Carpetblogger

Airline Passengers as Explained by their Pants: Istanbul Edition

One thousand apologies to McSweeny's for ripping off its post, Airline Passengers as Explained by Their Pants, but it was too America-centric for our taste. As the primary hub serving Crapistan, Istanbul's Ataturk airport (IST) deserves its own list.

Red tracksuit: Will vomit in the aisle.

White hiphuggers with gold pinstripes, matching sport coat, jheri curls: THY 365 to Tripoli is now boarding.

Pleated shiny slacks, with Hugoe Bose label, pointy toed shoes: Will applaud upon touchdown in Erbil.

Cargo pants and a polo shirt with a corporate logo: Checked a stun grenade, two tasers and steroid powder.

Nothing but a white towel: Checked six liters of Zamzam in Jeddah. At carousel, retrieves two litres and two empty plastic jugs. :(

Low rise jeans, muffintop: Fell in love with her waiter, sobs the whole flight back to Manchester.

Dirty white shalwar: Will leave footprints on the toilet seat.

Clean, light blue shalwar: Asks flight attendant which direction is Mecca, does ablutions in the toilet.

Leopard skin capris with rhinestone seams, stiletto heels: Did not pay for her own ticket.

Stonewashed jeans with matching jacket: Passport has “stan” somewhere on the front cover.

Quik-dry travelpants with 7+ zippered pockets, white running shoes: Loved the food, is no longer afraid of Muslims.

Pleather jeans with a camel toe: Checked 75 kilos of red Chinese-made bras.

Baggy cotton trousers, floral: Put a lamb in the overhead bin.

Baggy cotton trousers, striped: Aspriational busker, put a juggling kit in the bin (Thanks to @AJKhn.)

Any we missed? Do add in the comments, or send via twitter @carpetblogger1

 

Ask Carpetblogger: How Can I Tell If I am In Crapistan*?

Tough question! Crapistan is so often either a state of mind, or like, porn, the sort of thing you recognize when you see, it can be hard to know for sure. But since we consider this blog to be the ultimate guide to Crapistan, we thought we'd outline some of the questions you should ask if you find yourself thinking, "wow, am I in Crapistan?"

• Do passengers applaud after the plane lands?

 

• Do passengers jump out of their seats just after the plane touches down (before the applause, even), grab their bags from the bins and run toward the front? (There is an inverse relationship between the likelihood passengers do this and the importance of the activities those passengers are rushing off the plane to get started doing.)

 

• Are most bags on the carousel swathed in high-tension plastic wrap or held together with packing string? (Again, there is an inverse relationship between the amount of plastic wrap used and the value of the bags' contents.)

 

• Can you see any signs, advertisements or instructions written in Cyrillic, even though you are in a country that does not use the Cyrillic alphabet? (But! It is axiomatic that if you are in a country that uses Cyrillic, you are in Crapistan. Don't even try to argue otherwise because you are wrong.)

 

• Are you struck by the talent of local (Chinese!) designers in the medium of Bedazzling?

 

• Pointy shoes. On men (that's sort of a gimme -- if you can't recognize this, you probably aren't ready for Crapistan). Shiny suits, too.

 

• Do you see more than ten people carrying rainbow-colored "Rave Girl" plastic shopping bags?

 

• Is Nescafe marketed as a superior alternative to coffee?

 

• Can you buy beer in sidewalk kiosks? In the morning?

 

• Do you fear for your safety? Crapistan is not particularly violent. The biggest danger is becoming collateral damage in a bar fight over prostitutes.

 

• Is the Duty Free shop cash-only?

It should be pointed out that just because a place is undeveloped or hovering in the gray area between third and second world, it is Crapistan. India and Pakistan, to name two examples, are not Crapistan. Crapistan implies a certain level of development in infrastructure that, out of neglect, war, kleptocratic governance, oligarchic greed or other factors, has been allowed to decline precipitously (former British colonies don't necessarily count). Also, Crapistan suggests the emergence of a vulgar middle class that has more money than sense, and accordingly, has refined and retained its tchoutcka (rube-ish) habits. For example, Crapistaniacs (new word! Credit must be given!) can afford air travel, but don't understand the protocols or the importance of real luggage.

Essay question: Baku is the Capital of Crapistan: Yes or no? Show your work!

Carpetblog management is well-aware that this is not an exhaustive assessment. The Carpetblog demographic knows Crapistan better than any readership of any blog on the entire internets. We look forward to reading your input in the comments. Also, if you can't figure out if you are currently in Crapistan, you can ask and we'll conduct the assessment and provide you with a written analysis. For free, even.

*Can you tell we were recently in Crapistan?

SOS Georgia

Check out this new site, SOS Georgia. It's surprisingly well done. Apparently, it's backed by some guy who used to make video games and now lives in Georgia, which seems odd, but whatever. 

It's running huge, graphic ads in the Economist this week and its billboards are all over Tbilisi.

Here are some of the posters they've created:

 

 

Revoke Sochi

Revoke the Games Via We Georgians

I was thinking of initiating a boycott of Russian goods and services, then it occurred to me: I can't think of one Russian product I want to use in the first place!

Want to See What Gori Looked Like Before the Russians "Forced Peace"?

Check out my Flickr page for photos taken when I was there in February. Gori is 20 kms from the South Ossetian border and is better (only?) known for being Stalin's Birthplace.

There was much talk last night of packing up and heading over the land border with Turkey and Georgia, but the main difference between talking about heading to a war zone for fun and actually doing it is a couple bottles of wine.

(Here's a good article about Gori in today's Washington Post)

Georgians Have Balls the Size of Cantaloupes

I hope this turns out better than all evidence suggests it will, but if you're curious what Tbilisi is like under Russian bombardment, Carpetblog friend Wu Wei is on the scene and contemplating the mechanics of evacuation.

I am having a really hard time imagining Tbilisi -- lazy, decrepit Tbilisi -- under attack by Russia. I took that photo of the old city, which always looks like a warzone even without the help of the Russians, in February. I have to say I am glad that Georgia has the pipeline, compelling people other than us to care.

Are You Going To Kazbegi?

You certainly should! Carpetblogger and the Beirut Correspondent headed up to the Caucasian village in Georgia two summers ago and had a great time hiking around the Holy Trinity Monastery, listening to polyphonic singing and falling into pits filled with sheep heads.

Hans at Kaukasus alerted us to the helpful, well-written site Kazbegi in the Caucasus that details all the homestays in the villages located around the 5000 meter (16,500 feet) Mt Kazbegi. It includes great details that remind me why Georgia is such a bad-ass place to travel, such as:

"At the time we visited the homestays in Jutta, the village didn’t have any phone coverage. That’s why there are no phone numbers listed, ask the locals! But try to remember the first name of your host—because the surname for all the people from Jutta is the same: Arabuli."

"The friendly family might want to give you their huge Caucasus dog as a present."

A giant Kavkaz shepherd is the perfect souvenir from a trip to Kazbegi!

The Carpetblog Effect

Did this highly influential blog force a change in marketing strategy at our beloved World of Urine/Wine in Tbilisi? 

On the left, August 2006. On the right, February 2008.

Stalin's Carpets

Surprisingly, there aren't that many museums or monuments to Stalin anymore. I guess killing more people than Hitler and drawing national borders that are still causing inter-ethnic bloodshed doesn't merit as much admiration as it used to.

Except in Gori, Georgia.

Located about 80 kms from Tbilisi, Gori probably doesn't have much more going for it than it did when  იოსებ ბესარიონის ძე ჯუღაშვილი (Ioseb Vissarionovich Jugashvili. If you haven't noticed, I love the look of Georgian script) was born there in 1878. For example, a lot of people still don't have running water in their apartments. Still, you grasp the tail of fame where you can and Gori residents embrace their native son more intensely than ordinary Georgians do, which is to say, pretty intensely.

I had heard the museum was lame so I wasn't disappointed to find out it, in fact, was. I was much more disappointed that I had to pay $10 for a ticket. (Full disclosure: this was my second visit to a Stalin museum. The first was in Batumi in 2006, described here. I didn't like Batumi.)

Built just after his death in 1953, it's a typical Soviet-style museum, in which a bunch of uncurated, unanalyzed crap  -- newspaper articles and photos and random memorabilia -- is thrown up on the wall ("unanalyzed" is probably the kindest criticism of this museum. It's a lot like the Nixon Library in Yorba Linda, California in that sense).

Not only that, it's all in Russian and Georgian, it's freezing cold and museum ladies stop to stamp your ticket every time you enter a new room, even though you're the only one in the museum. Though you have to admit, their stamp is pretty awesome.

Neither of my Georgian colleagues had been in the museum before. One was excited to see it, the other less so. Naktia was particularly reluctant to have her picture taken in front of one of the multiple statues, suggesting that her hostility is a response to the repatriation of her grandfather.

"Repatriation?" I asked. "What does that mean?"

"Sent to the gulag," she responded. "No one heard from him again."

"That's a completely reasonable point of view," I said. "You're not cutting off my head in that photo, are you?"

But even she softened up a little when we got to the room with all the gifts Stalin received from his admirers within the empire Formerly Known as Evil. How could you not be impressed by carved chess sets from Tajiks? Ivory boxes from the North Koreans? Silk weavings from the Chinese? Wooden shoes with his and Lenin's face on them from the Dutch. Wait, what? The Dutch?

Naturally, I went straight to the personalized face carpets bestowed by Turkmen and Azeris. The Turkmen carpet was seriously beautiful, even if Stalin's features were oddly Asiatic.  As  gifts, personalized carpets really do stand the test of time, even for people who are not dictators. However, the going price for one these days in Baku is about $600 and I can't think of many friends on whom I'd spent $600 for a carpet. If they were dictators, maybe.

Disappointingly, the Stalin Museum has no gift shop. However, Tbilisi's flea market is one of the most reliable places for Stalin memorabilia, if you're in the market for that sort of thing. (Are you also in the market for Hitler memorabilia? That's what I asked myself after I bought a 1950's alarm clock with his visage on it in Tallinn. I told myself it will would add a bit of dictatorial balance, sitting next to my Mao alarm clock. But no, I am actually opposed to Hitler memorabilia. I realize this is incoherent. I guess I got a thing for dictators).

Soviet History in a Bottle

Knowing my taste for Georgian wine, my Georgian friend told me to watch out for a delivery he had sent over to my hotel. "Make sure they give it to you," he warned.

Having already purchased six bottles at my beloved World of Wine/Urine. I worried that I had already reached maximum capacity (Carpetblogger Travel Hint #1: half empty suitcases are convenient for transporting wine and carpets). If it didn't all fit, I figured I could always go local and drink a bottle before leaving for the airport at 3 am. Or on the plane.

A wine gift bag arrived and as I pulled the heavy, dark bottle out, dirty flakes of old label fell onto the bed. Capped with what looks like a heavy glob of dark chocolate, the bottle seems to have spent time in the ground or a dusty cave. A wood tag tied around the neck indicated the contents were vintage 1961 and "Rkatsiteli." The bottle leans slightly to the right.

From the Cradle of Wine, a blog devoted to Georgian wines, says this was one of the most popular varietals in the Soviet Union.

Rkaksiteli (pronounced "rkah-tsee-tely"; Georgian რქაწითელი; literally "red stem") is a variety of grapes grown along the Black Sea coast of Georgia, used to make dry white table wines of the Kakhetian style...

Rkaksiteli grapes are often blended with other grapes: with Khikhvi and Mtsvane to produce Rkatsiteli Khornabujuli wine; with Mtsvane to make the aged white wine Tibaani; with Chinuri and Chkhaveri for sparkling wine; with Saperavi and Cabernet Sauvignon for a semi-dry rose wine; or with Khikvi and Mtsvane for the fortified white port Kardenakhi. Rkatsiteli is one of the oldest varieties of grapes in the world; clay vessels have been found in Georgia with Rkatsiteli seeds dating from 3000 BC.

We can all agree that this is a pretty awesome gift.  I do think there are some pros and cons to consuming a bottle of 47 year old wine made during Soviet times, however. Not that I doubt the skills of the mid-century Soviet winemakers in Georgia, but there's a reason why you don't see a lot of 1961 Volgas or Zhigulis on the streets any more. Other, more tangible considerations than "quality" and "longevity" frequently guided production decisions in those days.

But I think the best reason not to drink this is that it is history in a bottle. The early 1960s were the era of the Khrushchev thaw, when it began to become more OK to say that Stalin had made a few mistakes. The Berlin Wall went up. Khrushchev gave millions of landless peasants the right to migrate to the cities and built millions of gray, poorly made five-story apartment blocks ("Krushchyovkas") to house them, shaping the psychological landscape of Soviet cities for decades. In Georgia, dissident and first democratically-elected President Zviad Gamsakhurdia began resisting Soviet efforts to Russify Georgians. There was a lot going on when the wine was bottled.

Where did this wine sit out the stagnation of Brezhnev's 70's? Why wasn't it drunk by a Georgian looking over the precipice of the '80s? How did it survive the chaos, civil war and hardship of Georgia's first years of independence?

I think it has too many stories to drink.

Instead, it will sit on the shelf, next to the "Za Karabagh!" ("To Karabagh!) Jubilee vodka I bought in Baku (on the left) and the limited edition Turkmenbashi vodka from Ashgabat (in the green cylinder).