region: Europe

All that jazz

I’ve been told to avoid the weekend, but why? I like the crowds that stream downhill from the train station, and the partygoers perched like seagulls on rocks along the lakeshore, gabbing and jostling for space. In the Jazz Cafe, the evening audience sways, dense and sweaty. The elbow-to-elbow vibe is electric, but I still feel I’m the only one in the room as Anna Calvi moans into the microphone about the devil and desire. Her lips are a red slash, moody as her riffs.

The British singer and guitarist – so good she’s been compared to Jimi Hendrix – is a brooding presence on the stage, even across an undulation of heads. She sings with blues seduction and Goth edginess, plus a hint of flamenco passion in the way she strums her guitar and moans in the back of her throat. Maybe it’s just the humid summer night, but I’m hot under the collar.

Calvi has described her music as a mix of danger and exhilaration. Frankly, those aren’t adjectives that normally get an outing in the prim Swiss town of Montreux. Eleven months of the year, you could skip through it on a day trip with ‘pleasant’ your most intense description. The dukes of Savoy built a whopping castle just along Lake Geneva foreshore that’s now a prime tourist attraction, which brings most people here. Montreux got its start as a tourist spot in the nineteenth century, when it was favoured by the British and Russian nobility for their winter retreats. (A balmy climate allows palm trees and figs to flourish, bringing a touch of the Mediterranean to Switzerland.) Now wealthy tax-evaders skulk in big villas with alpine views as Chinese tour groups traipse past beneath their windows.

Standing room only at one of many packed concerts at the Montreux Jazz Festival.
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Entertaining the crowds at a concert at the Montreux Jazz Festival.
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In short, Montreux is probably not a place you’d generally need to linger unless you have a blue rinse and an offshore account. The month of July is a different matter, however. July brings the three-week Montreux Jazz Festival to town, and you should stay as long as you can. Then, music oozes from this little lakeshore town’s every pore. It becomes sultry and unpredictable. You might catch an anti-establishment jazz singer croaking about poverty in South Africa. Or Herbie Hancock – improbably but rather splendidly – performing a duet with Chinese classical pianist Lang Lang. Swedish folk-rock drifting from a local late-night bar might make you stop in your slightly inebriated tracks and think: this place is wonderful.

When I was last at the Jazz Festival in 2011, Carlos Santana, Sting and Paul Simon were among the headline acts. A Sunday tribute jam featured BB King, and it was truly amazing to watch some of the world’s top guitarists on stage, strumming to each other in a two-hour jam session. BB King was 86 and didn’t make much music, but you could tell the other musicians were energised just by the legend’s presence.

That’s what I like about the Montreux Jazz Festival: the chance to see the world’s best, as well as obscure acts that just catch your ear. The event has been around since 1967 and, from the beginning, attracted big jazz names such as Ella Fitzgerald, Keith Jarrett and Nina Simone. But by the 1970s, it was already featuring soul, blues and rock artists, and causing a stir with the appearance of the likes of Prince, Deep Purple, Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd. In 1970, Frank Zappa was performing at the Montreux Casino when a fan fired a flare gun and burned the place down, an event recorded in the Deep Purple song, ‘Smoke on the Water’. By the 1980s, the program had become very international – Brazilian music in particular has always been favoured – and mainstream pop and rock artists were increasingly invited. Despite its name, the Montreux Jazz Festival isn’t really a jazz festival anymore. You can expect anyone from Alicia Keys to the Black Eyed Peas or Phil Collins to play.

Statue of Freddie Mercury on the waterfront at Montreux.
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The big stars attract big-ticket prices and play in the two main venues, the Stravinsky Auditorium and Miles Davis Hall. But what’s great about the Montreux Jazz Festival is that the music just seems to trickle down everywhere, and lots of it is free. You can attend the best voice, guitar and piano competitions for nix and hope to catch the next star on the cusp of being discovered. Jam sessions are a late-night option at the Montreux Jazz Club, while DJs keep going until dawn at the Montreux Jazz Cafe and Studio 41. You can attend free music workshops too, and learn how to make those guitar strings twang from some of the masters of the trade.

I find music in the most unexpected places: in a train carriage, on one of the lake steamers that I catch for a scenic ride to Chillon Castle, in local restaurants and cafes where a sort of fringe festival has ivories tinkling. In the evenings at Vernex Park, I join picnickers on the grass under giant trees and drink wine to the sounds of Russian jazz one night, samba the next, as the moon shimmers over the lake.

What I like too is that the Montreux of the other 11 months never really goes away, underneath it all. It’s a grand old resort town with yellow-shuttered hotels and wrinkled people flopping in pocket-sized swimming pools. Jaunty marigolds are planted in neat rows along the waterfront, tablecloths in cafes are flawlessly ironed. The air smells of lake water, starch and Perrier with a twist of lemon. Out on the blue waters of Lake Geneva, yachts are tied up in parallel lines and festooned with brightly coloured squares of plastic to keep seagulls from crapping on the decks. The snow-dusted fangs of mountains loom on the horizon. It seems like the last place on Earth where you’d find one of the world’s best music festivals.

Partygoers enjoy an evening snack along the quayside. Click to view gallery

The Swiss staidness of Montreux is redeemed in unexpected ways, not least by a flamboyant statue of Freddie Mercury, slap-bang on the waterfront in his trademark strutting pose. Queen recorded several albums here at Mountain Studios prior to Freddie Mercury’s death in 1991. Montreux inspired one of the last songs Queen recorded, ‘A Winter’s Tale’ from the album Made in Heaven. “Seagulls are flying over / Swans are floating by” go the lyrics: Mercury too was apparently seduced by the chocolate-box kitsch of this absurdly pretty place.

The swans are a little jittery during the Jazz Festival. Visitors are out in rowing boats and sometimes they jump overboard from sheer giddiness, producing piercing screams from those who haven’t, until that moment, realised this water comes from alpine snow-melt, frigid even in summer. Among the promenade’s flowerbeds, Brazilians in pink feathers shimmy as the smell of satay sticks wafts from a food stand. Diana Krall passes by in a floppy sunhat. Plastic Heineken cups are scattered like confetti on the grass, though not for long. The Swiss soon have them swept away, and the lakeshore pristine for the start of another day. The music might be wantonly seductive, but there are civic standards to maintain.

Video Killed The Ruskiwood Star

I’m in a train station waiting room at 1am on a Saturday morning. The station is in Omsk, Siberia. Siberia is a long way from home. And I’m nervous because they just started kicking people out who don’t have a ticket. I’m not waiting for a train, I’m waiting for the safety of daylight to look for a hotel. Language barriers and the sheer lack of an Omsk tourist industry have left me homeless after a late-night arrival.

A gruff-looking inspector asks for my ticket and I hand him my used papers. He looks inquiringly and I blab something about waiting for the next train to Moscow. He’s unconvinced, mainly because the only word he understands is “Moscow”. Old Russians hate it when you don’t speak their language. No patience, no interest. He’s not sure if my claim is legit, so he’s about to order me out. The waiting room is for passengers only.

The fella next to me interjects. He’s been watching me and says something to the inspector that makes him hesitate. The inspector then shifts his attention to my seat-mate’s ticket. He walks away. I sigh. A reprieve.

“Hello man,” says the guy next to me. I size him up. He doesn’t look like a crook and he just helped me out. But I’m alone. In the middle of Siberia. In the middle of the night and my hackles are up. I smile back, nonetheless, and put on my broadest Aussie accent.

“G’day Mate! Gee, this isn’t exactly the Qantas Club, is it?!” Blank stare, toothy grin. Somewhere crickets are chirping. Clearly I’ve overplayed the accent a bit. “Sorry, you speak too queeekly,” the man says. “You are American?”

“Nah mate, I’m Australian.” We exchange names. Ivan’s smile becomes electric. “Osster-alian! I never met someone from here.”

“Well, I’m honoured to be the first,” I respond. Ivan then tells me that I’m only the second native English speaker he has ever met. The first was an American just four hours ago. I’m stunned.

It turns out old Ivan and his mates are movie buffs. They meet up weekly to watch Hollywood movies, practising their English with one-liners and clichéd phrases. They don’t have tutors. They just figure it out. They discover the world through cinema. Now Ivan is testing his linguistic skills – first with a Yank, then with an Aussie. And man, he passes with flying colours!

We have a brilliant discussion and I discover that Ivan knows more about the world, and Australia, than I’d ever expected. It’s remarkable considering Ivan hasn’t been outside Siberia. He hasn’t even made it to Moscow. When he learns that I’m running marathons around the world, he’s shocked, but gracious. I’d have been jealous.

Then, as Ivan picks up his kit to leave, giving me a warm handshake, I realise I’m jealous. Ivan speaks English and Russian. He knows plenty about my world, because he has made the effort to discover the nuances of my culture in my own language. I’ve had this growing feeling that everyone I meet is a whole lot smarter than me and it’s largely because they can understand me. But I’m not learning how to understand them. What’s that adage? You’re not learning anything if you’re doing all the talking.

I lie on my bench, gripping the handle of my pack, and consider my predicament. I’m spending more than $100,000 to see as many countries as possible in a year. I’m on an adventure of discovery. I’m here to get cultured, but I can’t read anything and most people can’t converse with me.

It begs a question. What if Hollywood wasn’t the centre of the film world and, arguably, modern pop culture? Imagine if the Russians spent as much as the Americans on cinematic rubbish with whizzbang effects. Instead of a Cold War with outrageously expensive nukes, they could have had a glitzy film blitz – winning the world’s hearts and minds through entertainment! I’d be fluent in Slavic, having grown up with Tsar Wars and Saving Comrade Rybakov.

I’m from the lucky country, but still I feel jibbed. Could it be a lack of decent movie choices that makes me ignorant? Or am I just a lazy bugger who should have done his homework by watching The Barber Of Siberia instead of Friday night football?

I wonder if I can make amends. If I watch a Russian movie every day I’m here, with subtitles of course, perhaps I’ll get the hang of it? I vow to get online and find Russia’s top 10 action movies; I’ll replay the coolest lines so that I can use them in conversation. Imagine, the locals would welcome me as a connoisseur of Russian cinema. I’d make friends and know how to book a hotel room.

And I wouldn’t be lying on a godforsaken bench, in the middle of Siberia, waiting for daylight.

Board Games with Stalin

All we have left for the morning fire is bark and Turkish newspapers flecked with candle wax and mutton grease. We’re in a six square metre cabin on the east side of the Rikoti Pass, just upslope from Surami, Georgia. Two days ago, we were admiring palm trees on the Black Sea coast, but here it’s cold. Snow fell overnight. Loading up the bikes, I hobble back inside for the last set of bags and the canvas backgammon board still spread on the table.

“How’s the Achilles?” John asks. My eyebrows arch and I shake my head: “Not great.” His sprained ankle is on the mend, but my tendons are getting worse.

Last night, two round women wrapped in tattered shawls and scarves had motioned us into the cabin, bustling about with kindling as they closed down their roadside soup dispensary. This morning, the Likhi Range is hung with cloud, and smoke sits on the ground and weaves into the forest. Just down from the cabin, we pause in the yard of the Kvirackhovlobis Church. I stretch, shiver and grimace. Wind plays on a twisted hornbeam nearby, swinging a green-black copper bell hung on jute.

We stop in Gori for lunch: khachapuri and khinkali, cheese bread and meat dumplings. Stalin was born here. Georgia is one of the few places still proud of the man, and a museum about his life flanks the square. A giant bronze statue of him once stood outside, but in 2010 it was removed in the dead of night by a government looking to Westernise. We stretch awkwardly in the warm cafe, plotting our escape. The pain 
is getting worse and I know I shouldn’t push on to Tbilisi, so instead we head for the train station.

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Two old men play in the shelter of a collapsing bus stop; the crack of wooden pieces on a wooden board and the tinkle of tiny dice compete with the howling wind. We pass them, and wheel our bikes into the Gori train station, dodging puddles in the dim, faded entry hall. Parcels tied with plastic twine line one wall, and a few solitary mounds of fabric indicate pensioners queuing for sport. A disc of plaster lets go, sending a wet comet to the floor and leaving drifting particles in its wake. A short woman in technicolour robes emerges with broom and bucket to clean up the mess, the latest attempt in her comic quest to keep the ceiling off the floor.

We buy tickets to Tbilisi by drawing a picture of a train, clock and bicycle and settle in to wait. There is no lighting or heat, and the cheap concrete seems to soak up any ambient warmth, leaving a damp chill to settle over the waiting passengers. We set to playing with gloved hands, matching the rhythm of the men outside. I win once, and John three times before we notice the two-and-a-half-metre statue of Stalin staring at us from the next room. He has been hiding here where no tourist will find him, while everywhere else in the old empire his likeness has been torn down. We play for six hours, freezing, reading when we get bored then starting up again under his marble gaze.

One of the old ladies strides up to us, pulling our tickets from our hands and shouting. We carry our gear across the tracks to the far platform and wait. A minute later, an hour late, a train appears and begins to slow. We prepare for a fight to get our bikes on board, but it doesn’t stop. The train blasts its horn and sails past the platform, casting on us rows of glassed, curious eyes. In Georgia, we are told, getting on a train is more like hailing a taxi. We trade tickets for a fist full of lari, minus a fee, and exit to the street. The players have packed up and gone home.

“To Tbilisi?” comes a shout from an idling car. At our nod, the driver reaches out and puts a magnetic cone on his roof. His name is Boris, and he’ll do it for 80 lari (about AU$50). He taps the homemade rack on his Lada and smiles a ruin of gold teeth. We pile in and he hands us apples, shining red in startling contrast to the muted tones of the station. We set off, stopping only so we can buy the tank of natural gas needed to make it to the capital.

Lost Valley of Ramila

Hidden away down a rough track just a short drive from the medieval hilltop town of Marvão lies Lost Valley of Ramila, a complex of eco-friendly buildings spread across the hillside. Choose from four cosy self-contained apartments, each with neat kitchenettes, spacious bedroom/living area and private terrace with a glorious vista across the hills. Down by the river stands the charmingly renovated, century-old mill, with thick stone walls, neat windows, rustic furnishings and, forming one of the two bedrooms, a sleeping platform. All bathrooms are modern with showers and terracotta floor tiles.

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The setting is magical – think rocky outcrops covered in lichen, wild swimming in the river (or in the purpose-built hillside pool), secluded picnic spots beneath gnarled cork oaks, and wooden decking areas connected by pathways that meander through cacti, yuccas and olive trees. You can even try your hand making pizza or homemade bread in the traditional wood oven. Shops and restaurants are just a short drive away and the area is a dream for nature walks, photography, bird-watching and horse-riding.

The choice of accommodation is also an advantage; choose between newly built, eco-friendly apartments or one of the century-old mills, painstakingly restored to their former glory, with all the contemporary trimmings. But it’s the Sever River that makes this place even more special. As you meander along the river through the valley, enjoy your own private river beach, swing bridge or a nature walk through the São Mamede Natural Park.

Bulgaria

Whether you’re a hiker, history nerd or beach bum, you’ve discovered the perfect host. Bulgaria’s rich history dates back millenniums and there’s a bit of everything – Mediterranean, Roman, Ottoman, Persian, Celtic – in its cultural pot.

But almost a third of Bulgaria covered in forest, so hiking choices are plentiful. Choose to scale the domed Vitosha mountains on the outskirts of the capital Sofia, or take to adventure on the glacial peaks that top the Pirin Mountains.

Get your fix of history in the cobblestone streets of Plovdiv, one Europe’s oldest cities, where you can see a second-century Roman amphitheatre or visit the rubbled ruins of Eumolpias from 5000 BC. But if ruins and relics aren’t your thing, you may find your calling at one of the many beach towns lining the Black Sea coastline, where resorts run rampant.

Treating yourself to slabs of banitsa, a pastry stuffed with feta-like cheese and vegetables, is a must. And if someone offers you wine on a boozy night remember to shake your head, because here nodding means no and shaking means yes.

 

The Silly Sausage Museum

This monument to one of Germany’s favourite foodstuffs is as interactive as it is interesting (if sausages are your thing).

It is exactly as you would picture a museum that pays homage to hotdogs to be, with bun-shaped couches, artistically sculpted fries and glass cabinets explaining spices, flavours and all the other specifics of making the perfect currywurst.

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Snag tastings are included in the tour and there is even a van set up inside for anyone who has ever dreamed of what being a street vendor must be like.

This is food and fun right in the heart of Berlin, and a must for all those who consider themselves sausage connoisseurs.

No Man’s Fort

Defend queen and country with a sea-bound stay on a repurposed fort. Built 2.2 kilometres off England’s Isle of Wight in 1867 to guard against the threat of invading Frenchmen, No Man’s Fort has since undergone a spit and polish, opening its doors to guests in .

Gone are the days when 70 soldiers would hole up within its granite walls – now the structure boasts 23 luxurious bedrooms, as well as a wine bar, rooftop hot tubs and a spa centre offering signature salt treatments.

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What to do while you’re at sea all day? Eat like a trooper, of course. When you’re not supping on mackerel caught from below or toasting the monarchy with a flagon of rum, take to the water for a sea-kayaking session or show off your military prowess in an on-board battle of laser tag.

Bosnia and Herzegovina

Psst, want to know a secret? You should head to B&H and do it quickly. For a country whose size is dwarfed by Tassie’s there’s plenty to check out. And people are finding out about it – especially Europeans. It’s one of the most-visited countries in the Balkan region and is expected to see a record growth in visitor numbers before 2020 rolls around.

Despite being heavily damaged during the Bosnian War of the 1990s, Sarajevo remains incredibly beautiful. Parts of its Old Town, with their Ottoman architecture, feel a little like Istanbul, while some Austro-Hungarian buildings have been restored to their former glory. While you’re walking through the streets, look down to find Sarajevo roses. Small craters left by shells have been filled with red paint to honour the lives taken.

Daredevils tend to stick Mostar on their itineraries so they can leap off the elegant Stari Most (Old Bridge), but the Old City, listed by UNESCO, has an intriguing mix of influences. Climb the the stairs to the top of the minaret in the Kossi Mehmed Pasa Mosque for a superb view of the bridge and Old Town. It’s worth heading 40 kilometres out of town, too, to see the stunning cascades of the Kravice waterfalls.

Set your sights out of the city to discover a growing force in ecotourism. The alps here are pristine and the perfect spot for hikers and mountain bikers. Whitewater rafters are in for a treat, too. It’s a popular pastime in Bosnia and the Tara River Canyon is the deepest river canyon in Europe.

Belarus

Belarus isn’t the easiest place to travel. Visas are fiddly to get, the service industry is fairly underdeveloped and the country’s less-than-impeccable reputation with human rights organisations all mean tourism isn’t exactly thriving. But that doesn’t mean it’s not worth seeing, exploring and understanding. As the ‘last Soviet Republic’, you won’t see much advertising or a whole heap of litter or graffiti – instead enjoy pleasant country landscapes away from the cities. And while most of its buildings were destroyed in World War II, if you’re interested in the Soviet period and its effects today, Minsk makes an intriguing visit.