TRIP TO MANGUP-KALE

<...> Mangup Kale was next. We drove eastwards across wheat, sunflower and vegetable fields. After more than an hour, we passed a beautiful meadow by a lake. To the other side was a lush green valley with a few tall limestone plateaus. Yevgeny pointed to one of them at the end of the valley, "That's Mangup". Here, newly-returned Tatars have built a new village. Men were erecting little houses with corrugated aluminum roofs while the women were with the crops. "It's a hard life," Yevgeny said. These Tatars have arrived in a homeland full of strangers, many of whom distrust them. There is no more land for them and they often have to settle in remote and less fertile areas. Even then, decades of hardship in the Central Asian deserts have taught them not only endurance, but also the magic of making the desert bloom. Crimea can't be a problem for them. They have since improved the diet of all in Crimea, with the best, cheapest and the freshest vegetables and fruits one can find. We parked the car in front of a Tatar house and Yevgeny shouted for an order for Pilov (Uzbek fried rice) and Manty (Central Asian dumplings). We would return for a late lunch after visiting Mangup Kale.

Then we began our walk to the Kale, or fortress in Turkish or Tatar. There is nothing but a muddy track through the dense forest. It certainly wasn't a very encouraging start when rain began to fall. We hurried into the dense canopy for shelter. The place looked deserted but occasionally we passed a few hikers. "Dobry Dan. Dzharviste !" And then it became eerie again, the only noise being the running stream and the whirring of cicadas. We passed by some ancient Karaim tombs, many of which still had engravings in Hebrew. I was certain there were more eyes than ours around, and the feeling of being stared at by the unknown wasn't the most pleasant of feelings. And yes, like anyone else from the Far East, even a supposedly pseudo internet-savvy investment banker like me is always aware of the thin line between the physical world and its supernatural counterpart.

Two hours lapsed as we emerged from the forest into an almost treeless, flat plateau. By then, we were panting heavily. Heavens must be jealous of our achievement, as it began drizzling again. A lone figure in raincoat and a stick appeared from the misty horizon. We walked forward and Yevgeny greeted him like an old friend. It's Dr Alexander Gertsen, a renowned archaeologist. Yevgeny seems to know all the archaeologists in Crimea. "I like unusual people," he said. Lonely Planet doesn't tell me much about Mangup, and I have by then forgotten Neal Ascherson's description of the place and its history. And so I had a refresher course from Dr Gertsen, who despite his wretched drenched state, told me briefly about Mangup and the Feodoros.

Although the evidence was by no means conclusive, Mangup was reportedly first founded in the 3rd century AD by nomadic Alans and Goths. They were initially a vassal of Byzantium, but soon became an integral part of the empire. The strategic and easily defensible fortress city meant that it became the place of refuge whenever a new group of invading nomads entered Crimea. The city was later captured by the Khazars, another nomadic group, but in 787 AD, Prince-Metropolitan John the Goth led a rebellion against the Khazars, thus founding the principality of Feodoros, which lasted until 1475, when the Ottomans came. The Turks laid siege to Mangup for six months, and finally using the technique they deployed in Constantinople, that is, concentrated cannon fire with granites weighing 100 kilograms each on a few specific locations, they breached the wall and ended the principality once and for all. The Karaims stayed here for a while, and even they left in 1792.

We walked around the barren top of the plateau, admiring the sweeping landscape and panoramic view. On a clear day, one could see the Black Sea coast. I suppose Feodoros planners were once on the lookout for the latest reinforcement of Ottoman troops, which meant that their cause could only be getting worse by the day. We caught sight of a representative of Mangup's modern day inhabitants – local hippies. The blond, cock-eyed girl (yes, another blond) carried a bundle of wood past us in the opposite direction. Goodness me, she did not even blink her eyes, merely walking straight and stiff. It was as though we were invisible ! She reminded me of the possessed ones in all time family movies like Omen and Exorcist. Or like that sexy though possessed lady in Ghostbusters who I vaguely remembered having said something like "I'm the Gate-Keeper. Are you the Key-Master ?"

The basilica and citadel stood above all. Obviously this was a lonely place with few visitors. One could still see remnants of Byzantine architectural styles. At the pointed end of the plateau was a series of caves, one of the many that's found on this cheesecake-like plateau. Glorious panoramic view and occasional sign of recent human occupation – piles of burnt wood, some rubbish, etc. I could imagine the hippies doing a joint here. Later, on our way downhill, we even passed two hippy blokes and a girl – all in their twenties, shoulder-length hair and ear piercings.

We returned to the Tatar house and were invited to sit on the family takhta, a raised bed-like platform covered with a Bukhara carpet. This reminded me of the many hours I had spent in an Uzbek chaikhanna, or tea house, together with overwhelming local hospitality. The sun-burnt, bare-chested late twenty-plus Son was chopping a tree trunk for fire wood, while wrinkled Mummy in her bright rainbow-coloured Uzbek gown and Daddy in his black-white skullcap served us great chai, or tea.

"Salaam aley-kum" I greeted Mummy and Daddy Tatar using the standard Islamic phase, Peace be with you. They were delighted and asked if I was a fellow believer. I surprised them by saying that I'm not, but I come from a part of the world with many Muslims, and have been to many Islamic lands. Yevgeny told them that I have been to over 50 countries. They were impressed, but that hit Mummy Tatar's sore point too. She was very distressed that she didn't have enough money to buy an air ticket to the Urals to visit her daughter, while days before I was still wondering how I could reach the 118-country achieved by the Spaniard I met in Vilnius.

We returned to Simferopol in time for a great dinner prepared by Vera. This time it's pepper and rice, coupled with great Crimean wines. Heres, Massandra and all. <...>

(by Tang Wee Cheng, Singapore)