Brown Blood In Cervical Mucus

Continuation and end of our adventures Turkish: from the Lycian way to the Euphrates

After our two weeks of WWOOFing we joined Fethiye resort located on the Lycian way, and thus taken the path of guesthouses and tourist resorts. It was a shock, especially at this time of year (mid-November) the quotas of tourists are mainly composed of European pensioners, it gave us a shot of old! So we quickly escaped for a few days in the valley of butterflies, one of the few corners of the southern Turkish coast, which are preserved: the buildings are banned, so there is no real hotels but camps wooden bungalows on stilts which give an atmosphere neo-hippie to the coast. So we took the opportunity to walk the trails and enjoy some sea bathing in coves accessible only by foot.

Subsequently, we had planned to travel to Cappadocia, but were stung by our sightseeing in Fethiye we decided to go 1200 km farther east to Turkey in Sanliurfa, the city where Abraham was born. Close to Syria and Iraq are our first steps in Mesopotamia: the faces have changed, the dress also, the region is populated by Kurds, Arabs and Turks, and almost no tourists! It's time to start speaking Arabic and enjoy local hospitality. We chain encounters around glasses of tea in the souk we cover a Kurdish family with gifts: grenadine syrup, chili, kebab ... The only Muslim population is very religious and almost all women are veiled. But time passes quickly and we are already starting to Halfeti, city half submerged by the waters of the Euphrates River because of dams built in the last 10 years. Here, tourists are a rare and Ayden, a young Turkish thought, is there to welcome them in his apartment with terrace overlooking the calm waters of the mythical river. We stay there two days and take the opportunity to make a boat trip in search of villages submerged. And then we turn around and ravalons new 800km in reverse to reach Antalya where we take a plane to Beirut on December 1.

Below, the story in pictures.

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Two generations of Turkish peasants

Simge, Princess of Yaziköy

No need makeup to illuminate sunburnt face and eyes hazel Simge when it crosses his nonchalant approach to the olive groves. From the first glance, one is charmed, intimidated by the personality of this young peasant unfathomable 26 years at the natural class. Her eyes get lost in the distance, far beyond that piece of land on behalf of Yaziköy singing.


Located in driving the pick up from the farm, Simge is the first woman in his family to lead the team of collectors across the steep paths that lead to olive trees. "Pick up", "come here", "lunch time" is also the only English speaking among the Turks, so she is the boss, which organizes each day, and nobody would dare challenge him this gentle authority. Shy and reserved, his face suddenly lights up with a furtive smile when you come talk to him.

Simge studied accounting 3 years ago in the city of Mugla, and the one who has the task of counting, counting trees remains to be done, counting the days' work volunteers and staff, counting the pounds of olives harvested and the pounds of oil expected ... At the end of the day, while everyone rest of the team has already gone to rest, Simge will table the day of harvest the olive factory the neighboring village, and provides men with filthy weighing of precious olive oil which is renowned throughout the Peninsula. Slender young woman, tired of the toil of the day, manly face giants in overalls oily, she stands up and his word is respected. How many of them have dreamed of one day overturn the heart of Simge the pretty village girl next door? In the field it sometimes isolated, detached air, and smokes a cigarette, unbeknownst to her mother Noura, or starts a Turkish folk song in the shade of a tree. What dream Simge, Princess of Yaziköy when she smokes her cigarette?

Simge's life seems to be keyed to the rhythm of nature, seasons, flowering and harvesting. At what future can dream it, apart from these olive groves, the main resource of the peninsula?

One night, she chose to sleep in her marriage and move to the nearby village with her fiancé Afghan, to whom she is promised for next summer. We discover a whole new woman. Bartering his old sneakers and jogging to work against a skinny jeans and ballet flats, unwinding her scarf and dropping her brown hair, she wraps herself in her favorite perfume, anoint his eyes and took me to his room to give me makeup . Like every girl in the whole world she is preparing to go out and join her fiance, with lots of brown and a flirtation with impatience. On the dance floor, the girl has blossomed overwhelming joy. Afghanistan has promised him another life, Palamut Bükü, a small seaside town surrounded by olive fields forever, but in a huge brand new apartment with terrace and sea view After marriage she will leave the fields, olives, earth under the nails and oil stains for a more comfortable life. Is this what Simge think when she smokes her cigarette?

Bédouane, lives across the fields

Her body looks like a trunk of olive: Close dry and gnarled. Bédouane is nonetheless a man of surprising strength can carry sacks of olives weighing 50 kg, while it must not weigh more than 60, all muscle. From the top of her little feet 70, he has this glazed look kindly supported by a generous smile his big mustache. Her olive skin and wrinkled, tanned by the sun of the peninsula, bears the scars of that indelible smile.

At 48, he hits the olive groves and almond trees since his childhood and knows all the secrets. Of modest means, he has only a fortnight with olive trees. Bédouane can not read. He is married to a woman of 39 who gave her two son now aged 12 and 17. Human experience is to him that the audience is the slightest doubt on the tree to be harvested or the methodology. We also regret not having taken advantage of his knowledge because of the language barrier: his English has resulted in "Hello" that he uses to greet the camera. In the work, man full of energy when it hits the olive branches with a long pole. His movements are dry and precise trigger of fat Olive rains we are unable to compete with his dexterity. If he never refuses a short break to enjoy a cigarette, he does not hesitate to shake you as you quicken up the pace. He left with a time his noble task of olive hitter to give you a demonstration of effectiveness: a minute ago, he picked all the olives from the perimeter as you are about to meet quietly in a quarter of an hour . The man is a tease: he pretends to yell very seriously Turkish knowing that you understand nothing, and suddenly he went into a loud laugh. He cries, shaking his head, trying to understand and gives up. Malicious, when the work begins to weigh on him, he quietly sent you a few olives in the back, where you tickle her neck with his long pole.

Bédouane is a bon vivant who loves to laugh and booze, enjoy the moment. The day after the marriage around 11:00 in the fields, he tells us he is hungry. In fact, he did not eat this morning because the day before he had drunk too much and his stomach was still numb.

And because our communication can be oral, then it will fit! It climbs trees and smack you once amused glances and looks your laugh is something easy to share. It does not take up, runs, jumps, shakes you, nothing stops it. He fights with Gabriel, the giant Swiss do not scare him. It takes me in his arms and we walk arm in arm. Fascinated by my hat, he snatched me with his long pole and tries to reveal the small diameter of his skull.

His generosity is that of the nature that surrounds it throws stones on the apple to drop the last remaining almonds on the branches. He gets excited, vigorously and fill my pockets with all these kernels. We go down together way back when, suddenly I see him change direction, jump into the bushes and climb a wild olive tree which he cut a dozen branches. We alpague and we just bring him back to help his booty he brings in a bundle on his back and hold. Loaded like a mule, her body completely concealed by the branches, he still finds the strength to sprint. Impossible to follow, the man is too fast for my youth exhausted by too many years the ass on a chair.

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Western Volunteers Stupid! The horrors WWOOFing Turkey

An Idyll for volunteer Western

The WWOOFing (World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms) is a movement launched by Columbia in 1971 offering the opportunity for volunteers to volunteer on farms practicing organic farming in exchange shelter, cover and sharing a green lifestyle, as summarized very well the slogan: "living, learning, sharing organic lifestyles" (Live, learn and share a green lifestyle). Since 2000, Wwoof is a global network of national organizations whose mission is to bring together Volunteers and ecological farms (website accessible here). In Turkey, this mission is devoted to the association in charge of the project Bugday Tatütas containing the main principles in its charter Wwoof (website accessible here). One can read such as "home farms [...] want to expand knowledge and implementation of organic production in their communities include families who live and work [...] with an ecological conscience "and wish to convey. For us who wanted to discover what this activity typically Mediterranean olive harvest, which godsend to be able to do so by contributing to a proposed ecological farm and sharing the daily life of a Turkish family!

We then disembark in the small town of Datca where we find Ali, owner of the farm Knidia located at the tip of the peninsula which separates the Mediterranean Sea to the Aegean Sea. The place is paradise: the farm is surrounded by nature only 20 minutes walk from the sea and 45 minutes from the nearest village. Located within walking distance from the ancient site of Cnidos, all this natural area is protected: it is forbidden to build new homes and connect the existing national network of water and electricity. Farm Knidia is electrically powered by solar panels and a few small wind turbine, the water is piped from a small natural spring by an ingenious system of pipes. Everything is done to attract the voluntary loving Western ecology of the small wooden bridge to the western style toilet.

Workforce cheap and clash of civilizations
However, from our first meeting with Ali at the Yacht Club Datca, we began to doubt his sincerity: he had more pace a businessman connected as a gentleman farmer. But we were not victims of our own prejudices about the poor Turkish peasants? This feeling will soon be confirmed when we discovered that nobody lives in this ghostly farm, and other volunteers have never even met Ali, known as de facto "Ali The Ghost." We are far from sharing the daily life of a family of Turkish farmers who have decided to engage in organic farming: the evening volunteers are left alone on the farm and taste the meals during the day by Noura, simply used to Ali. We are not there to contribute to a project development environmental benefit of local people but we were picking olives to pay Ray Ban Ali who understood very well the whole point of using the cheap labor of volunteers naive. Choosing this role, we quickly dubbed us the "Stupid western volunteers".

A Stupid Western volunteer

experience loses its meaning and finally we pose a real problem of consciousness. We work eight hours a day with farmers from the nearby village used by the farm. The first day we are 13 fields, 8 volunteers and 5 staff, but day after day the quota of local employees is reduced by half. We learn that Fatima and Aisha did not return to work because the boss has decided that there were enough volunteers ... Quickly accumulate questions: are we not taking us despite the work of local employees? What is the shortfall for them and they have another source of income? The farm would it not profitable without the work of volunteers? We glean some information by questioning the employees and especially Annette, Voluntary stambouliotte the first time, who knows well the firm and acted as interpreter. But employees quickly receive our discomfort and, as a victim of Stockholm syndrome, eager to defend the boss, a "good man"! They change speech by saying that Fatima and Aisha left because they had other work to be done elsewhere, that anyway they are not poor, they have their own trees, and that is a work for Ali extra single. There is established a kind of misunderstanding: while volunteers naively take the interests of employees, they have the feeling of being tried and lost in justifications. They say they are happy that volunteers are more numerous each year because it benefits the development of the farm and that next year there will be more work for them. Employees will even inform our reservations Ali and the latter we address a sermon via telephone Anette: "If you're not happy you're free to go," no kidding! The situation starts to become confrontational, especially as volunteers have not been briefed on the rules of the farm, including the fact that they must also clean the toilets.

Finally, we tried to estimate the savings in using volunteering: a harvest of 20 days with 7 volunteers whose productivity is viewed 2 times lower than that of a local worker, the economy is about TL 3000 (1500 Euros), which is far from negligible in terms of the average wage in Turkey ($ 430, Source: http://www.invest.gov.tr ). The network seems surprising Wwoof that some states have been "problematic considering Wwoof as a clandestine organization of migrant workers" (Website of Wwoof). But after this experience, we find even more astonishing that the Wwoof does not put on guard against the potential risk posed by such a manipulation in terms of destabilization of local labor markets especially in less developed regions where agriculture is the main employer.

In search of eco-farm
But such reticence could be overcome economic if we had the feeling of participating in a real draft environmental preservation and development of organic farming. However, we find that everyone grows and harvests olives in the same way on the peninsula and we're not even sure there is no use of chemical fertilizers. In reality, the constraints posed by the standards of environmental protection are presented as a true owner's will to live ecologically. So while the website says the huts that house the volunteers have been built to enable them to live closer to nature, it is actually because it is forbidden to build new homes, and in November the stormy nights can be quite ... Wet! So we joke about the concept of eco-farm: we are taking eco-showers (showers green) since we are forced to use a heater that works on a wood fire, employees use of eco-sticks (green perch ) in fact simple wooden poles to hit the trees, the pick-up is necessarily an eco-car, even if it runs on gasoline, not to mention the eco-bin where all our waste plastics are burned even ... We learn, however, that Ali was sent a troop of volunteers to clean the beach, that's green! But it's a stab in the water: in November she was again flooded with plastic and other empty beer cans lack of awareness or, more prosaically, litter. There are many traditional media waiting in a corner of the farm and sold widely website, but Ali is much too busy with his various affairs to rotate the volunteers and explain the production process of olive oil . The olives are pressed, like all of the peninsula, in the press of a neighboring village.

Above all we are frustrated by the lack of answers to our questions because the only one who would be able to enlighten us on the operation of the farm, the different varieties of olives, the production process, is eternally absent. One Sunday, one of her friends comes to visit us while we hang out with 4 legs to pick up those damn olives, she learns that he is doing the boat with her husband.

But what am I doing here!
Finally, we are faced with our own mistakes, what are we doing here if this is so at odds with our values? We should logically go, but we are, why? Is it because in reality we were looking for just the board and lodging free, and we hide this behind mobile dishonorable great humanist principles? There may be a bit of that, but there is also work experience in the fields that we wanted to live, the acrid smell of olives on our stained clothing, sharing the effort allowed us to forge bonds of friendship fabulous. We certainly do not have any before the production of olive oil, but we come away less ignorant and naive as we arrived, formed a small family and, in time, we are sad to leave. Finally Ali in all this is not a bad guy but rather a malignant type that took advantage of an opportunity. It must still recognize her talent to have created this affair 8 years ago when he was left in ruins on the ground and everyone was crazy. This project has succeeded, it became a very lucrative business that is no longer to look from afar and no longer requires, as in the early days to call for volunteers!

But who wants to volunteer ?
And then there is this socio-cultural question: Is it possible to WWOOFing respecting the principles of this movement in Turkey? Indeed, one can easily think that the Turks have the crazy idea of embarking on such projects are relatively Westernized and educated people for having known of the existence of this movement. They speak English and certainly belong to a social class, they are landowners, community leaders and non-poor families have non-English speakers who truly need a volunteer to help grow their business. During this experiment, the responsible Project Tatütas we proposed another farm, because it suggested that 4 hours per day, requiring 40 TL per person (the price of a double room): one had simply pay to work. It should be emphasized here the role of the organization of Turkey which also leads Woofing their own thing without really ensuring that the principles of its Charter are respected in the field. So we had to pay 120 TL (60 Euros) registration fee to simply get in touch from the farm that we could easily find on the Internet only if we were a little smarter! However, it would be wrong to conclude that an incompatibility cultural and surely there are farms in Western Europe that also shamelessly exploit this bonanza. Similarly it is possible to contribute to Turkey to a true original project by sharing the daily life of a Turkish family as a volunteer, our Swiss friends have experienced in Kas few days after leaving Knidia. Finally, it was still great fun Turks we met later to learn that we had worked eight hours a day for free!

(Video humorous)

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"Zeitin toplamak", a day in the shade of olive

The first light link: light, wind noise in the reeds and the birds gently awaken us. It is 7 o'clock in the morning and we emerge from our huts open to the winds. The air is fresh in November on Datca peninsula, but temperatures rarely drop below 15 ° C overnight. After a few minutes in a half-sleep, we root out of our bed, sweeping the back of the net hands still wet. Out of our blankets, we hasten to put our clothes flavored olive oil. Fat, the first contact with the skin is not the most pleasant but it is a salutary protection against the cool morning. Just time to spray water on your face with cold water and we will join other volunteers for breakfast. We walk along the rows of vines along the path that leads to the kitchen, accompanied Bunjunc and Pasha, cats and dogs who romp around the farm between our legs, excited to meet us. On the kitchen table, a delicious Turkish breakfast awaits us: olive oil, olives, honey and homemade bread, cheese, tomatoes, tea ... The composition varies depending inward, some mornings, lack of fresh bread, we must settle for "Bread Rock", the bread dry and hard that recalls the famous Swedish rusks. Logan

the American is already spouting incoherent mixing stories, obsessions of the moment and theories drawn from survival guides. We beg to remain silent. Capua it is not up yet and already Sarah embarks on the breakfast dishes. Hassan, who decided to quit smoking his cigar lighter morning contemplating the mountains dotted with olive and almond trees, Silvana bailey, Annette has not slept and hid his ring behind his thick black glasses while the sun, it still has not crested. A nice little family waiting for sleepy day's work ... 8:00 still no one, we could sleep 30 more minutes!

Finally, the cough of an engine sounds in the valley, is the pick-up family Yaziköy slowly descending steep road leading to the farm. He stops at the gate and Noura's mother, descends with an armful of food she will cook them: Tonight at dinner we chickpeas. Simge's daughter, is tired and yawning driving. Bédouane Ali and Fatma, aunt, welcomed us with a warm Mehrabi, our conversations are limited but we are always happy to greet us. The team of volunteers in climbs muddy pickup: women inside, men outside in the back, sitting on bags of olive juice which pierces the canvas pants. Capua and Logan have a competition of "extreme farming" consists in running behind the truck and try to ride during operation, to the dismay of Bédouane and Ali who are afraid of ending up with a Western dismembered on the back.


We arrive at field and the volunteers begin to count the eight hours that are left to toil. The sun is there now, and begins to hit hard. Everyone takes his plastic basket, descends the terraced olive grove, and is a tree. Bédouane and Ali from the top of their long years of experience skillfully wield the stick. Apart from some outlandish West has never seen women take these poles! It is an art: we must strike the tree with a blow dry and precise to make the olives fall as rain, without breaking its fragile branches. Our task, simple novice, will be limited to picking olives hand, on the branches or the ground, especially by avoiding to take initiatives which would disrupt the rhythm of ancestral gestures. Obedient and implemented, we discover the thousand and one ways to pick olives, "zeitin toplamak" as we say in Turkish.

Simge, the "Princess of Yaziköy", is the only one to have some English, she gives us the guidelines we gives us the rare breaks and distributes food to the beginning of meals. We groan when she tells us to pick up olives on the floor, our preferred technique is as good volunteers lazy, directly to pick olives on branches: no need to bend, no back pain or leg and fun to head down into the foliage and to climb trees. Sometimes we just pick the olives freshly fallen, sometimes only thin and dry olives and earthy, at other times, all the olives, indiscriminately and we do understand the reasons for these choices. We do know that these different olive oils can get different quality: for the fresh food and dry for soap production.

Farmers pick the olives at a furious pace: using their dexterity with both hands, without fear of claws from thistles, are they still rest on their two feet, crouched or stretched legs and bent back toward the ground. For their part, volunteers are desperately seeking the most comfortable position and end up sitting on the floor regularly to peck the olives one by one, within a limited radius of 50 cm around their hindquarters. Earlier today the productivity of a farmer must be worth that of two volunteers in the late afternoon that at least three volunteers. Fatma is the eldest of the team, she is 60 years old but the wrinkles of his skin weathered and fingers all swollen and horny by the fieldwork make him appear more. Despite her age, she picked up at an incredible rate under the very eyes of volunteers barely thirty. His little hands do not leave any escape olive on their way, and his body is so flexible that its belly is almost glued to his knees. No pain seems to disrupt: bursting with energy, laughs, sings and dances around the tree she was born. Fatma is a ray of sunshine, an ode to old age.

But the task of collectors is also especially complementary to that of the big hitters poles. They hit and we pick up. To facilitate our work, hitters can lay a plastic tarp at the foot of the tree, "yasgueul" before you start hitting the branches. Suffice it then to fold the sheet and separate the olive branches and leaves. But again, we find that this technique is not systematic and we despair of understanding the reasons for random use. Regularly volunteers implore hitters to use the yasgueul, which gives rise curious to altercations approximate mixing Turkish and cries of despair. But one day the volunteers were able to introduce a sensible use of yasgueul at the cost of incredible efforts of anticipating the work of hitters in the yasgueul have under the tree just before they attack it.

Once the olives collected yasgueul, it is necessary to extract all the small branches broken by the blows to the branches is the most pleasant time. Sitting around the pile of olives, the harvest is stirred into emerging industries. The smell is strong, Oil slides along the fingers plunging enthusiastically into the heap of jewels sparkling in the sunlight. Once this first manual sorting operated, the olives are separated from the outer leaves through a gate they slide down inclined to fail in a bag, while the leaves fall through. This last exercise of the day accompanied by cries of good humor and excitement of the work resonating in the fading light of evening.



is charged The sacks in the truck leaving for the press every other day on average with a cargo of about 600 kilos of olives. While volunteers have joined the firm and the other peasants their home is Simge that deals with the weighing of the bags to the press, the "olive factory" as it is called. Sacks of olives may weigh up to 50 pounds are lifted and emptied by men with big arms and clothes speckled with fat olive. The olives are first placed in a container and transported by conveyor belt to be washed with high pressure. Then, they are literally crushed by two huge stone wheels turning with a crash. What emerges is a greasy mud brown color. This sludge is filled in a kind of braided bags that are stacked on each other to be crushed by the press of a black liquid which flows, mixing water and oil. Finally, at the last stage, while men sip their tea, a centrifuge separates water and oil, and his cock comes a trickle of pure gold.

There is barely one hour of light before the night when the volunteers return to the farm at about 5 am, he must hurry to start the fire to heat water from the shower before we see anything there. Dinner is served before 7 o'clock and 9 o'clock there remain many people around the table, an hour later everyone is lying, is meant to grind away a ferocious beast: Hassan fell asleep and snoring loudly. Suddenly a cry rang through the night: "Mother fucking cat!", Rejecting the company's Logan night Bunjuck who does not like the cold lonely nights.

The two weeks spent on the farm to the rhythm of the sun, we have given a true lifestyle, we could also glimpse the difficulty of work in fields and measure the value of each product Nature. Olives, yet we see throughout the rest of our trip around the Mediterranean, but now we enjoy them in a totally different way. It's funny, even long after the harvest, the sight of a few olives on the ground awakens in us an irresistible urge to look for the picking!

For audio slideshow below, remember to put the sound!

The photos are also available on our gallery here .

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The Making of Tsipouro

On a piece of paper scrawled with a friend, we had just the name of a village on the island of Lemnos, Pedhino, and the name of a cellar, Kremidas ... After an arduous but fruitful search on the map of the island, we embark on the road Tsipouro, this alcohol-clear water of life, slightly sweet and very gentle, which the Greeks we met love . Arrived in the village of Pedhino, we soon spot a sign indicating the direction of the cellar by chance in the Latin alphabet. We arrive on site, of course the places are empty, but there is a phone number taped to the window, neither one nor both of us call and set an appointment with our interlocutor 6 hours later. At night, we return to the scene and therefore our 'contact' agrees to show us his machine. We follow by car into the center of the village, he opened the door of a cluttered old house utensils dusty as we cross to reach a kind of barn. The smell is powerful and candied grapes in the light of an old lamp, we discover the distillery to take the machine Tsipouro.

Our contact, a man in his mid-fifties, the air jovial and passionate, is embarking on a comprehensive explanation of the distillation process. We proudly present his machine dated 1935 which operates on a wood fire and can produce 45 liters of alcohol every precious distillation. It takes place in 2 stages: the first involves distilling the pomace of grapes (what remains of grapes after they are made wine) diluted in a little wine for 4 hours. Then, the product of this first distillation is mixed with anise syrup is again distilled. This second step allows a Tsipouro purer and clearer. In fact, we understand there are almost as many ways to produce Tsipouro there are producers: do not add some anise, others do only one distillation, others use the fuel at the expense Fire wood and quality of alcohol. Raki Tsipouro or, frankly, we're a little lost in the newspapers, it seems that the names vary by region, but also the presence or absence of anise in alcohol ...

This year, our contact has produced 200 liters of Tsipouro from 500 gallons of brandy. He says he is not but it buys winemaker grapes harvested in September to producers of the island from which it produces its own wine in September-October and then its Tsipouro end of October. Unfortunately we arrived too late this year, barely 24 hours after that long night in which alchemy was held in this barn out of sight and light. Our contact is a passionate, clerical, production Tsipouro is his second business. It's a family tradition as old as the still, passed for three generations. However, his two daughters will not resume may not be the torch, but our contact remains confident certain that the machine will continue to distil the elixir for many years.

And we leave at night on deserted roads of the island's richest meeting generous and a bottle of authentic Tsipouro.

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Thessaloniki: Hellenic Adventures impatient youth

On 14 November, following municipal elections Greek ecologist Yiannis Boutaris was elected mayor of Thessaloniki with only 419 votes ahead of his conservative rival. It is a small revolution for the city led by the Conservatives for 24 years. 24 years is precisely the age of Michaelis and Elisabeth, which however did not wait for these elections to devote their energy to changing their hometown. This young couple fresh out of journalism school, we had thus opened his city and, during our wanderings, we found all the attachment they felt for her.

Capital Balkan

After the tentacular Athens, stroll through the streets of Thessaloniki offers a breath of fresh air: the contrast between the two cities we mentioned the difference in quality of life between Paris and Lyon. Open port on the northern Aegean Sea, the city is nestled in the Gulf Thermaic as an arm hugging the sea cityscape, seemingly anarchic, conceals many ancient ruins of old Byzantine churches and surrounded sometimes choked by senior contemporary buildings. Rebuilt in 1917 following a fire that destroyed the old city is the French architect Ernest Evrard which gave it its present appearance by drawing large arteries parallel, such as pedestrian and Aristotellous Gounaris, connecting the old city on the hill overlooking the waterfront and this simple organization allows visitors to always identify from the sea and gives the impression of a pleasant city airy and easy to understand.

On the Corniche recently refurbished all generations meet, fascinated by the spectacle of the sea rough swell day and dazzling lights of sunset. Here, a century ago were mixed Sephardic Jews, Turks, Muslims, Orthodox Greeks, Bulgarians and Westerners making Thessaloniki Capital of the Balkans. But the image of Turkey and Greece today, the city has been homogenized: a consequence of the "Great Disaster". In 1923, after the defeat by Greece against Turkey, a population exchange agreement was concluded bringing 1.5 million Orthodox Greeks to leave Anatolia, where they lived for several millennia, and conversely the Turks are Muslims exiled from Greece. Among these victims of the construction of nation-states, the great-grandparents of Elizabeth, who lived in the area Pontou located southeast of the Black Sea, have been forced to move to Thessaloniki. Later, the deportation to Auschwitz of substantially all of the Jewish community has somehow completed the process of cultural homogenization of the city. Today, with an agglomeration of a little over a million people, Thessaloniki is Greece's second city and, following the eastward enlargement of the European Union, the city revives its vocation regional capital. Economic exchanges are increasing with Bulgaria: Saloniciens cross the border frequently and Bulgarian to go shopping, establish enterprises, enjoy skiing or just a tank of gas.

love their city, Michaelis and Elizabeth are a critical eye on it all the more sharp, pointing in particular transportation issues. With 900,000 daily trips made by car and only 1 of 4 Salonicien using public transportation, only consisting of buses, the streets are constantly blocked by traffic and parking anarchy (66% of vehicles are parked illegally). This also has consequences in terms of pollution: the concentration of particulate pollutants in the atmosphere exceeding the thresholds set by the European Union average of 250 days a year! For the young couple, the subway line currently under construction which will cover the downtown will not solve the problem only partially linked to the spread of the conurbation. He also recalls that the geography of the city naturally calls for the development of public transport maritime existed elsewhere until the early 50/60. As such, the municipality has also envisaged the creation of two shipping lines: one bus running along the ledge and the other connecting the port to the peripheral city of Kalamaria. Another important problem is the lack of public spaces and green spaces, in fact there has only 2.5 m2 of green space per capita by integrating forests around!

Thessaloniki otherwise

So when on his 20th birthday, the local newspaper for which he works Parrallaxis decided to organize more than just a birthday party but a series of Major events for 'change city', it is natural that Michaelis has launched body and soul into the adventure. With dozen others, they form the core of the project Allyos Thessaloniki, 'Thessaloniki otherwise, who for two days on 5 and 6 June this year, has changed the face of the city at a rate of 65 transactions, 15 architectural and artistic interventions , 16 concerts, 10 theatrical performances, street performers and strolling in cycling and rollerblading mobilizing over 250 volunteers and 30,000 participants.

We're back with Michael and Elizabeth on the few places where the events took place the most significant to them. They show us those art-nouveau buildings of the early last century, abandoned, trapped between tall buildings modern erased. Last June, these buildings have been invested by architects analyze their structures and explaining their history on posters and musicians to give concerts. A little later, the grim street Ernest Evrard, narrow alley lined with buildings half abandoned matches "everything the city has to pay tribute to him who gave it its present appearance, was illuminated by dozens small small lights suspended in an atmosphere reminiscent of the festival of lights Lyon. Hundreds of people were then made in this enchanted alley to attend an evening concert of swing and flamenco show in the program. Finally, Michael takes us on a small plot planted some trees and benches, he proudly explained before, there was nothing here, only a row of garbage containers. We sit on a bench in front of us old people are sitting and talking, a neighbor passing rebuke ... For Michael, it's the most emblematic achievement of Thessaloniki allyos one that best illustrates the new face that could take the city: a city more open, peppered with warm hospitable public spaces. But it was not easy, he first had to convince the people after long hours of discussion, raising the suspicion and misunderstanding in respect of these young people who want to change the city volunteer! But finally they agreed and some have even put his hand to the paw such merchant pulling an extension so that the team has electricity, another making coffee or something to eat. The lines have changed, people have invested in their neighborhoods and even if it is just an area of 100 m2 why not extend this momentum it not to the entire city? The project still met its limits: the team of Thessaloniki allyos wanted students in visual arts carry a big mural on the faded plaster of the building that overlooks the new plot. Volunteers spent several days in the building to knock on every door, trying to convince of the merits of the project, but these efforts failed. Today we can read a tag on the wall revealing: "Think the impossible before it is impossible to believe" ...

So even if the new mayor raises hopes and no matter what policies, for Michael and Elizabeth's residents, through their initiative, to change their city. Full of energy and desire, but distrustful of institutions, the impatient youth develops its own emancipatory philosophy based on self-organization of citizens: "If I want to change something, I must take matters into their hands without expect from the state and try to do something for myself with my friends, my neighbors ...», "Complaining is not enough, it's time to take action, to organize, to form groups more or less likely bringing people who want the same things and take action to change things. I think it's entirely possible today. "And the momentum is initiated, Thessaloniki allyos should soon take the form of a genuine and permanent organization today, five months after the event, requests are pouring ever to take part in the movement.

Source of data on transport in Thessaloniki: http://peiratesalonica.blogspot.com/

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's been nearly a month since we left Greece, it is high time to tell you about our adventures in a few words Hellenic. After a week of tourism in Pélopponèse, we are delighted to finally meet the Greeks in Athens, Kelly and Stratos, and in Thessaloniki in the family Sergiadis. By living at home, otherwise we discover Greece, from another angle. Gone (almost) site visits to the old ancient stones, finished the Greek salad and moussaka, we discover life on the Greek dishes are much more varied, Karioka (chocolate with cinnamon and walnuts), Gemist (Stuffed vegetables), mussels and mullet fried ... In Athens we spend our evenings to remake the world with Kelly and Stratos by drinking tsipouro. In Thessaloniki we live in an apartment with a roommate Sergiadis children with Dimitris, Elizabeth, and Manolis. Dimitris takes us one evening in his 4x4 to see the most beautiful night views of the city, with Elizabeth we go to the movies, theater (in Greek monologue about Maria Callas, incomprehensible and no one even for Greek) and in bars, Manolis Lawrence and improvises with a night at Tzur (sort of long-necked lute). Can we win the small island of Lemnos in the northern Aegean Sea, where the family has Sergiadis a lovely red house with green shutters. After a violent storm, we go out on the deserted island in this time of year, and meet sheep, geese, deer, flamingos, herons and ... Papa Yiorgos! Finally, to end our stay we took a ferry to the Greek island of Chios where you can already see the Turkish coast that we reach by boat the next day.

Step 2 - Pélopponnèse


Step 3 - Athens


Step 4 - Thessaloniki


Step 5 - Lemnos


All of these photos is available on the gallery by clicking here .

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The Acropolis, the tourist and the striker

When we arrived in Greece from the Peloponnese, we did not feel like being in a country in crisis. While the vast terraces of the restaurants were deserted but what is more normal in the month of October. Also, most of the time, the tourist navigates out of the social reality of the country he visits, so that boils down monuments, arts and traditional cultures and cuisine. The host country is often very careful to keep the tourists away from social conflict, creating tourist police for example, it maintains only idyllic image of her visit. Our first week in Greece can be summarized as no trace of any crisis.

Upon arrival in Athens, we are greeted by a Greek couple our age, Stratos and Kelly and the early discussions the crisis erupted. Thus, Stratos which prepares a thesis in physics has been deleted her purse overnight and do not know if he can go through. In this "knowledge economy the most competitive in the world" promoted by the European Union, the first victim of the crisis is research. With Stratos and Kelly we meet young Greeks forced to live with their parents, to juggle three little jobs when they have the chance to work. They tell us that increase cigarette prices, petrol, everything, they are sharing their concerns about an uncertain future, to see the streets of Athens populate police. For in times of crisis, the police becomes a solution to a multitude of problems : It provides work for unemployed youth, it helps curb the development of the crime that accompanies the impoverishment of a part of the population but also to repress social movements claiming a different distribution of wealth.

Thus, in one week, through these meetings we have started a healthy change, mere tourists we have become travelers, explorers of the social, cultural and political of the countries they pass through . But the tourist itself can sometimes finds himself facing the reality of conflict places he visits. We have seen one of those moments of grace when, on Oct. 12 last one hundred employees of the Ministry of Culture went on strike and it blocked access to the site of the Acropolis, claiming renewal their employment contract meant to end on October 31, obtaining permanent contracts and payment of wage arrears for some back up to 24 months. These represent some 6 million euros, one can hardly believe that the Greek government has chosen to make such savings tip candles to repay its debt by several hundred billions of Euros!

From that time was put in place a very careful choreography between strikers, police, journalists, tourists and politicians. Thus, the primary objective of the strikers was to draw attention to their situation has been reached: the Acropolis, the first tourist site of Greece and a symbol of Athenian democracy, blocked for the third time this year, journalists rushed to establish a permanent camp outside the main entrance. The next morning, October 13, it's time for police to enter the dance on the basis of a court decision declaring Express blocking the Acropolis illegal. The mobile police take storm the site literally in a cloud of tear gas enveloping shovel-mell strikers, journalists and tourists. After this dramatic change, the choreography takes over, but this time it was the police who took control of the site entrance. However, it remains locked in that employees in charge of monitoring the site, until then not involved in the movement, begin to turn on strike in solidarity with their colleagues!

Two days of locking the "Jewel of Greece", the number of journalists has tripled and the international media are there, we are offering fabulous Radio sidewalks disgruntled tourists to discover the reality of a country in crisis and having to review their plans: "We came to the Acropolis, we understand the problem with that Greek economic crisis, but do we need really be affected by this? "Tourism is the main economic activity in Greece with shipping, this strike is a bit like if the Greeks were shooting a bullet in the foot! ".
Finally, the third day, October 14, the Greek government has found a way around the strike by guards and was thus able to satisfy the legitimate claims of those unfortunate tourists by opening free access to the Acropolis. They pass in front and a beautiful row of police before joining the Parthenon, and meditate on the ups and downs of democracy.

However, the noise generated by the international media event led to the Greek prime minister speak before Parliament in endorsing little argument about the tourists: "Giving such an image on a global scale as we saw in the media today is hurting our country. Is this the image we want to give our country? Is this how we will help workers in this country, our businesses and entrepreneurs? Is this how we are going to develop tourism? Is this how we are going to help investment? . One is tempted to return the question: is using employees of the Ministry of Culture in precarious conditions in paying them with a slingshot that the government will help the development of tourism?

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Ashes to ashes

Before, she was sometimes asked, it probably happens to everybody, to ask, it probably more, but it was not like before, it's brushed, slowly, there was something a little warm, pleasant, to wonder and to imagine that ? perhaps she too had imagined, although it was still barely, vaguely, in those moments when she allowed herself to wander without thinking about anything, without his thinking can be fixed, really, on something, maybe it was too, by dint imagine it happens - maybe it was already a little weird, this curiosity to wonder who ? , and then finally now it was more like, at all, this was not the same question, she was taken as something in the belly, as the urge to vomit, and her hands were clenched on the sheet and she seemed to feel the ice cold liquid flowing in his veins, very strong, and well up at the same time against his temples, pulse who? who? who?

In a way it was the wrong question, but it mattered little, because the pulsations may be, that were not false at all, who were even too real to explode in his head regularly, as if someone knocked on the inside more and harder without getting tired, and it takes the form of a question, it grows from the inside as a question, like a cry incessantly, it did not matter after all. It was always the same night, unable to know if it really was night or day already, she hoped the day, sleeping at times, at best a half-hour, but it was already it was better than the sleepless night, and feel of the night - the feeling that there was at that time person.

In a sense, it was still an issue, even if they were all there, without exception, it had not really imagined it would be so, they would all be there, that they are all, in one way or another, affected a little, - she had to say that some would be devastated, and most indifferent, but it was not all that, she said, in the darkness, with the beat in the head, that they were more like a lack at all, yes, something is missing, more or less intense, but after all, if it was really finished, it is only this lack, distributed everywhere, in every one of them - there had this image of dust and ashes which she could to get rid of, Ashes to ashes and dust to dust, that whirled him in the head all the time, and she said she would do this, engulfed in dust them in an empty space somewhere in them, but after all, nobody would be devastated, as no one forget, it was not light enough or heavy enough, in between - it would be a blowing ash dispersed in all, everyone has a little but too much whole person. At times it made her very quiet, to say they were all there, and then sometimes it was as if his head would crack under the blows, dissolving in a way, and then she had the impression of think about them from afar, as if they were separated by a very thick glass, through which it would have been difficult to distinguish them again - then she let go, like ghosts, it was no use of s hook too hard, they slipped through his fingers, there was that huge room, very white, and dark. Beyond it could not, they were in a bubble light, iridescent, which broke out when she too thought it was better to focus on the cold liquid in the veins, sheets and yellow pee, and white room . Everything that had seemed before, so important, it now seemed even more importantly, essential-to the point of his whole body stiffen when she thought, as a result of lack, somehow, and then same time, absolutely ridiculous, inconsistent, to the point of tears that came to her eyes, feeling of embracing the void.

And then between the blinds, she saw the snow, or rather glimpsed, it had been blinded, whiteness, movement, and consciousness violent than it was outside, it was without her, she would have pulled the tubes and liquids for a moment under the snow, c ' was so commonplace, it was commonplace to cry, but she could just really screwed up for just a moment in the snow, she imagined one outside in a huge bite white - just for the sensation, have very cold, and eyes full of white, and face wet flakes. Suddenly, she was very angry against all those people who did not like the snow and telling him all the time before, they had very cold - they were going to faint with cold, it was unbearable, she wanted to faint with cold, being in his whole body numb, she wanted them, right now, a lot, telling him they did not like the snow, that it was still up tears, she hardly knew what, anger, no doubt. And then she had said, it had smashed into his stomach, before passing against her temples, she would have screamed, if not more painful scream that silence, she had said that would be the most terrible - perhaps more terrible than to never get out of this darkness, huge, yes, more terrible perhaps, back among people who did not like the snow. She could not blame them, nobody would have understood, she could not turn away from them because they did not understand what it was dark outside and the snow, that c was, to have an explosion somewhere in her body until it is no more, qu'explosée - what it was, a moment, a moment in the snow.

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She told him that it was a bit like the gate of hell, or at least that was the feeling that she would have had such a door, the snow around People raised, expectation, and the building that seemed to spring from nowhere in the night, she had told him they would have to wait very cold, they would believe faint with cold, and most people who could not enter, who were waiting for hours before returning the same way white. She had told him it was different and yet somehow, still more immense, and the man who tattooed his face all the gauges, sent them back one by one, the ink was etched in his face until to make a mask like the snow without cold, he almost wanted to leave, not to be seen, not to arrive at this man, as if immutable in all ages there had been anchored there and the door closed to the image of his face.

She had told him that inside it was not the same, he could not imagine, before being immersed whole, to feel, deep, almost lost because it was too big, too empty, it was dark, cold again, and the endless stairs, to get there, and when he arrived, it would also in some way other than anywhere else plus he had never been otherwise, there would be no mirror anywhere, as if not see, really, there would probably not that feel of it be, to be in his body, penetrated,-trance, maybe, and trance, more than forgetfulness, more than the drunk, something else again, a kind of freedom oozing out of the flesh, up again, be about to faint, but this time with a different failure, burning, and then he would

as he never had seen, was this the reason that it took him, and yet forgetting to warn him, leaving him lying a moment to lose, he would find, somehow, everywhere, slipping from one moment to another, from one person to the other without being able to grasp the feeling, just like a subtle presence that would be impossible to set up the back, but was it really still somewhere in the dark, was it not, rather, it only the body, vented, or even another body again offered to another, open it probably would distinguish it, the fumes of his body, an arched shape and screaming in silence giving to see the image of his cry, his face tilted somewhere where he could reach it, and probably it was not her, it could be her, with among others the enjoyment, the body of enjoyment and cons It's unknown

he would like he never saw her, I found her finally to herself lost, on his whole body against him, grabbing her hair, not like the unknown probably with violence, but then slowly, without a mirror in the bathroom, where she watched in vain for his own reflection, he would, after the violence of herself exhausted, vomiting desire, and a strange smell, a bit sweet,

and finally the morning sun on the frozen snow, and his body abandoned.

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Stage guerrilla

to Cugnaux (31) premises SIVOM Saudrune.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
from 9:30 a.m. to 4:30 p.m.

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The underground is not waiting

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The Adventures of Long-Brick the Lumbricus - Season 1 - 6 2pisode

Pamela

return to the world and the gentle waves. The underground

regenerating and saving, between depths and the shock wave. Uncertain limbo, capsizing torpor post-romantic, eternity supreme fighter.

Observe the invincible soldier risking death to each of your hugs. Then dig into the death that takes the exquisite face and threatening sleep.

Underground, life is taking shape, the galleries are leading the way enjoying tomorrow.

You, life, you look down.

A revolutionary always rests. You can push the top of your bluffs, can manhandle your ocean, your sirens lose in giant vortices.

He just died between your breasts, over your shoulder, on your neck.

You wake up the morrow. He will revive and will leave for battle.

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The Adventures of Long-Brick the Lumbricus - Season 1 - Episode 5

Abstract: Driven by a mission beyond its simple semi-cylindrical, Long Lumbricus The Brick just to blow the premises of the Socialist Party, saying by this simple and yet how brave passivity and softening bourgeois are sinful and criminal should be condemned and then judge.

You think that the office of any local Socialist Party explodes and burns like this. Simply

.

You think sow death in the ranks of traitors, renegades, is a revenge of course, who makes a brief and violent movement. The Brick

Long Lumbricus smoked his cigarette and thought back to the scene. There was Pamela. Crossing the road, slow and perilous. The entrance to the Socialist Party, the comings and goings of luxury shoes, of Berlutti so tasteful, so expensive, oozing so the call to murder.

It would take time to any inspector or commissioner or whatnot, your narrator being no specialist police ranks and promotions, to understand the meaning of the destructive blast which came to knock this place as various municipal officials say Socialists had patiently for decades, transformed into a laboratory of their little petty personal election. While the banker

certainly the trader, the speculator certainly had fallen into disgrace. There was very little in the commentator believes fellow and we avoided the insurance broker as the leper few centuries ago.

But never, ever, public morality had questioned the virtues of the ruling Social Democrats stars, or their foundation, nor alliances, nor their ability to produce a new world. The Brick

Long Lumbricus knew him. He knew that nothing could be learned from these shit more imbued with ambition than public, more eager for great restaurants and flashy television dummy that social equality and justice.

He was convicted later he would think to judge them.

And especially, especially, it was running.

The underground world of his own, and his tumultuous galleries, had solved the problem this way, when men were content to build false hopes by projecting itself into space, the stars, planets, neglecting the revolution that was spreading beneath their feet.

him, the wretched of the earth, had wanted to make a clean sweep of the supreme art.

He therefore established the relationships required to install the bomb. So we would not have the presence of mind at first to imagine that the victims were killed by means other than the explosion, it was necessary that this explosion is violent.

He entered with difficulty, enjoying a moment of respite that members agreed the party sad, bitter that they were to determine if increasing the tax on very high incomes of 0.03% or would not be the driving profound changes in the majority, which assured them the joys of power.

He entered the office of Federal Secretary savagely busy trussing that which was his mistress and who enjoyed the certainty that she would one day become the wife of one of the most influential men of power. He enjoyed without guilt, knowing that his position allowed him to promise anything and everything to anyone, even marriage. Mr.

Federal Secretary, pants fell on the calves he had flaccid, the ridiculously buttocks in the air, waved his body fat between the legs of the political future of the region, a good 32 years full of ambition and boobs very evenly distributed.

her, pretending to cry a roar of a lioness undernourished, he pretended to believe it, staring at the portrait of Francois Mitterrand that adorned his sad office, unaware of the danger threatening them. The Brick

Long Lumbricus climbed on the thigh and penetrated the anus of precious federal secretary who felt a slight discomfort when he tumbled Madam, going and coming under the gaze of incredulous Lionel Jospin in a birch true.

he implemented the strategy known as nematomorphs, parasitic worm that takes place in the abdomen of some insects while taking care not to alter their vital organs. Nematomorphs When the insect wants to extricate himself, he forces it to jump into the water allowing it to regain the aquatic environment essential for its reproduction. The

nematomorphs pushed his victim to suicide, you are reading.

Long Brick The Earthworm its long period of captivity, had learned to survive and to kill. One day he learn to live again.

was thought therefore a desperate move of the explosion, when the fat secretary jumped out the window on the fifth floor, leaving her for dead companion in misfortune, whose skull had jumped as a result of the flight edge of a piece of the framework Glass photo protector of Martine Aubry. In

creeping social democracy was unknown fighting began.

Ignorance of the opponent is the strain that feeds the fire of the first shots.