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    CHAPTER 17 – GANJA AND SHAKI, AZERBAIJAN
    Jul 21, 2019
    CHAPTER 17 – GANJA AND SHAKI, AZERBAIJAN
    CHAPTER 16 – YANAR DAG, AZERBAIJAN
    Jul 14, 2019
    CHAPTER 16 – YANAR DAG, AZERBAIJAN
    CHAPTER 15 – BAKU, AZERBAIJAN
    Jun 20, 2019
    CHAPTER 15 – BAKU, AZERBAIJAN
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    Aug 13, 2017
    The Shwedagon Pagoda – magnificent witness of the Buddhist novitiation
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    Jiankou – the Great Wall of China and how not to fall from it
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    Kawah Ijen – the infernal beauty
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    The true face of Iran
    CHAPTER 20 – SNOWBOARDING IN IRAN
    Aug 18, 2019
    CHAPTER 20 – SNOWBOARDING IN IRAN
    CHAPTER 19 – NEW YEAR, IRAN
    Aug 4, 2019
    CHAPTER 19 – NEW YEAR, IRAN
    CHAPTER 18 – TEHRAN, IRAN
    Jul 28, 2019
    CHAPTER 18 – TEHRAN, IRAN
    Legends of Nikko
    Apr 9, 2017
    Legends of Nikko
    CHAPTER 14 – THE SILK ROAD, KAZAKHSTAN part II
    Jun 1, 2019
    CHAPTER 14 – THE SILK ROAD, KAZAKHSTAN part II
    CHAPTER 13 – THE SILK ROAD, KAZAKHSTAN part I
    May 15, 2019
    CHAPTER 13 – THE SILK ROAD, KAZAKHSTAN part I
    Chapter 11 – Almaty, Kazakhstan
    Feb 2, 2019
    Chapter 11 – Almaty, Kazakhstan
    Chapter 10 – Pavlodar, Kazakhstan
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    Chapter 10 – Pavlodar, Kazakhstan
    CHAPTER 12 – BISHKEK, KYRGYZSTAN
    Apr 30, 2019
    CHAPTER 12 – BISHKEK, KYRGYZSTAN
    The two faces of Issyk-Kul
    Nov 1, 2018
    The two faces of Issyk-Kul
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    Jan 8, 2017
    Malacca – from a mouse deer to the UNESCO World Heritage Site
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    Chapter 9 – Ulgii, Mongolia
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    Chapter 8 – Khovd, Mongolia
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    Between the Worlds
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    Chapter 7 – Bayankhongor, Mongolia
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    A mountain life of Nepal – trekking through the Himalayas
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    Guardian angels with Kalashnikov
    The Spirit of Buryatia
    Oct 25, 2018
    The Spirit of Buryatia
    The Two Temples of Posolskoye
    Sep 16, 2018
    The Two Temples of Posolskoye
    Chapter 4 – Buryatia, Russia
    Aug 21, 2018
    Chapter 4 – Buryatia, Russia
    Chapter 3 – Krasnoyarsk, Russia
    Aug 6, 2018
    Chapter 3 – Krasnoyarsk, Russia
    Thaipusam – the way of finding bliss
    Mar 29, 2018
    Thaipusam – the way of finding bliss
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    Apr 27, 2017
    The oldest barbershop in Singapore
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    Mar 12, 2017
    Thaipusam – when body becomes a sacrifice
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    Feb 7, 2017
    The Lion Dance – dancing into the Lunar New Year
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    Dec 28, 2017
    Buddhism at the hanging rock
    Fish Market in Jaffna, Sri Lanka
    May 7, 2017
    Fish Market in Jaffna, Sri Lanka
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    Jan 30, 2018
    Tidal Waves
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    Damnoen Saduak – Thai market that rocks
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    Maeklong – Thai market for adrenaline rush seekers
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Azerbaijan, Journey

CHAPTER 17 – GANJA AND SHAKI, AZERBAIJAN

posted by Aleksandra Tofil
Jul 21, 2019 723 0 0
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The first longer journey outside Baku takes us through the rusty steppes. Rather than the vegetation, they are full of oil rigs.

Machines stand scattered along the road. Their metal necks bend over and over again in a continuous fortune mining ritual. The platforms are a sight so common on the oil-rich land of Azerbaijan that no one even bothers to hide them behind tall fences or walls. They are the non-natural natural part of the landscape.

However, when the terrain changes and rocky boulders start to pop up, the platforms disappear. The southeastern part of the Greater Caucasus ridge is not a suitable location for them. But it is a perfect spot for the Qobustan National Park – the home to over 6,000 petroglyphs and rock paintings. The oldest of them date back over 8,000 years. Scenes from the lives of our ancestors depict ritual dances, long boats which testify to a strong dependence on the sea and scenes of hunting for big animals in lush forests cut through by countless rivers. It’s hard to imagine that the naked area of Qobustan could ever look like that. Now, its only clothing is red-black lumps of rocks. It’s also hard to imagine what the place will look like in the next few thousand years.

Focusing on the nearest future, we get into homebulance and drive to the second largest city of Azerbaijan – Ganja. According to legends, the town was founded in the 9th century on the spot where the Arab governor of the region found a treasure. During one of his journeys, tired, he decided to rest under one of the nearby trees. Soon the governor fell asleep. He dreamed of countless riches hidden between the roots of the same tree he slept under. Waking up, the governor immediately ordered his people to dig. And indeed, they found countless jewels and riches in the ground. To commemorate this miraculous event, the governor built here a wonderful city, which he named Ganza – “treasure”.

In heavily post-Soviet Ganja, we see neither jewels nor gold. But we do come across a treasure in the form of the mausoleum of the poet Nizami Ganji. Born in Ganja in the 12th century, Nizami became famous in the world of Persian poetry for introducing the modern romantic realism to his art. Even Goethe and Shakespeare were inspired by his works, as well as the contemporary bard Eric Clapton. He used Nizami’s motifs to describe his unhappy love for George Harrison’s wife in the song “Layla”. An eternal picnic atmosphere surrounds the mausoleum. It is encircled by a beautiful, extensive park with sculptures of characters taken straight out of the poet’s epics. Among them casually stroll fluffy cats. They have already learnt that with tourists come delicious snacks.

Before the sun sets over the horizon, we leave the metropolis and head towards the tiny town of Göygöl. When we get there, a thick fog covers the narrow streets of the city. Once, it was home to settlers who came from the Duchy of Swabia. In 1817, after the Rus-Persian war, during which the region of modern Azerbaijan fell to Russia, Tsar Alexander I issued an order to settle the area. Only two years later, German settlers arrived. The hardships of the journey cost many of them their health and even life. But finally, they made the place their home and named it Elenendorf in honour of the grand duchess Elena, the sister of Alexander I. Soon the area flourished. The greatest pride of the town were vineyards. The wine produced here made the region famous throughout Russia and Europe. In the 1920s, many Elenendorf families were exiled by Stalin to Siberia on the charges of the nationalist movement. Until 1942, almost no German settlers remained. The city’s name was changed to Xanlar and then to Göygöl in 2008. Only the school building and the church erected in 1854 (now it houses a tiny museum) are witnesses of the German past of the city.

Şəki is another place we reach. The town greets us with a labyrinth of cobbled alleys, tea houses with steaming amber liquid and the 18th-century palaces of khans with colourful stained-glass windows – shabaka. Rainbows cast by shabaka further decorate richly painted walls and ceilings of palaces. Shabaka is made without the use of glue or nails. Their mosaic-like pieces of glass are connected with tiny wood frames. Currently, only a handful of local craftsmen know the art of making shabaka. In the palace dungeons – made into a small tea house – babushka treats us with fragrant rose tea, pieces of sweet baklava and ancient stories about the place.

We spend one night in a caravanserai made into a hotel. Its massive gate with soaring vault and thick stone walls still remember the ancient Silk Road times and caravans staying here overnight – merchants, horses, camels and carts filled with goods from the exotic East. While the servants dealt with animals, the merchants sought rest between the defensive walls of the caravanserai – the palace of travellers. Just like us now.

At the end of our visit to Şəki, we indulge in heavenly flavours. In the local restaurant – named ‘Gagarin’ – we try the local delicacy – piti. Piti is a two-course feast from one clay cup. The mug is filled with mutton, tomatoes, chickpeas and pickled plum. A hefty portion of bacon and a clay lid covers all ingredients while they stay for several hours in the oven filled with fragrant wood smoke. The outcome is a paradise for the palate, and as such, it requires a proper serving. First, you pour the meat broth into the bowl, add pieces of bread and eat only when it completely soaks in the soup. The second part of the feast begins with kneading everything that is left in the clay cup with a wooden pestle. You eat the main course – silky in consistency and rich with meat and vegetable flavour – straight from the cup. While doing so, chewing on a considerable amount of fresh onion and herbs is a must. ‘Gagarin’ became our best friend, and we visited it more often than the Khans’ palaces.

Kiş – our last stop before returning to Baku, is only 5 kilometres away from Şəki. In the village, there is a church which for centuries served as a temple for Caucasian Albania, Georgians and Armenians. Its beginning is associated with the first century and the journey of St. Elisha to Persia where his mission was to spread Christianity. The first structure of the church did not endure the test of time. The temple that stands in its place today dates from the turn of the 12th and 13th centuries. We instantly fall in love with the picturesque location of the church, its stone walls, and the red roof against the harsh mountains of the Caucasus. On the way to Baku, we hunt for another similar sight.

“The road sign said we should turn left.”
“I did turn left, but there is Nothing here. We have already driven through the entire village.”

For a good quarter of an hour, we circle through a tiny Azerbaijan village, looking for the ruins of an Armenian church. According to a road sign, it should be just around the corner. Around the corner, however, there is neither a church nor further road signs.

We go back and forth. Muddy roads paint a dark pattern on our homebulance. We pass the same charming stone houses over and over again. From the non-existent pavements follow us residents’ eyes, round with astonishment. In tight groups, they intensely discuss the reason behind the appearance of two strangers in an even stranger car.

“OK, I give up. We have to ask the locals, or we will get nowhere”, complains Andrzej.

“Excuse me, sir, do you know how to get to the ruins of the Armenian church? It should be somewhere nearby.”

Addressed in my broken Russian shepherd, turns around slowly on the back of his dappled mount: the horse neighs, the shepherd muses. Finally, gesticulating, he tries to explain the way.

We turn back and go to the indicated place. We find nothing.

“Oh well, at least we tried”, says Andrzej on our way out from the village.

Suddenly, a green, worn-out Lada stops next to us.

“You’re looking for the church ruins, correct? Follow me. I will show you the way”, a stranger shouts out from an open car window.

“But… how? Who is…? What?” I look at Andrzej dumbfounded.
“I have no idea, but let’s follow him anyway”, says not lest surprised Andrzej, already wading through the mud of the road chosen by our accidental guide.

The rain turned an end of the road into a boggy lake. There is no way the homebulance will pass through. Resigned, we stop on the side of the road. In the blink of an eye, our guide appears next to us.

“Get into my car. Leave the van here. People from this cottage will keep an eye on it. It’s safe here.”

Lada climbs the hills covered with carpets of grass. In the distance, through a veil of descending mist, we can see the checkerboard of fields and the mountains stretching behind. Patches of snow lie in the meadows like fluffy rugs forgotten by someone. Between them, in a grove of trees stripped of leaves by November, hides a stone building. Nature almost wholly took it over. The dome of a once-soaring roof ends with the blue of the sky. Through the remains of window openings, enter thorny branches of juniper. The stone floor disappears under the soft moss. The ruins of an Armenian church.

On the way back, the Lada rattlingly complaints against road dips. A constantly ringing cell phone cuts through its squeaky groans. From the stream of Azerbaijani words thrown into the receiver, we can only distinguish one: “the ambulance”.

“Someone asks about us?” Andrzej tries to find out.
“Yes. The whole village is calling. They thought that a government official had come to do an inspection. I am explaining that you are only tourists”, laughs our guide. “Here in the village, they have inspections all the time. I work in the forestry department myself, and I have to make sure that someone does not cut down the trees illegally, watch out for the fires and such. But people know me already. They are used to me. But you two! In an ambulance! They have not seen anything like it.”
“And how did you know that we were looking for these ruins?”
“That shepherd on a horse you asked for the way – he called me. He was afraid you would get lost.”

Tiny Azeri villages should be given as an example to a worldwide network of intelligence services.

A day or so later, we return to Baku. Here, we spend Christmas Eve in the company of an Iranian girl met in the hostel. Together, we prepare a substitute for the Christmas at home – a vegetable salad, which also turns out to be a traditional Iranian delicacy. Our unusual Christmas Eve is marked by a Polish-Iranian salad, red wine, conversations until dawn and fruit-fragrance of shisha.

In the morning it turns out that the passports sent to Poland for a Pakistani visa will not arrive for several days. Off we go to the Immigration Office. We humbly ask for an extension of the Azeri visa, which expires in a week. The lady at the counter assures us that it is not a problem and asks for our passports.

“But they’re still at the Pakistani embassy, waiting for the visa”.
“I understand”, she nods emphatically, “then please come back when you receive the passports”.
“But then our Azerbaijani visa will no longer be valid”.
“That’s right. However, up to three days after your visa expiration, you are covered by a ‘grace’ period during which you can still apply for an extension”.
“Fantastic! Can we speed up the process somehow, even though we don’t have passports now?”
“Please give me the address you registered within the immigration system”.

We oblige—the lady checks. After a while, she checks again. And again.

“You are not in the system, which means that you are already illegally in Azerbaijan after 14 days of your arrival”.

Come again? Illegal? How is that?!? The guys in the hostel definitely registered us – they took photos of the passports, filled out forms. We call the hostel to confirm only to find out that indeed they overlooked the process. Now, we have to pay a fine of 600 USD, or we will not be allowed to enter Azerbaijan anymore at least until we pay what we owe. Well, such money is our monthly budget, and we have travelled the length and breadth of the country already so… The lady nods again, again emphatically and says that in that case, she issues a document permitting us to leave the country.

In the evening we make a horrible scene in the hostel and Andrzej goes for the last drone flight around the area. Around 10 pm, I receive a message: “Nothing to worry about. I am on the way to the police station”.

Let this day be over!!!!

At the police station, it turns out that drones are not allowed in Azerbaijan. After long debates with ever-changing officials and hectolitres of tea, Andrzej signs a statement that he did not know, he regrets and that he will never again. Meanwhile, Customs Officer “arrests” the drone and takes it to the border with Iran, where it will be waiting for us.

Two days later, we are at the border. We have permission to leave the country. We have our drone. Everything goes smoothly until it turns out that now our car has exceeded the allowed duration of stay in Azerbaijan.

“You got only a 7-day entry permit. It’s written here”.
“But it’s all in Azerbaijani! Our ‘human’ visa was for 30 days. How were we to know?!?”
“Well, yeah, but you have to pay the fine for overstaying anyway. It is 300 USD for the service van.”
“It’s not a service van! It is a camper!”
“Camper? We don’t have one in the system.”

When after many calls, we finally determine that indeed clerk at the entry border put our homebulance as a camper, the fine shrinks tenfold. We pay and are more than ready to leave Azerbaijan. But… The border with Iran is already closed. On the Iranian side, we sleep in the centre of the lorry parking lot, under a massive billboard with a glowing-white beard of Khomeini. The Customs Officer wakes us up in the morning, checks the documents and asks to open the car for inspection. Seeing that it is a camper – a house on wheels – he takes off his shoes before entering. I already know that we will love Iran.

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[🇵🇱POLSKA WERSJA W KOMENTARZACH] "It is 'Ro [🇵🇱POLSKA WERSJA W KOMENTARZACH]

"It is 'Romeo and Juliet'. Bitter-sour ripening cheese - manly like Romeo and marmalade made of marmelo - sweet like Juliet."

Laughter echoes over the long table marked here and there with golden specks of the sun piercing through leaves of the vine. Laughter hearty and contagious. After a while, the whole courtyard, hidden in the blissful shade of grapevines, sounds with it. Even dogs tired of the heat set their tails in motion.

Only minutes ago, the same people – family and friends – were working in the heat of the sun. Hands armed with sharp scissors cut the heavy, emerald-golden bunches of Alvarinho - the world-famous jewels of grapes from the Monção-Melgaço region.

Sweat flooded the eyes. The merciless rays of the sun scorched every each of the skin. The backs ached from long hours of work.

The afternoon washed away fatigue and toil. They dissolved in joyful closeness. They were drowned out by delight, over the mouth-watering dishes steaming on the table; by the buzz of conversations and rascal jokes; by the burst of the wine bottle cork, fancifully cut with a knife and by the clink of wine glasses raised in toasts.

They disappeared between handshakes, pecks on the cheeks and hearty slaps on the back - "great work!". 

Work that will start again at dawn tomorrow. Again, it will break backs and flood still sleepy eyes with sweat. The work that won't stop for many, many weeks. And which, along with exhaustion, brings the happiness of keeping the tradition alive.

The tradition of human life led to the rhythm set by nature. The tradition of sharing the hardships of work and the joys of rest. The multi-generational tradition of creating a unique wine taste - as sharp as the toil and as sweet as the friendship. As the family.

#portugal #portugalia #moncaoemelgaco #alvarinho #wine #wino #grapes #winogrona #winobranie #grapeharvest
[🇬🇧ENGLISH IN COMMENTS] Obudził nas wybuch [🇬🇧ENGLISH IN COMMENTS]
Obudził nas wybuch gazu. Potworny huk zaraz za ścianą karetki. Wyjrzeliśmy przestraszeni. Zamiast zgliszczy i zniszczenia zobaczyliśmy potężną, kolorową czaszę startującego balonu.

- Ni hao! – z masywnego kosza podczepionego pod balon, dobiegło nas chińskie powitanie.

Wkrótce powietrzny pojazd zmienił się w maleńką kropkę zawieszoną nad horyzontem. Dołączył do dziesiątek jemu podobnych. Malutkich, gruszkowatych punkcików, jeszcze bezbarwnych czernią na tle nieba, czekającego na wschód słońca.

Chwilę później wszystko zaczęło nabierać kolorów. Zapieczone piaskowce Kapadocji nasiąkały złotem i pomarańczem. Zza ciemnej, nieregularnej linii horyzontu podnosiła się powoli jeszcze jedna czasza. Balon wschodzącego słońca dostojnie wzbijał się do lotu.

Usiedliśmy na klifie. Dziesiątki metrów pod naszymi stopami kolejne balony gotowały się do startu. Nad głowami unosiły się inne. Patrzyliśmy zahipnotyzowani, zaczarowani napowietrznym baletem. Zwieszeni między żywiołami – ze stopami w czerwonej ziemi Kapadocji, z głową w jej złotych chmurach.

#kapadocja #cappadocia #turcja #turkey #balloons #balony #yourshotphotographer #natgeoyourshot
[🇵🇱 POLSKI W KOMENTARZACH] Today is our Port [🇵🇱 POLSKI W KOMENTARZACH]
Today is our Portuguese anniversary!
Exactly a year ago - on 17/12/2019 - on a rainy and extremely dark evening, we drove into Portugal.
We were supposed to stay here for a short while only. Just to prepare the homebulance - and ourselves – for the travel across Africa.
The planned three months turned into twelve.
Over the past 366 days, we have been eating dishes that are typical for every corner of Portugal. We can almost list all of the 1000 bacalhau recipes. Masterfully - and with innate modesty - we can cook caldo verde, bacalhau à brás and francesinha. We are able to tell waiters where, in their own restaurant - with the cupboard-and-the-first-shelf-from-the-bottom accuracy - they will find Piri-Piri sauce. We eat 'Romeo and Juliet' without fear of committing an act of cannibalism. And, instead of blood, in our veins flow bagaço, aguardente, port wine and vinho verde.
We even participated in the creation of the 2020 vintage of the latter, collecting in the scorching sun the unique alvarinho grapes, characteristic to the Monção and Melgaço subregion.
With the cat food, we fed substantial numbers of Portuguese stray (occasionally also not-so-stray) birds, cats and dogs, including the bunch of gentle giants - Castro Laboreiro dogs. We met two colonies of bats that live behind the bookshelves of the beautiful Baroque Biblioteca Joanina in Coimbra.
In the scorching sun and torrent rain, we walked across national parks with ancient tumulus, 'Jurassic beaches' with imprints of prehistoric plants, animals and other unidentified objects; with summer (branda) and winter (inverneira) pastoral villages.

#portugal #portugalia
Capela do Senhor da Pedra - Miramar #portugal #po Capela do Senhor da Pedra - Miramar

#portugal #portugalia #miramar #vilanovadegaia #chapelofthelordofthestone #capeladosenhordapedra #yourshotphotographer
[🇬🇧 ENGLISH IN COMMENTS] - Ależ on piękni [🇬🇧 ENGLISH IN COMMENTS]

- Ależ on pięknie wygląda! 

Pierwszy raz na Monastyr Sumela spojrzeliśmy z oddali mostu doń prowadzącego. Potężna budowla wtulała się w jeszcze potężniejszą górę. Bezpieczna w objęciach ostrych, skalistych stoków lewitowała nad falującym morzem zieleni. 

Według legendy, sama Matka Boska wskazała miejsce, na którym miała być wzniesiona budowla, gdzie spocznie jej ikona, wykonana przez Św. Łukasza. 

Boskie miejsce!

Im bardziej się zbliżaliśmy do monastyru, tym większy podziw w nas wzbudzał. Coraz dokładniej widzieliśmy koronki krużganków, którymi kiedyś spacerowali zakonnicy. Coraz wyraźniej wyobrażaliśmy sobie widoki, które musieli widzieć z okien swoich cel. Bezpiecznie zawieszeni w powietrzu na kamiennej chmurze monastyru.

Z aparatami w gotowości pędzimy do kasy, żeby jak najszybciej móc dokumentować piękno miejsca. Mimo ucha puszczamy uwagi kasjerki, że wejść można owszem, ale trwają teraz roboty renowacyjne. Kiwamy, głowami, że wiemy, że nieważne, że zapłacimy każdą cenę, żeby tylko zobaczyć na żywo obraz, który już wymalowaliśmy sobie w wyobraźni. 

Z palcami drżącymi gotowością naciskania migawki wpadamy na dziedziniec monastyru i …

...stajemy przed gigantycznym rusztowaniem, które zasłania absolutnie wszystko. Nie tylko sam budynek, ale i widok zeń się rozciągający.

Czasami warto wyciszyć nieco wyobraźnię, a wsłuchać się bardziej w słowa kasjerek.

#turkey #turcja #sümela #sümelamanastırı #sumelamonastery #yourshotphotographer
[🇬🇧 ENGLISH IN COMMENTS] Fotograficzni intru [🇬🇧 ENGLISH IN COMMENTS]
Fotograficzni intruzi, czyli dlaczego rzadko pojawiamy się na naszych zdjęciach.

Jeszcze widać, że nie tak dawno toczyło się w nim życie. Że miał duszę, tak, jak ci którzy do niego przychodzili. Teraz stoi cichy, pusty. I piękny w tym, z jaką godnością poddaje się naciskowi czasu.

W jego wysłużonym, spracowanym wnętrzu staram się pozować. Na tle rozświetlonych foto-idealnym słońcem podwojów; na ambonie trzeszczącej historią i pachnącej próchnem; przy pustych wnękach osamotniałych kapliczek.
Staram się pozować i czuję się jak intruz.

Jakbym zawłaszczała sobie coś, co należy się naszym rzeczywistym bohaterom – stareńkiemu kościołowi, który kruszy się pod naciskiem czasu, ale robi to tak godnie i pięknie, że aż wzrusza; zatoczce na irańskiej wyspie Keszm, gdzie księżyc rozsrebrza noce tak bardzo, że wszystko wokół rzuca bajkowe cienie; ciekawskim mongolskim nomadom, którzy nalegają na wymianę numerów telefonów i prowadzenie przeuroczych w swojej dziwności mongolsko-polskich rozmów.

Nie czujemy się dobrze przed obiektywem, bo nie czujemy się go warci, kiedy dookoła dzieją się sceny, które powinniśmy rzeczywiście pokazywać.

Dlatego Kochani, mało nas widzicie na zdjęciach, ale to dlatego, że bardziej niż nasze malutkie osóbki, chcemy Wam pokazać wielki, przepiękny świat.

#portugal #portugalia #arrimal #serrasdeaireecandeeiros
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Azerbaijan, Journey
Jun 20, 2019

CHAPTER 15 – BAKU, AZERBAIJAN

Only late at night, we manage to leave the Russia-Azerbaijan border crossing. We still have to drive a few dozen...

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Iran, Journey
Aug 18, 2019

CHAPTER 20 – SNOWBOARDING IN IRAN

With the New Year, we get to know new places. From Tehran, we head north to the village of Masuleh in the Gilan...

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Karetką Dookoła Świata
Around the World in the Ambulance
From Poland to Alaska
📍 Yoga for elder people in Kathmandu 👇

Peryferie
[🇵🇱POLSKA WERSJA W KOMENTARZACH] "It is 'Ro [🇵🇱POLSKA WERSJA W KOMENTARZACH]

"It is 'Romeo and Juliet'. Bitter-sour ripening cheese - manly like Romeo and marmalade made of marmelo - sweet like Juliet."

Laughter echoes over the long table marked here and there with golden specks of the sun piercing through leaves of the vine. Laughter hearty and contagious. After a while, the whole courtyard, hidden in the blissful shade of grapevines, sounds with it. Even dogs tired of the heat set their tails in motion.

Only minutes ago, the same people – family and friends – were working in the heat of the sun. Hands armed with sharp scissors cut the heavy, emerald-golden bunches of Alvarinho - the world-famous jewels of grapes from the Monção-Melgaço region.

Sweat flooded the eyes. The merciless rays of the sun scorched every each of the skin. The backs ached from long hours of work.

The afternoon washed away fatigue and toil. They dissolved in joyful closeness. They were drowned out by delight, over the mouth-watering dishes steaming on the table; by the buzz of conversations and rascal jokes; by the burst of the wine bottle cork, fancifully cut with a knife and by the clink of wine glasses raised in toasts.

They disappeared between handshakes, pecks on the cheeks and hearty slaps on the back - "great work!". 

Work that will start again at dawn tomorrow. Again, it will break backs and flood still sleepy eyes with sweat. The work that won't stop for many, many weeks. And which, along with exhaustion, brings the happiness of keeping the tradition alive.

The tradition of human life led to the rhythm set by nature. The tradition of sharing the hardships of work and the joys of rest. The multi-generational tradition of creating a unique wine taste - as sharp as the toil and as sweet as the friendship. As the family.

#portugal #portugalia #moncaoemelgaco #alvarinho #wine #wino #grapes #winogrona #winobranie #grapeharvest
[🇬🇧ENGLISH IN COMMENTS] Obudził nas wybuch [🇬🇧ENGLISH IN COMMENTS]
Obudził nas wybuch gazu. Potworny huk zaraz za ścianą karetki. Wyjrzeliśmy przestraszeni. Zamiast zgliszczy i zniszczenia zobaczyliśmy potężną, kolorową czaszę startującego balonu.

- Ni hao! – z masywnego kosza podczepionego pod balon, dobiegło nas chińskie powitanie.

Wkrótce powietrzny pojazd zmienił się w maleńką kropkę zawieszoną nad horyzontem. Dołączył do dziesiątek jemu podobnych. Malutkich, gruszkowatych punkcików, jeszcze bezbarwnych czernią na tle nieba, czekającego na wschód słońca.

Chwilę później wszystko zaczęło nabierać kolorów. Zapieczone piaskowce Kapadocji nasiąkały złotem i pomarańczem. Zza ciemnej, nieregularnej linii horyzontu podnosiła się powoli jeszcze jedna czasza. Balon wschodzącego słońca dostojnie wzbijał się do lotu.

Usiedliśmy na klifie. Dziesiątki metrów pod naszymi stopami kolejne balony gotowały się do startu. Nad głowami unosiły się inne. Patrzyliśmy zahipnotyzowani, zaczarowani napowietrznym baletem. Zwieszeni między żywiołami – ze stopami w czerwonej ziemi Kapadocji, z głową w jej złotych chmurach.

#kapadocja #cappadocia #turcja #turkey #balloons #balony #yourshotphotographer #natgeoyourshot
[🇵🇱 POLSKI W KOMENTARZACH] Today is our Port [🇵🇱 POLSKI W KOMENTARZACH]
Today is our Portuguese anniversary!
Exactly a year ago - on 17/12/2019 - on a rainy and extremely dark evening, we drove into Portugal.
We were supposed to stay here for a short while only. Just to prepare the homebulance - and ourselves – for the travel across Africa.
The planned three months turned into twelve.
Over the past 366 days, we have been eating dishes that are typical for every corner of Portugal. We can almost list all of the 1000 bacalhau recipes. Masterfully - and with innate modesty - we can cook caldo verde, bacalhau à brás and francesinha. We are able to tell waiters where, in their own restaurant - with the cupboard-and-the-first-shelf-from-the-bottom accuracy - they will find Piri-Piri sauce. We eat 'Romeo and Juliet' without fear of committing an act of cannibalism. And, instead of blood, in our veins flow bagaço, aguardente, port wine and vinho verde.
We even participated in the creation of the 2020 vintage of the latter, collecting in the scorching sun the unique alvarinho grapes, characteristic to the Monção and Melgaço subregion.
With the cat food, we fed substantial numbers of Portuguese stray (occasionally also not-so-stray) birds, cats and dogs, including the bunch of gentle giants - Castro Laboreiro dogs. We met two colonies of bats that live behind the bookshelves of the beautiful Baroque Biblioteca Joanina in Coimbra.
In the scorching sun and torrent rain, we walked across national parks with ancient tumulus, 'Jurassic beaches' with imprints of prehistoric plants, animals and other unidentified objects; with summer (branda) and winter (inverneira) pastoral villages.

#portugal #portugalia
Capela do Senhor da Pedra - Miramar #portugal #po Capela do Senhor da Pedra - Miramar

#portugal #portugalia #miramar #vilanovadegaia #chapelofthelordofthestone #capeladosenhordapedra #yourshotphotographer
[🇬🇧 ENGLISH IN COMMENTS] - Ależ on piękni [🇬🇧 ENGLISH IN COMMENTS]

- Ależ on pięknie wygląda! 

Pierwszy raz na Monastyr Sumela spojrzeliśmy z oddali mostu doń prowadzącego. Potężna budowla wtulała się w jeszcze potężniejszą górę. Bezpieczna w objęciach ostrych, skalistych stoków lewitowała nad falującym morzem zieleni. 

Według legendy, sama Matka Boska wskazała miejsce, na którym miała być wzniesiona budowla, gdzie spocznie jej ikona, wykonana przez Św. Łukasza. 

Boskie miejsce!

Im bardziej się zbliżaliśmy do monastyru, tym większy podziw w nas wzbudzał. Coraz dokładniej widzieliśmy koronki krużganków, którymi kiedyś spacerowali zakonnicy. Coraz wyraźniej wyobrażaliśmy sobie widoki, które musieli widzieć z okien swoich cel. Bezpiecznie zawieszeni w powietrzu na kamiennej chmurze monastyru.

Z aparatami w gotowości pędzimy do kasy, żeby jak najszybciej móc dokumentować piękno miejsca. Mimo ucha puszczamy uwagi kasjerki, że wejść można owszem, ale trwają teraz roboty renowacyjne. Kiwamy, głowami, że wiemy, że nieważne, że zapłacimy każdą cenę, żeby tylko zobaczyć na żywo obraz, który już wymalowaliśmy sobie w wyobraźni. 

Z palcami drżącymi gotowością naciskania migawki wpadamy na dziedziniec monastyru i …

...stajemy przed gigantycznym rusztowaniem, które zasłania absolutnie wszystko. Nie tylko sam budynek, ale i widok zeń się rozciągający.

Czasami warto wyciszyć nieco wyobraźnię, a wsłuchać się bardziej w słowa kasjerek.

#turkey #turcja #sümela #sümelamanastırı #sumelamonastery #yourshotphotographer
[🇬🇧 ENGLISH IN COMMENTS] Fotograficzni intru [🇬🇧 ENGLISH IN COMMENTS]
Fotograficzni intruzi, czyli dlaczego rzadko pojawiamy się na naszych zdjęciach.

Jeszcze widać, że nie tak dawno toczyło się w nim życie. Że miał duszę, tak, jak ci którzy do niego przychodzili. Teraz stoi cichy, pusty. I piękny w tym, z jaką godnością poddaje się naciskowi czasu.

W jego wysłużonym, spracowanym wnętrzu staram się pozować. Na tle rozświetlonych foto-idealnym słońcem podwojów; na ambonie trzeszczącej historią i pachnącej próchnem; przy pustych wnękach osamotniałych kapliczek.
Staram się pozować i czuję się jak intruz.

Jakbym zawłaszczała sobie coś, co należy się naszym rzeczywistym bohaterom – stareńkiemu kościołowi, który kruszy się pod naciskiem czasu, ale robi to tak godnie i pięknie, że aż wzrusza; zatoczce na irańskiej wyspie Keszm, gdzie księżyc rozsrebrza noce tak bardzo, że wszystko wokół rzuca bajkowe cienie; ciekawskim mongolskim nomadom, którzy nalegają na wymianę numerów telefonów i prowadzenie przeuroczych w swojej dziwności mongolsko-polskich rozmów.

Nie czujemy się dobrze przed obiektywem, bo nie czujemy się go warci, kiedy dookoła dzieją się sceny, które powinniśmy rzeczywiście pokazywać.

Dlatego Kochani, mało nas widzicie na zdjęciach, ale to dlatego, że bardziej niż nasze malutkie osóbki, chcemy Wam pokazać wielki, przepiękny świat.

#portugal #portugalia #arrimal #serrasdeaireecandeeiros
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