Sharfland - a destination that until very recently had managed to evade the tourist radar - has recently found itself under the microscope. Since Open Borders Magazine granted the nation a "Must Visit" rating in its 2016 Review, an ever-greater number of intrepid travelers have made their way to this deeply exotic country.
Littered with ancient sites of both human and natural beauty, Sharfland defies one uniform description: the dramatic, towering Amayalis loom over expansive, featureless steppe; fast and fertile rivers cut deep valleys through the densely populated lowland as they reach the subtropical coast; the national constructed language "Sharfic" is the mother tongue of no-one, and finds itself playing second fiddle to a dizzying array of regional languages and scripts on signposts across the country.
Our correspondent has travelled the length and breadth of this fascinating nation, brushing away the outdated image of war and disease to expose a young, dynamic country that seeks, after one hundred years of isolation, to share its rich cultural heritage with the world at large.
"The rich fool outlives the poor scholar"
- Vorga proverb
Sharfland's chaotic, sprawling capital of Vorga is the perfect place for one to begin their adventure. It has no culture of its own, expatriate Sharfics will insist, acting instead as a cauldron in which all manner of customs and traditions from across this federation are tossed and reduced into an overpowering broth.
Certainly Vorga feels like a cauldron in the late summer. Fierce thirty-degree heat beats down on me as I walk through the central business district at Amayala Junction, admiring the fifty- and sixty- storey glass and steel towers that have sprouted in Vorga like mushrooms since the end of Sharfland's civil war. Between these cutting edge towers sit a number of three- to ten- floor buildings, basic concrete structures that sweat in the humid subtropical rain and leave distinct stains running down the outer walls. Dozens of food carts clog the streets, where old migrant women from the provinces serve steaming yak noodle broth into cheap bowls for all manner of customers to wolf down at a folding plastic table.
It begins raining again, as is common at this time of year, and the sea of people on the pavement instantly dissolves as office workers pop open umbrellas or slide under shopfronts, hoping to wait out the torrential downpour. With a population approaching nine million as of 2018, these smartly dressed young professionals are forced to compete fiercely for space under the flickering neon signs.
A short ride away on the Blue Line metro (recently rehabilitated, and unexpectedly clean and clinical) is the old city of Vorga. A world away from the modern bustle of Amayala Junction, the old city is an unplanned warren of squat, mud-brick buildings that remain unchanged after three hundred years of settlement. The winding nature of the old city led me to arrange a tour with guide Buur. I meet him in the courtyard of his home - most blocks in the old city feature common access inner courtyards lined with apricot and cherry trees. He pours some sweet, green tea - an inescapable custom - into a small metal cup for me as we discuss our plans for the day. His wife appears beside us, placing a large platter on the table which was stacked with thick, hearty naan and a small number of dips. The apricot curry, Buur smiles, was made with food grown in this garden. I take a bite - it is a little too spicy for my tastes, but I nonetheless tell Buur it is delicious. He instantly detects my untruth, and grins in recognition. I will take you to the liar's den, he tells me.
The Chezir is a large, circular mud-walled bazaar that for many centuries served as the nexus of trade in south-central Crataea. Today, as with all days, it is overflowing with thousands of customers shopping for every conceivable thing on earth. Despite the infinitely varied nature of the goods on offer, the Chezir has been helpfully segregated into numbered "blocks" each dedicated to a certain product. Buur first shows me the animal block, where shepherds bid on stocky yaks and goats, then guides me through to the clothing blocks. I spend a good hour here haggling (with Buur at my side ensuring I avoid any of the hundreds of obscure faux pas) and walk away with some leather boots and an impossibly warm yak-skin fur coat - perfect for the coming Wallasean winter.
Buur and I spend several more hours wandering through the old town, where a new museum, gallery, fountain or antique store lies around every corner. Finally we surrender to our hunger in the early evening, and Buur takes me to the incredible Naor (feast) restaurant (Vorga Old City, ask for directions to the Ulannic Mosaic) for some dinner. I recommend the smoked horse sausage, served with fluffy jasmine rice flavoured with cumin and saffron - and of course a local beer with which to wash it down.
As we put down our cutlery I ask Buur to sum up Vorga for my readers. He looks at me and smiles.
"My friend, I think it can be summed up as a thousand cities in one".
I look across the Ulannic Mosaic (a large square formed of enormous historical mosaics). Ahead of me the short, mud-and-clay bricked houses of the old town give way to rows upon rows of identical concrete tower blocks - some intact, some gutted by fire and war. Behind them, the cutting edge glass and steel of Amayala Junction is lit up by a thousand bulbs that pour light into the evening sky. I tell Buur I think I agree.
Play up, play up, and play the game!
1 post • Page 1 of 1
Who is online
Users browsing this forum: No registered users and 1 guest