..............Ghost of Colt .45

via GIPHY

.............Ghost

Freaking amazing. Oh man!!.. It's lonely me Published on Dec 4, 2014 At the same time, it’s important to remember that everyone’s experience with music is unique. Sometimes you’ll hit the b# and feel worried. Other times, you might exhale, and feel paranoid about everyone in the room watching (and whispering about) you. Each high note is different. 18 views only.

Hello World!

"A House for Everyone in Thailand and Morocco" Byways, not highways Of Soft-Porn, Sheikhs, and Dunes

Of Soft-Porn, Sheikhs, and Dunes (Iran-hitchhiking-solo female) After having spent a good two weeks in Teheran, I traveled north-east of the country. This was the end of my third day of hitchhiking, and I had just arrived in some town whose name I don't remember. What I do remember is two guys on a scooter stopping next to me at the kiosk. When in Western Europe youth press "pause" on a movie and leave the house, it is usually to go get more beer; in Eastern Europe, it might be to get another bottle of vodka. SEP 24 The whorehouses of Sulaymaniyah - Iraqi Kurdistan Female solo travel In the shared taxi out of Koisanjaq, the lady seated next to me pushes an open Marlboro Svelte packet in my face and smilingly persuades me to pick one up. Even though I actually am a non-smoker and hate cigarettes, I accept; I realize it is meant as an act of female bonding, the two of us delicately sucking on the end of these fags, smoking out the rest of the passengers -all men, who wouldn't dare to complain. SEP 9 Saya pergi terus - Hitchhiking on Java Female solo travel - woman alone - Indonesia - hitchhiking The junction out of Jogjakarta is a busy one, but getting away seems to be difficult at first. I decided to ask around at the red light. There is an almost endless amount of people on motorbikes there. After a while, an elderly man with a kind face agrees to take me. He drives carefully. When, after a few kilometers, he turns off the main road, I tell him I need to keep going straight. He bids me goodbye very kindly. AUG 23 With Turkey´s last Yezid is My friend Murat, a school teacher from Diyarbakir, likes to tell the story of his great-grandmother, an Êzidî princess from the picturesque mountain village Muradiye, East of Lake Van. She lived at the beginning of the 20th century, and eloped with her lover, a commoner, and a Muslim, to the area Murat lives in now - which, at a 400-kilometer distance, was very far away at that time. AUG 13 Women Refugees So far, I have put a handful of refugee stories onto my blog. Almost every refugee in Europe has a story to tell which in some ways is often similar to others on one hand, as well as being wildly individual on the other. What is often similar is the degree to which these stories are shocking or at least impressive to most of those who are Europe-born and raised, and who, for the most part, lead comparatively tranquil lives. AUG 1 Blogging about it (Hitchhiking and Feminism - series ) A travel blogger of many years, I have only recently come around to describing sexual harassment in my blog posts. In the past I used to "airbrush" incidences of sexual harassment away out of pretty well all of them. I just skipped over the small ones, and I completely ignored the big ones. I still airbrush them away in a lot of the stories I type out, otherwise sexual harassment would seriously take up too much space. MAY 29 .

 "My family and I, we are from Mosul. We had to flee years ago, because my father, a truck driver, was threatened by Jihadists for working with Shia and Kurds."-"My mother is a journalist. With the IS having taken our town my mother's life was endangered. We now live in Arbil but it is difficult to find a place to stay, we have to move every two months." - "We are refugees from Shengal, we fled from the Islamic State and we lost everything, we are glad to be alive. We came away with barely the clothes on our bodies, and we now live in tents." -"I used to work for the Americans as a translator. One time we were attacked. I was shot three times."
What a country to hitchhike in. Every Iraqi has a story to tell.

In my short, week-long stint in Iraqi Kurdistan, I hitched up and down from one city to the next, mostly in the Bahdinan region. Distances there are not far.
It must be said that Iraqi Kurdistan, unaffected by the war of the past 11 years, is practically another country than the rest of Iraq. Yet there are many people from the south in exile here. the city Chilas

 It was the next day that we received probably the most concise lesson in local culture when hanging around in the city center for two hours, waiting for our minibus to Gilgit to leave.

In those two hours, we saw men beating boys, big boys beating small boys, and boys, big and small, beating dogs, smiling to each other as the animals squealed in pain. A man, thinking he was being gallant, threw a couple of stones at a wailing, miserable-looking dog so that I could sit on the bench in front of which it had lain in the dust.  I felt pity for the poor creature and refused to sit in that space.

My trip is taking me across half the island of Java. Whenever people ask me my direction I say I'm going "straight ahead". I do this everywhere in the world. If I say the name of the city I'm heading to, people will say "that's too far! You'll never get there! Take the bus!". Every hitchhiker knows this. Other people would suggest I go to Bali instead. It's like this in so many places in the world. If it's not Bali, it's Antalya, Cancún or Essaouira they name. Saying I am going "straight ahead" is the simplest answer that, as long as I'm not lost, is always true. And there is no easy objection to it.
In Indonesian "I'm going straight ahead" sounds like "

Indonesia As we ride through the dusk, facing the volcano, I turn my head to gaze at the setting sun. Its globular body is leaking red streaks into the tangle of silver-grey rain clouds huddled on the horizon. Underneath the clouds, a group of thatch-roofed village houses is crouching. It is all so picturesque, at this point I'm filled with happiness. I feel taken care of. The girl tells me her name is Rata. It takes us some twenty minutes before we arrive in the sister's village, now in the darkness. You're a tourist In the end, Rata finds a good compromise. She drops me off at a small roadside mosque, asking if I am okay sleeping there. Of course, I am, and with great thankfulness, for all the help I bid the sweet girl goodbye as warmly as I can. From Iran, I am used to sleeping in mosques in full hejab, with clothes and headscarf on, so that's what I'll do. I force myself to go to sleep with an empty stomach because there is no way to get any food now. I sleep well. No one bothers me all night, and no one comes even for the morning prayer. I get up at six, wash, and start making my way on. I will get to Surabaya by the end of the day.