom and later part of the Roman Empire. After being destroyed during civil wars, it was rebuilt and renamed Constantina by Emperor Constantine the Great in 313 AD.Friends having lunch at the Kasbah, Algiers Our wonderful guide at the Palace of Ahmed Bey in Constantine.Prayer time at the Kasbah, AlgiersYoung female footballers in the village of Cheurfa Bahloul near Azazga in the heart of the Kabyle Country.A bakery in OranDefending Tamazight culture in Bouzeguine. The Kabyles have long been the most active proponents of Amazigh (Berber) identity, language, and aspirations for autonomy.Boys lead their sheep through the streets in Algiers- just days before Aid al-Adha, the feast of sacrifice.Sidi El Houari is Oran’s historic core steeped in layers of Spanish, Ottoman, and French history.Setif Young migrants begging in the streets of Constantine – reminders that beneath the arches and boulevards, this is Africa.Algiers is nicknamed Alger la Blanche or Algiers the White for its dazzling white buildings set against the Mediterranean that are more French than Arab or North African.A small park in Setif Apprentice stall-keeper, Constantine
All photographs and texts copyright reserved (c) Kerk Boon Leng July 2025
A church in Bethlehem Veng, Aizawl, stands steadfastly against the stormy backdrop of Muthi Tlang—‘Prayer Mountain’—its peak peeking through the rain clouds as the unsettled weather of the southwest monsoon lingers till mid October.
I’m hitting a milestone this year, and instead of celebrating, I’m doing what I do best—running from it. So I grab Yen, and set off this time to one of India’s most remote corners—the overlooked, underrated Northeast. Our destination? Aizawl, the capital of Mizoram, a place Rough Guide describes as looking more like a country in Central America than a state squashed between Burma and Bangladesh. No tourist hordes, no flashing signs—just the kind of place that hides in plain sight, quietly under the radar, with just enough urban niceties and modern comforts to keep it from feeling too off the grid.
With around 1.3 million people, Mizoram is one of India’s least populated states—half of whom live in Aizawl and its hill-perched district. It’s a society where men slightly outnumber women.Young store assistant, Bara BazaarTin shed shop in Muthivillage
We touch down at Lengpui Airport, where the red carpet’s rolled out, and soldiers in parade headdresses and a military band stand by, ready to welcome delegates to some important conference. After the obligatory paperwork to get our Inner Line Permit, we meet Buanga, the driver sent by our homestay, who’s here to take us to a neighborhood with the no-nonsense name of Bethlehem Veng.
The drive up to Casablanca Homestay winds through vine-draped jungles, passing houses and huts with rusty roofs that extend over the steep slopes, presenting a panorama of untouched, primeval greenery. It is the kind of ride that shakes you from any travel daze as the road takes on twists and turns sharp enough to make your stomach question its last meal. I roll down the window; the air is filled with the earthy scent of wet foliage and the decibel-defying sound of chattering cicadas.
When we finally arrive, there’s nothing to say “Welcome, tourists.” From the car porch, it looks more like a storehouse or bunker clinging to the hillside than a cozy hideaway—iron sliding gate, plain walls, no plants to cheer things up.
But then Isak Vanlalruata, our host, brings us through the door, and the mood changes. Inside, it’s a different world—wooden furniture, warm standing lights, tasteful and partly ethnic decor — cottagey, but with a certain elegance and class. Through the wide windows that span our whole room, the entire city unfolds. Aizawl astounds us like a sudden slap to our sleepy faces—a sprawling, buzzing city clinging to the hillsides, gripping the ridges like barnacles on a rock. The view is absolutely amazing. We can’t take our eyes off it, at that moment and for the next couple of days.
At night, the city transforms into something magical. The hills sparkle like a Christmas tree, thousands of tiny light bulbs scattered over the mountain slopes, each one clinging to its own precarious ledge.
The glass patio door of Casablanca Homestay frames an enchanting evening picture of AizawlThis is as far from India as you can get, without actually leaving the country. In terms of geography, genealogy, and general gravitation, Mizoram distinctively leans more toward Southeast Asia – and in certain aspects, even China- than the Indian Subcontinent.Freshly-caught river crabs or chakai are eaten in a stew cooked with cowpea leaves and green chilies.Young girl with puppy, Bethlehem VengHonest Women Vendors: Bara Bazaar is Aizawl’s main market, where locals and people from surrounding hills come to buy and sell everything from bread to bracelets.Fresh air and sweet smiles: motorcyclist couple rides up to Muthi to spend time in nature together.What real vegetables taste like: freshly-harvested greens sold at 50 Rupees (about RM2.60)per bunch that can feed a large family.Stairways in Aizawl serve as both shortcuts and shopping lanes, linking streets and neighborhoods. Walking them offers an intimate and interesting way to explore the city.
The Mizo people take their faith seriously. They are almost entirely Christian and Sunday here isn’t just a day of rest; it’s something sacred. The entire city shuts down. Churches fill with the sound of choral hymns, and from sunset to sunrise—and throughout the day—you can hear the soft, soothing, and rhythmic clang of bell chimes. It’s as if the whole city pauses in unison to catch its breath, to reflect, and to pray.
Aizawl is content to just quietly exist, perched on its hillside. It doesn’t seem to care whether you come here or not. It doesn’t see the need to build grand monuments or lively tribal markets to lure you in, nor are there souvenir shops peddling funny hats and fridge magnets. Nothing is plastered with “must-see” or “world heritage” signs for wide-eyed visitors. But that’s part of the charm, and that’s what I like about it.
The beauty of Aizawl is in its raw simplicity—in the happy, hardy, stair-climbing hill-dwelling people; the breath-snatching views; and the messianic voices and chimes that fill the quiet nights with sounds and sights that linger in your head and heart long after you leave.
This is how I want to spend my birthday.
Mother and Sleeping child at the entrance of Millennium Center Shopping MallA typical hole-in-the-wall shop selling sachets, packets, and cans of drinks, along with biscuits and cup noodles, like those found in roadside corners across India.The sun shines on Reiek Tlang (1,465 m)after a heavy afternoon downpour Shoppers and school students walk along the bazaar shopsMizoram, along with Kerala, has one of the highest literacy rates in India.An assortment of aubergine for sale in the rain, Bara BazaarSchool friends exchange a quick wave and goodbyes before parting ways down separate paths toward home.Located on a ridge 20 miles north of the Tropic of Cancer at an average height of 1,132 meters above sea level, Aizawl enjoys a comfortable climate but some monsoon days in June to September can get hot, sticky and sweaty. Nothing to deter you, just pack an umbrella, sandals and some deodorant.Morning customers at the bankBlanket sling is more practical than prams and push trolleys in AizawlCakes with icing and coconut behind a glass caseThe young people of Mizoram look to the West and, these days, also eastward for inspiration, drawing their fashion and beauty trends from Korea and other parts of Asia, rather than from Mumbai, Kolkata or Hyderabad.Sheltering from the rain outside a shop selling plastic waresStairs and the CityBudding musicians on the trek in Reiek. Mizoram’s music scene is deeply rooted in the church’s choral tradition. Young artists blend Western genres with Mizo themes, producing visually striking music videos that showcase Mizoram’s picturesque landscapes.“The eyes of the Lord are in every place, beholding the evil and the good”. In the late 19th century, Christian missionaries, particularly J.H. Lorrain and F.W. Savidge from the Welsh Presbyterian Mission, created a Roman alphabet-based script for Mizo. They translated the Bible into Mizo making it accessible for reading and writing and laying the groundwork for widespread literacy. Today, Mizo and English but not Hindi are the main languages of Mizoram.Not a land of curry and hot spices: traditional Mizo cuisine is centered on meat (mainly pork), vegetables, rice, noodles and dumplings (steamed or grilled). Mizoram is renowned for its woven shawls and handcrafted baskets made from bamboo and cane.Safety in Numbers: After-work pedestrians at a road crossing After sunset in Aizawl. Night-time motorists in an early-to-bed citywhere due to its easterly location on India’s single time zone the sun sets at 5:30 pm and rises at 4:30 am. Porter in the rainSip and browse at Books Cafe with IsakIn Mizoram, alcohol is sold and consumed only in licensed hotels, reflecting the state’s strict alcohol regulations and a quiet, puritanical nightlife.
All rights reserved Kerk Boon Leng Copyright (c) October 2024
Fresh from the fields: Melons start to hit the bazaars of Uzbekistan as early as June, but it’s the late-ripening winter varieties, arriving in September, that are renowned for their tantalising textures and tastes.
We travel not for trafficking alone: By hotter winds our fiery hearts are fanned For lust of knowing what should not be known We take the Golden Road to Samarkand
James Elroy Flecker, The Golden Journey to Samarkand (1913)
To be honest, I hadn’t really thought much about Samarkand before I found myself there. It’s one of those names that gets tossed around in history books and travel guides—forever linked to the Silk Road, ancient caravans, bustling markets, and epic land crossings. Writers like Goethe, Byron, and Oscar Wilde spun it into the Western imagination as a distant, exotic land, dripping with both treasures and cruelty. A place that’s half-fact, half-fantasy, sitting somewhere between legend and history. But for me, Samarkand wasn’t exactly top of my list. It was more of a “maybe someday” destination—a place you figure you’ll hit when you finally decide to get lost in the forgotten expanses of Eurasia.
And then, in September, I went. The landscape was mellowing as the leaves started to turn from green to gold, and I wasn’t chasing some romantic vision of ancient traders or long-dead kings. No, I went because the opportunity came up, and you don’t say no when it’s for Samarkand, Uzbekistan. My friend Dilshod arranged for his buddy Abdujamil to show me around, and just like that, I was in. What I found was a city that both surprised me and confirmed what I half-expected: Samarkand is as grand and imposing as they say, but there’s something raw and real beneath the surface. It’s a city where history doesn’t sit quietly in the background—it’s in your face.
In my humble reckoning, the shaded streets of Samarkand offer a more authentic glimpse into Uzbek culture and memory, than the tourist-driven “Silk Road” fantasy.Working man snacks: fried bread with meat or potato fillings dipped into a salsa-type sauce and washed down with kuk choy (green tea) Chinese-style.Bibi-Khanum when completed in 1404 was one of the most magnificent mosques in the world. It collapsed in an earthquake in 1897 and by mid-20th century survived as a ruin until restoration by the Soviets.
Let’s be clear about one thing: Tamerlane—Amir Timur as the locals call him—still looms large over everything. Born 50 miles from Samarkand, he built his empire with blood and a brutal efficiency that would make even the toughest modern-day despot flinch. And yet, amid all the conquering, he decided to make Samarkand his masterpiece. You can’t run far without seeing his mark. Monuments, mosques, and mausoleums stamp his gleaming blue presence all over the city, shimmering in the sunlight and reminding you of the power he wielded. The place feels like a shrine to conquest.
But Samarkand isn’t just about Tamerlane. This city is older than his empire, older than most things you can name. Long before Timur, this place was home to the Sogdians—an Iranian people who built their own version of Samarkand before the Arabs rolled in, swords in hand and the Qur’an, and changed everything. The city’s history is layered like that—one civilization piled on top of another. You can feel it as you walk the streets—there’s something Persian in the air, something ancient beneath all the grand monuments.
And even though you’re standing in modern Uzbekistan, Samarkand feels more like a distant cousin to ancient Persia. People here speak Tajik, a near twin to Farsi, and the atmosphere of the city is steeped in that blend of Persian and Turkic culture. Samarkand, along with Bukhara, gives you a glimpse of Transoxiana—the land beyond the Oxus River—where every alley, courtyard, and market stall tells you a little more about a place that has been at the crossroads of history for thousands of years.
As the sun begins to dip lower at Shah-I-Zinda the light hits the turquoise tiles just right, casting an almost magical glow. It’s hard not to feel like you’re standing in the most stunning necropolis on earth.Although officially a secular country with a predominantly muslim population, Uzbekistan has been experiencing a revival in its religious identity after more than a century of Russian and Soviet rule.Organic vegetables sold at a stall in Siab (Siyob) Market. Even with Samarkand’s dry climate near the Kyzylkum Desert, old irrigation techniques, fertile land by the Zerafshan River and plenty of sunshine help produce great harvests.
Normally, I wouldn’t go on about fruit, but the melons here deserve a mention. They’re something else: sweet as honey, fragrant like something you’d bottle and sell as perfume, bursting with the flavour of the earth they grew in.
Sun, soil, desert—it all comes together in a way I wasn’t ready for. Melons of every size and shade, sold on the streets like the season’s finest delights. Honestly, they’re worth the trip alone.
Picking the prize, Siab Market. Uzbekistan ranks 32nd globally in fruit production by quantity and it holds 12th place in melon export.Khoja Zudmurod Mosque (10th century) is steeped in legend, with stories claiming that Tamerlane buried the relics of St. George here. True to its name, prayers at this mosque are believed to bring the fulfillment of noble desires.Puppet seller at the entrance to Bibi-Khanum Mosque.
I spent most of my two and a half days walking the tree-lined streets and exploring the hidden courtyards. These are the places where Samarkand still holds onto its quiet, Central Asian charm. The heyday of the Silk Road is long gone. The Russians rolled through in the 19th century, leaving parts of the city in ruins before it was rebuilt by the Soviets in their signature blocky, concrete style. Today Samarkand is a thriving, modern city, the third largest in Uzbekistan. But somehow, despite all that, there’s a sense that Samarkand has never really let go of its past. It’s still there.
Samarkand might not be the bustling trade hub it once was. The atmosphere has shifted—modernity has taken over, with Chinese-made BYD electric cars gliding down the tidy streets where camels and donkeys once trod. The bearded traders with their sunburnt faces and laden beasts are gone, now only seen in old photographs. But even so, Samarkand still has that weight of history pressing down on you. You feel it in the silence, in the stillness of the dappled sunlight filtering through the trees where time appear to move a little slower, if at all.
Uzbekistan with 36 million people and a median age of 27 years has the biggest population in Central Asia.An afternoon with friends at the Sher Dor Madrasah, one of three madrasahs (Islamic schools) making up Registan. The name “Having Tigers” refers to the murals of pouncing tigers on its tiled facade – rare and audacious in Islamic art where imagery is typically forbidden.Samarkand’s version of the Uzbek plov is a lighter but savoury blend of young lean lamb, golden carrots, beans, quail eggs, raisins, and ceremonial chillies served in a large dish for sharing.Preserve or erase? In its push for nationhood since gaining independence 33 years ago, Uzbekistan may be overdoing the renovations of its historic landmarks. Bibi Khanum Mosque, while stunning, is no longer the structure Timur commissioned—the domes have been rebuilt, walls enlarged, and even the tiles and calligraphy are modern additions.Shopping for halva at Siab Market.Staying at Kamila Boutique Hotel just next to Registan Square, we are rewarded with a prime view especially from our rooftop terrace. My first view of the Registan was at night as locals filled the square with a festive atmosphere.
Copyright Kerk Boon Leng October 2024, All Rights Reserved.
Waiting for the morning train to Budapest at the Brno main train station. Opened in 1839 Brno Hlavní Nádraží is one of the first train stations in the world.
We arrived in Brno on the night the Czech Republic clinched the World Ice Hockey Championship with a 2-0 victory over Switzerland. The bus ride from Vienna was practically a private charter, save for the three young ladies seated behind the driver who were watching the match on their phones. Each time the Czech team made a positive move, they let out volleys of exuberant cheers that filled the quiet bus with excitement and alarm.
As we neared the city center, Špilberk Castle stood majestically on the hill and the iconic twin spires of the Peter and Paul Cathedral appeared in the distance, illuminated against the night sky. It was nearing midnight when we got down from the bus and saw Chelsea who walked over from Hlavní Nádraží, starting our long-anticipated family reunion with a warm gentle hug.
With the public buses and trams overflowing with jubilant hockey fans, we opted for a Bolt taxi to Marco’s Airbnb. Our taciturn driver, with a flair for the fast and furious sped down the eerily empty yet comfortingly familiar streets, beating the traffic lights. As we arrived at our destination, a police car, strobe lights flashing, instantly pulled up behind us. Three officers in bullet-proof vest including a female with a gun emerged, and demanded the driver produce his ID. It was a tense and a scary moment for us. We quickly heaved our bags and belongings out from the car boot and made our way quickly but reverently through the inquest into the house, bewildered and slightly shaken.
Brno is located in South Moravia the more modest and overlooked eastern part of the Czech Republic. Czechs are intensely proud of their country and its rise as a nation from the ashes of the Austrian Empire. Milan Kundera, one of Brno’s famous sons, said: “The Czechs loved their country not because it was glorious but because it was unknown; not because it was big but because it was small and in constant danger”. My favorite street art at the Komarov stationIce cream at Náměstí Svobody (Freedom Square), Brno’s central point and site for its summer concerts and Easter and Christmas markets.
This wasn’t my first time in Brno. I had been here before when Chelsea came in February 2022 to begin her studies at the university. In fact, I’ve spent more time in Brno than in any other European city. It doesn’t boast the fairy-tale charm of Prague, the imperial grandeur of Vienna, or the romantic allure of Budapest. But, Brno possesses the understated, androgynous appeal of the girl-next-door. It’s a pleasantly small city with a vibrant student population and an atmosphere that subtly grows on you with each new discovery.
Brno is authentic, affordable, and predominantly white. Apart from the Vietnamese shopkeepers running grocery stores, recent delivery boys from India zipping around on bikes and skates, and the growing number of international students at its half dozen universities, it still has the look and feel of Europe the way things used to be before the onset of infestive tourism and invasive third-world migration.
It’s also a place where the soul of Central Europe still finds expression and home amidst fragments of communist-era Czechoslovakia, from the stoic architecture to the unvarnished attitude of its people. It might at first appear cold and apathetic, sulky and sloshed, lugubrious and unromantic as only a country’s second city can be. Yet, it is undoubtedly a place that tugs at your heartstrings, revealing its beauty and true self to those who linger long enough to uncover its hidden depths and extraordinary beer drinking habits.
We rushed back from Poland with Chelsea to join her friends Rosa, Fernanda, and David for this amazing fireworks and drones show at the Brno Dam. Marco who came to meet us there commented on the huge crowd: “70% of Brno came to see the firework, the 30% who did not are now sleeping at home.”Beers, kisses and roast potatoes on skewers. What more do you want from Brno?Unlike other European cities that see the need to bring in hordes of migrants to buttress their collapsing demography, Brno retains its youthfulness by attracting students from Europe and the world to its colleges and universities.Called Šalina in the local Hantec dialect, the trams of Brno were first installed as horse-drawn trams on 17 August 1869 becoming steam-powered in 1884 then to electric trams in the 1910s. My morning view of Brno at Marco’s place a stone-throw away from the Julianov tram stop. Although noted for its architectural styles ranging from classic modernism to functionalism, Brno is a city with medieval roots dating back 900 years. Zelny Trh (Cabbage market), the baroque market square in the center of Brno. Under it lies a labyrinth of passages and cellars for storing beers and wines dating back to the Middle Ages.Hlavní Nádraží, the Brno main station – where the city’s trains, buses and trams, and assortment of commuters and colorful characters converge.Brno’s badge from its religious past. The Cathedral of St Peter and Paul looks over the now proudly atheist city from Petrov Hill. A view that rivals any in Europe. Lužánky Park established in 1786 is the oldest city park in the Czech Republic. Over 22 hectares of green space for lovers, introverts and their loyal friend.
All pictures and texts are the copyrights of Kerk Boon Leng. All rights reserved July 2024.
Queen of the Arabian Sea: According to local history, Cochin grew into a trading centre after the so-called great flood of Periyar wiped out without a trace the legendary Malabar port of Muziris in 1341. Before the arrival of the Europeans, Cochin was already a regular port of call for Arab, Greek, Jewish, Chinese and other great ancient traders who sailed into its harbour and channels to purchase pepper and other aromatic spices from India .
Old Portuguese churches, clean tidy streets, and women in floral dresses. These are few of my favourite things that imbue Fort Kochi, Cochin’s historic heart, with an almost monasterial vibe and weirdly out-of-era nostalgia. By faith, temperament and looks, Cochin is more evocative of the Caribbean than Indian. Many older travelers like me yearn for places like Cochin. But after many trips missing, not finding, and unaware, we serendipitously discover them either by discernment or chance.
Not even the fanciest Instagram post nor the finest blog can fully describe Cochin. It seems true that it is part place and fully feeling. Which somewhat explains why I have only scant memory of my first visit about ten years ago, dropping by for one or two days before leaving for business to Hyderabad. I can only remember the sweaty heat, spices stored in historic houses and flashing sunset scenes of Chinese fishing nets along the lagoons on my way to the airport, with a taxi driver who enthused over the daily digestive benefits of consuming pineapple.
Cochin Lite: India at its cleanest, most civic-conscious and civilised.A shop showcasing its prime Kerala produce of pineapple, pumpkin, jackfruit and the popular mango – a fruit that is grown in the front garden of nearly every home in Cochin. Unripe mango cooked in fish curry is a house specialty on many Cochin menus.Smiling sweethearts at the train stationKerala bananas sold by bunch or 5 rupees per piece wrapped in newspaper and tied with thin jute strings.
Diverting from my original plan of a modest loop around Malabar I end up spending my whole trip just in Cochin with a side train trip to Thrissur. For almost a week I allow myself to linger languidly in Fort Kochi and Mattancherry, taking in Kerala’s top sights and it’s five hundred years maritime history of enticing Europeans to Asia, starting with Vasco da Gama who landed on a beach north of here in Calicut on 20 May 1498.
To get beneath the harbour-city’s Malayali sheen and savour her true spirit, I learn quickly to slow down my steps, my food and my thoughts.
Discussion with a school friend over the gate.A Kerala-wide strike happens on my third day in Kochi obliging businesses to pull down their shutters leaving travelers like me with nothing to eat except fruits, biscuits and fried snacks. Thankfully, a kind woman coconut seller serves me at the roadside a breakfast of idli and chickpea curry that she prepared for her family.Garland makers on Palace RoadA wall portrait art of Pinarayi Vijayan, the Communist Chief Minister of Kerala, who mysteriously resembles a former Malaysia Prime Minister.Cochin’s three-wheeled chauffeurs in smart khaki shirts.Fresh catch of the sea are sold by daily vendors on bicyclesmoving from door to door along the tree shaded lanes of Fort KochiReflections on the afternoon ferry to ErnakulamPupils from a school across the road play outside the Indo-Portuguese Museum during their recessChurch of Our Lady of Life near Jew Town in Mattancherry. Built in the second half of the sixteenth century in the Portuguese Style, it is one of the oldest churches in Cochin. In 1622 in an act of religious defiance a congregation of St Thomas Syrian Christians gathered in front of the church to resist the Portuguese colonial authorities move to latinise their rites and liturgy. A lucky seated passenger in the crowded unreservedcoach on the train bound for North Kerala.Disembarking from the 6 rupee government-run ferry at Ernakulam TerminalFort Kochi, the historic heart of Cochin, is home to an unrivalled assemblage of European colonial buildings and low rise homesconnected by pedestrian and bicycle lanes. Kerala means land of the coconuts in the local Malayalam language.Maria’s kitchen helperDog days in Fort KochiWaves and warm smiles every few meters in CochinCochin’s architecture is an empire mix of the elements of Portugal, Holland, England and native India.Spices and ayurvedaThe majority population of Cochin are Christians followed by Hindus and Muslims.Peeling shop fronts near the ferry jettyGrandpa George with his pride and joyForeign tourists especially Europeans and noticeably the French flock to Cochin and Kerala in huge numbers from November to February when the weather is at its most pleasant and least hot.The pull of Malaya in MalabarMaking-upAnd after
Photographs and text copyright Kerk Boon Leng February 2024. All Rights Reserved
Angkor is not one lone iconic wat but approximately a hundred temples, major ones not counting the many more smaller sacred sites and shrines, rock-strewn ruins scattered across the water-logged and sun-baked plains of northern Cambodia.
When Europe adumbrated its future greatness through the Middle Ages, Angkor became the fertile fulcrum of a succession of God-kings with fantastic Indian names who built magnificent monuments, planted civilisations and lorded over Southeast Asia’s original and oldest inhabitants – the Khmer.
A few years back Tripadvisor, the online travel site, voted Angkor Wat the world’s number one destination. Today locals lament that tourists are arriving in lesser numbers despite the opening of a big brand new airport an hour’s drive away. Every day carloads of foreign tourists are regularly herded into a museum-looking building to be processed, photographed and charged a hefty ticket to get into Angkor. Despite the air-conditioned efficiency, Angkor is no tourist park or ancient temple ruins of a dead and forgotten civilisation. Unlike Egypt’s Giza and Valley of the Kings or Peru’s Machu Picchu, in Angkor Cambodians still eat the same food, dance to the same music and pray to the same stone statues like their ancestors did a thousand years ago. Marvelling at the mysterious beauty and mystical artistic genius of Angkor, I murmured a prayer that more hand-crafted monuments like these be preserved for our grandchildren and that historical places around the world be protected from globalisation’s destruction and defacement in the name of economic progress and cultural tourism.
Angkor is very much alive and has been pretty much so continuously since its construction, contrary to popular history that was written by colonial Europeans about mysterious lost and abandoned faces of idols that they discovered peering at them from the jungles. Angkor still pulsates and breathes particularly through the modern day descendants of artisans, farmers and slaves who live their simple lives around and outside the small touristy city of Siem Reap.
I took these pictures during the dry comfortable season of Christmas 2023.
All rights reserved photographs and text copyright Kerk Boon Leng (c) January 2024
Zanskar is frigid, forbidding and faraway. A place with a geographical character of its own. A land of bizarre mountains, treeless valleys and rocky plains zig zagged by narrow blue rivers where, even in the milder parts, the growing season is only from end of April to the second half of September.
Autumn is a season of calm and uncomplicated beauty in Kashmir. Something out of a children’s tale. We spent only 24 hours in Srinagar, on a houseboat, enchanted by the goldening leaves of the chinar trees, ducks waddling in single files, coots and moorhens pecking on the water hyacinth, eagles spreading their wide wings soaring through the evening sky, and especially when night fell, the mid autumn festival’s full moon reflecting on Dal Lake from a shikara.
But there was no time to linger. It was the last day of September. We must leave for Zanskar or Ladakh before the winter snow closes the mountain roads in one to two weeks time.
A celestial first sight from the car windscreen of the great Drang-drung Glacier below the Pensi-la. Karsha, visible for miles and probably the biggest gompa in Zanskar, is situated on a mountainside high above the central plain. The abbot and monks were making their way down to the village for prayers as we arrived.Young mother and her baby in a sling, Sani village
In the morning I gave Firdaus, the houseboat owner, a quick excuse to cancel the car he said he had arranged for us to Leh. I had found a driver who called me on whatsapp to offer his “new” car – a four wheeler to take us to Padum, the nub of Zanskar valley for 34,000 rupees, stopping a day in Kargil to acclimatise.
Politically, Zanskar is governed from Kargil, one of two halves of Ladakh after that region was separated from Jammu and Kashmir on 31 October 2019 to become a Union Territory under direct rule from Delhi. Put another way, Zanskar is a predominantly Buddhist district of a Muslim county inside a Buddhist province that was previously part of a majority Muslim state but now answers directly to a Hindu majority secular republic.
Rocks and stone wall fragments around the Zangla Palace summit site School kids at a road junction prayer wheel shrine in Padum. The Nunnery in Zangla
Ever since the modern road through the Pensi La pass completed in 1980, Zanskar had been on the travel list of those in search of ethereal landscapes and heart-stopping terrain. As far as Himalayan journey goes, Zanskar is the real deal. Covering an area a bit bigger than the US state of Delaware but slightly smaller than Selangor in Malaysia, the Zanskar Valley lies between the Great Himalaya Range and the Zanskar Mountains at an altitude of between 3,500 meters to 7,000 meters. Protected by high mountains and deep snow, this remote region had been a fortress of Tibetan culture and a sacred millenium hideaway for monks, manuscripts and mysticism. Books, online stories and youtube videos have helped paint a vivid picture of a place that was as tantric as it was tantalising.
Pilgrims and visitors snack on maggi noodles in the cafe at the bottom of Phugtal GompaYoung guest at a wedding, Pipiting villageZanskar means white copper in the local Tibetan language.The culture of Zanskar is an interesting mixture of Tibetan and Non-Tibetan elements. Zanskar is the western extension of the great Tibetan plateau. The people are mainly of Tibetan stock with some amount of Central Asian and Indo-Aryan genes.Colourful prayer flags fluttering in the wind on the abandoned hilltop ruin of Zangla Palace. A hundred years ago the Hungarian philologist Sándor Körösi Csoma stayed here from 1823-24 where he studied Tibetan, compiled a dictionary and slept on sheepskins in a 9ft by 9ft room in the old palace.Afternoon samosa and chai in a Padum teashopVillage elder at a wedding in Pibiting The Tsarap river (a tributary of the Lungnak) flowing through the gorge as seen from the high level trek to the Phugtal Gompa.The cook and caretaker of the Gompa, Phugtal Road to Stongde Monastery. Zanskar is dotted with gompa (secluded monasteries) and chörten (roadside shrines) and is known across Ladakh as the Land of Religion.A shy guest outside the window of the wedding hall, PibitingLate season flowers at Omasila Hotel located just a road turn from Padum Despite its secludedness and harsh environment, Zanskar wears an air of wholesome self-reliance and modest sufficiency.Blazing fall colours, Stongde MonasteryA delicious free lunch of simple nutritious rice, beans and tomatoes at the community meal room of Zangla NunneryThe main street and market in Padum, the capital of ZanskarAsking for direction from a helpful villager in Zangla. Zanskari is mutually intelligible with Ladakhi, both belonging to the Balti-Ladakhi subgroup of Tibetan. Most Zanskari can also speak and understand Tibetan, Hindi and Urdu.Himalayan flowers sunning on the rocks. A surrealist landform sculptured by wind, snow and iceThree women carrying loads on their back walking back to their village near Zangla. With 20,000 people inhabiting 7,000 square km of land (much of it is uninhabitable), Zanskar is one of the least populated places in India with one person to an area the size of sixty soccer fields. Zanskar is the domain of ibex, wolves, markhor, sheep, goats and the elusive snow leopardDzongkhul Gompa, a monastery of the Drugpa Order of Tibetan Buddhism, is situated in the Stod Valley near a side valley that leads to the Omasi-la, an important pass across the Great Himalaya range.Stoic and content without material comfort . Sociologists studying happiness in countries like Finland, Denmark and Bhutan as well as longevity in places like the Greek Islands and Okinawa should spend some time in Zanskar where they might find the answers.Finally Phugtal, by far the most dramatic monastery in Zanskar and maybe the whole Himalaya
All photographs and texts copyright Kerk Boon Leng November 2023
Padang looks over the tall waves of the Straits of Mentawai and beyond, to Samudera – the vast blue yonder that in centuries past brought proselytisers, traders and colonisers to these smiling shores.
Padang is on the west coast of Sumatra. It is a city that generally attracts two kinds of overseas visitors : Malay families who come to search for their deep roots; and Westerners arriving, in small groups, in pairs or often solitarily, to look for tall waves. For other intrepid types, this rain-soaked, creaky former Dutch colonial port town does hold a certain off-beat allure as I discovered almost a fortnight ago when I dropped by over the Chinese New Year which in these parts is called Imlek.
Continuing the culture in Lubok Minturun. Padang and its hinterland is the original home of the Minangkabau people – a Malay sub-group known for its matrilineal laws, mouth-watering curry and chili cuisine and migration tradition termed as Merantau.Catch of the evening, Teluk BungusMany hands make light work – fisher folks hauling in the afternoon catch in Teluk Bungus. With its 17,504 islands and 99,093 km coastline, Indonesia is the second largest exporter of marine fish in the world. Fishing is an important source of income and protein for coastal communities in West Sumatra.Neighbouring food cities such as Singapore may claim fish head curry as their very own but judged on freshness, lightness and aroma, nothing compares to Gulai Masin Kepala Ikan cooked and served on the beach in its place of origin.The probable inspiration behind Seven Eleven and other convenience stores.
I went to Padang for four nights and five days, keeping close to the city, traveling south to Teluk Bungus and north to Lubok Minturun, triumphantly resisting (thanks mostly to the wet weather) the magic and temptation of the Minangkabau Highlands and offshore islands despite powerful pitching by Erison – a newly-made friend who drove and guided me through the potholed and puddled lanes of Padang on his butt-punishing scooter.
Padang is one of oldest cities in Sumatra. The Dutch came in the 17th century and built warehouses and a fort there in 1667 to gain a foothold in the Indies.Village elder, Teluk BungusAngkot (from “Angkutan Kota” the acronym for an urban ride) is still the preferred means of getting around for the population of Padang estimated at 1,265,000 in 2023. The Padangnese trait brings out the best in the Minangkabau Malay culture of learning, respect for older people and genuine hospitality and kindness to strangers.Nasi goreng with a view.The crumbling charm of Old PadangSea critters from Mentawai for sale at a beachside stall A sand fight with friends at high tide.School kids in front of Masjid Raya Ganting or the Ganting Grand Mosque. Built in 1805, it is the most historic mosque in Padang City.Clove cigarettes (keretek) and Padang are buddies The curries that made PadangLubok Minturun a popular rest spot during the fasting month of Ramadhan.The sea defines the port and estuarine city of PadangRiding with granddad in the old city of PadangDrenched in Chinatown by a heavy noon downpour
Copyright (c) Kerk Boon Leng 5 February 2023 All Rights Reserved
Around 1342, when Western seafarers were swapping alehouse stories about mermaids and sea monsters, the famous North African adventurer Ibn Battuta sailed into Maldives and described it as one of the wonders of the world.
He seemingly spent two years on the islands where he made friends and acquaintances of important members of society and royalty, dispensed advice on religion and gained position as an Islamic jurist. Although he complained about his frustration in trying to get the stubborn females on the islands to cover up their nubile forms, the journal of his wandering lifestyle as a slave-owning expat male cum casual polygamist may stir unintended social media outrage in today’s woke-sensitized readers.
He said:
"On the 2nd of the month of Shawwal I agreed with the vezir Sulaiman Manayak to marry his daughter. Then I sent word to the grand vezir Jamal-ud-din with a request that the nuptials should take place in the palace in his presence. He gave his consent, and in accordance with the custom, betel as well as sandalwood was brought. The people assembled but vezir Sulaiman delayed. He was called but he did not come and when called a second time he excused himself on the ground that his daughter was ill. The grand vezir, however, said to me secretly, ' His daughter refuses to marry and she is absolutely free to have her own way. But since the people are now assembled, would you like to marry the step-mother of the sultana, the wife of her father—that is, the lady whose daughter was married to the vezir’s son. 'Yes', I answered. Then the qazi and witnesses were summoned, and the marriage was solemnized and the grand vezir paid the dower. After a few days she was brought to me. She was one of the best women and her society was delightful to such an extent that whenever I married another woman she showed the sweetness of her disposition still by anointing me with perfumed ointment and scenting my clothes, smiling all the time and betraying no ill humour. After this marriage the grand vezir Jamal-ud-din compelled me against my will to accept the qazi’s post."
From The Travels (الرحلة, Rihla) or A Masterpiece to Those Who Contemplate the Wonders of Cities and the Marvels of Travelling (تحفة النظار في غرائب الأمصار وعجائب الأسفار, Tuḥfat an-Nuẓẓār fī Gharāʾib al-Amṣār wa ʿAjāʾib al-Asfār)
Morning at the Jetty in Mahibadhoo Island where the black flowing niqab flutters incongruously with the sun, sea and sand.Clumps of Octopus Bush (Heliotropium Foertherianum) on the beach sands of Bodukaashihuraa.A late morning hermit crawling out of his hand-held home.Sailing to Omadhoo on the local ferryYoung female football fans, Omadhoo Island Arriving in Hangnaameedhoo Island Striking the Maldivian Beach Pose, Omadhoo IslandThe postcard perfect high tide view of Maldives, Bodukaashihuraa
With a bit of sailor’s luck, a present day castaway may find himself washed ashore, to one of its 1,190 islands and lagoons (only about 30% are inhabited) if he is shipwrecked halfway between the coasts of Sumatra and Somalia. The chains of coral reefs running two-by-two, that form the islands of Maldive are actually the tops of a giant undersea ridge that runs north from the Lakshadweep Islands off India’s Malabar Coast, to south at the Chagos Archipelago deep in the Indian Ocean.
The Maldives are like the tiniest ticks off the giant continental body of Asia. The physical size of all the 26 Maldivian atolls combined is a shade smaller than even Penang, but these fantasy islands sparkle and shine, like sprinkled glitter dust, scattered across a dreamy blue expanse of waters the area of Portugal.
The disappearing jurassic landscape of Bodukaashihuraa, an uninhabited islet that has been sold for development into a high-class resort.Picking salad leaves from beach plants on the reclaimed island of HulhumaleThe Stingray feeders surveying the shallows at their sunset rendezvousWith an average elevation of around 6 feet, the Maldives is the lowest country in the world.The Hulhumale ridersMahibadhoo the capital of South Ari Atoll has a population of 2,500 living in well-swept single storeyed houses with small but tidy courtyards. Coconut, watermelon, banana and some greens are grown but most food are imported Bikinis and skimpies are only permitted in a limited beach area on inhabited islands where traditional mores prevail.Pillion in the after-work rush. The capital Malé is the crowdiest city on earth with 78,000 people packed into one square km of urban space. Manila comes a distant second with 43,000 per square km.Sun-dappled pathway to the beach, OmadhooDisembarking at Mahibadhoo from a neighbouring island by the morning local ferry.Brothers on a buggy ride with mother, Omadhoo IslandMaldives is by law 100% muslim. No other religion is allowed on the islands.The Tree of Life: Traditional Maldivian culture, folklore and of course cuisine are centered around the coconut palm.Maldivian women are conservative in attire but the young especially are moderately secular in outlook and attitude.Paragliding foxesSchool girls on their way home after classAn Edward Hopper moment in MahibadhooThe football obsessed island of Mahibadhoo where many of the national players come from.Smiling siblings on the sandThe grand Sea Hibiscus tree of Omadhoo IslandThe bashful and beautiful young face of Maldives belies centuries of racial intermingling from across South India, Ceylon, the Malay Archipelago, Arabia and East Africa.The hardy and salt-resistant vegetation of Maldives, Omadhoo IslandFinding Neemey: Our amazing guide and new friend who derived his maritime knowledge and love from his previous job working on live-onboard vessels scouring the ocean for prized Yellow-fin tuna.
Travel Tips
Maldives is world-famous but a latecomer in tourism. The first tourists were Italians who came fifty years ago in 1972. Now almost everyone dreams of Maldives as a paradise of blue waters, white sands and romantic celebrity-type getaways. This image is true to a large degree, but Maldives is not just a cluster of luxury resorts but a real and authentic country. It is a nation of oceanic people with a unique history, culture and language called Dhivehi.
For a full and true taste of Maldives, staying and spending time on local inhabited islands is recommended. If you do, even a romantic and comfortable trip for two to Maldives can be fairly affordable with some planning.
To find cheaper accommodation (from $60 a night) go off-season during the months of choppier sea and cloudier skies from April to October. Island-hopping will significantly inflate costs, unless you travel within one to two atolls (there are 26 atolls in total spreading over 800 km north to south) using the slow and infrequent service of local ferries. You will need to travel by the more flexible and faster private speedboats at least once or twice during the trip but pop a seasick pill 30 minutes before the ride if the sea is rougher than 22 knots.
Download the traveller declaration Imuga before you arrive at Velana Airport to save time, hassle and avoid paying extortion roaming charges.
Maldives is a jaw-droppingly beautiful and amazingly friendly country. To experience this, dress sensibly, show humility and respect local customs, as you would anywhere. It is simply the best sea paradise there is, even for non-beach lovers (I am talking about me here). The time for Maldives is now, go sooner before the crowd gets bigger, when people fully and finally wake up to the truth about the pandemic flu.
In our trip we stayed at these lovely accommodations:
I have all but lost my way lugging my worldly belongings to the Mosaic Home Hostel by Google map when Jessica calls me on Whats App. I tell her my location – a quiet restaurant with a bar and half its tables and chairs outdoor under an awning.
While we wait for our lunch to share, of roast wild boar with potatoes, Jessica pulls out a wonderful surprise of presents for me and the family! Mine is an expensive book we browsed in the bookstore at Skanderbeg Square last night on Enver Hoxha – the communist dictator who ruled Albania and locked her people away from the rest of the world for 40 odd years.
And once again Albania cowered in a hut
In her dark mythological nights
And on the strings of a lute strove to express something
Of her incomprehensible soul,
Of the inner voices
That echoed mutely from the depths of the epic earth.
She strove to express something
But what could three strings
Beneath five fingers trembling with hunger express?
It would have taken hundreds of miles of strings
And millions of fingers
To express the soul of Albania!
Ismail Kadare, “What are these Mountains thinking About”
Of the countries in Europe, including former feudal statelets known by their postage stamps and large new nations that arose from the collapse of Communism, none is as mystifying and hard to get your head around as Albania.
On my first visit, to the southern city of Sarande sixteen years ago by boat from Corfu, I was warned that Albania was a dangerous place full of criminals and crazy people. Today although Albania’s fortune and standing have vastly improved, its oddball image remains tangled up with its lingering badass reputation
Gjergj Kastrioti or Skanderbeg – the epic hero of Albanians epitomizes the national character: brave, loyal and vengeful. He was born a Christian, converted to Islam and then reconverted to Christianity to save his people from the invading Turks.
Everything about Albania marks it out as an oddity. It is Europe’s only officially atheist, muslim majority, ex-socialist, now staunchly pro-American country which once only friend and close ally was Mao Tse-Tung’s China. Albanians, or Shqiptare as they call themselves, claim to be the most ancient people in the region and are the direct descendants of the first humans in the Balkans. Their language is obscure and fabulously unique being the sole member of an isolated branch of the Indo-Aryan family that has survived the influence and onslaught of Greek, Latin, and Slavic.
Tirana like a third of Albania on the coastal plains, enjoys a Mediterranean climate but for the rest of the towering two-third of the country winters are sharp and snowy.The center of Tirana is dominated by the Skanderbeg Square, a 40,000 square meter public space designed and built by Italian architects in the Neo-Renaissance and Fascist stylesAlbanians are majority Muslims, many are Christians, most do not make a big deal of the God they pray to or what meal they consume with one another. Pork along with beef is eaten a lot in Albania.
Jessica’s family comes from Kukës, a picturesque lakeside town surrounded by mountains in the country’s northeast. Home for them is now Tirana – a city where she was born and brought up. Jessica sacrifices time to show me her city; supplementing my bookish knowledge with stories about her proud, wonderful but historically traumatised country.
Tribal geography, blood honour coupled with centuries of subjugation, neglect and misrule have gone into creating today’s Albania : a marginal and poor land that is disproportionately abundant, welcoming and generous in human spirit and possibility.
My three nights in Tirana have been tantalisingly short – barely sufficient time to scratch beneath the city’s surface to uncover its hidden past and apprehend its overt idiosyncrasies. But I am closer now to understanding the true meaning of Buk’ e krip’ e zemër (bread, salt and our hearts) – the old Albanian offering to any guest who comes purely and in peace.
Lemons on the rooftop Expat websites and retirement gurus consistently rank Tirana among the worst cities in Europe to live, but I respectfully disagree with their findings Morning caffeine the civilised way in Tirana Tirana away from its usual traffic Late evening pedestrians at a traffic crossing in central TiranaA breakfast of omelette with olives and everything nice, freshly prepared for me by the lovely duty person at the hostel Beer for one Mother and daughter skipping across Skanderbeg SquareFast and friendly food and drinks at a busy roadside grill The face of Tirana across the ages. The tall building in the center is Alban Tower (ATTI) a green glass skyscraper by Archea Associati of Italy that serves as the city’s premium business address.Albania’s population remains below the three million mark despite a positive birthrate as high number of young people depart annually for better jobs and higher pay overseas.Although Italy ruled Albania for only a short period in the first half of the twentieth century (as a Protectorate from 1917 – 1920 and as union colony from 1939 – 1943) it left Tirana with its urban design, many beautiful administration buildings and a Southern European feel.Blloku – the once privileged precinct reserved for Enver Hoxha and his inner circle of communist party loyalists
PHOTOGRAPHS AND TEXTS COPYRIGHT KERK BOON LENG ALL RIGHTS RESERVED FEBRUARY 2022.
Kerk Boon Leng Photographs & Notes 