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MOTOROLA TUNDRA VA76r UNLOCKED PTT GPS RUGGED AT&T UNLOCKED
You are bidding on a Motorola va76r Tundra unlocked for activation on any GSM carrier, such as AT&T or T-Mobile. This phone has been call tested and is in full working order. The phone uses GSM technology. It cannot be activated for Verizon, Sprint, or other CDMA carriers. Comes with battery and charger. If you have any problems with this phone, whatsoever, WE WILL FIX IT FOR YOU. SPECIFICATIONS Dimensions: 4.01 x 2.1 x 0.9 in Weight: 4.9 oz Display: 2.2 in Talk time: 5 Standby: 14 days Band: WCDMA (UMTS) / GSM 850/900/1800/1900 FEATURES Camera: 2 MP (zoom 4X) Bluetooth: 2.0 World roaming (quad band GSM) Web browser Email SMS/MMS messaging MP3 player Push-to-talk GPS MicroSD slot Speakerphone
Signs and Codes
SERIES DESCRIPTION: A series of images taken from the entrance to Queen Street Station, Glasgow. With a 3 month holiday to what would be considered relatively extreme holiday destinations for a 'westerner' coming up (Georgia, Armenia, Iran, Syria and Lebanon), watching the people leave the station and vanish into the city got me thinking about what it is to step out into a city you don't know for the first time.
I have written a series of short essays to accompany the shots that reflect the contradiction that is my love of travelling and my fear of the unknown. Part one lies below:
September 2008 ~ Mostar - Bosnia.
I have arrived early, three hours early to be exact. For someone as disaster prone as myself this is a result. Or at least it would be if I hadn't arranged to meet the hostel owner at 8pm instead of the current time of 5pm. More on this issue later, let's start by how I got here.
The bus ride from Dubrovnik to Mostar is beautiful. It takes you along the red, sun-drenched Adriatic coast past fishing villages and rocky coves before turning inland and heading across the flat baked plains of western Bosnia. It's only when you reach the outskirts of Mostar itself that the mood changes. The first signs that something is not quite right here come with the political posters emblazoned with the Croatian flag. You know you have long since crossed the border between Croatia and Bosnia (in fact, due to the odd boundary lines of the countries, you've done that not once but three times) but still, the smiles and gestures of those who will to Bosnian power are framed by that unmistakable red and white checker. You don't know it then but these are the taunting signs that let the residents of Mostar know that even in their triumph, they lost this war.
As you come closer to the city you see at first occassional bundles and then eventually, clustered handfuls of empty houses. These are not abandoned or derelict in the classical sense though. These are modern buildings, many still surrounded by the clutter of construction. Yet they clearly have never been lived in. These are the concrete ghosts of families long gone. Later, when you find out why these houses were built and as you are told who is not living there, you can only hope for the best.
Then you see your first ever bullet hole. It has been fifteen years since the last bullet was fired in deluded anger but the physical impact is still visible on the buildings that form the start of Mostar's urban boundary. Normally you expect the fringes of cities to rise up into bland suburbs or fragmented industrial sites but here is something different. Something wholly man made in the worst possible way. The empty houses, the shattered, burnt out roofs of the factories and sheds, the pale rings made by bullets that scar almost every wall. Mostar was the victim in the war, but with an all too human reaction, I want to avert my eyes from an ugly scar. I want to walk away from the very reason I am here.
That feeling of unfounded revulsion only increases when I step off the bus, three hours early and without even the flimsiest of maps. I try my mobile phone but the connection is gone, I am logged onto the Bosnian phone network but it doesn't want to talk to me. It's only early September but there is a cold wind that blows unhindered down the long concrete terminal that is Mostar bus station. A few people mingle around the empty cafe while ancient, rusting cars pick up their passengers and vanish into the early evening gloaming. The buildings across from the station are dull brown, long faded navy or the garish grey of communist concrete. The bullet holes are here too and all the more shocking when you know you are in the centre of a city. Here is where the culture is, here is where life takes place, here is wher the heart should be. But it's not, or at least I can't hear it's beat. I am travelling alone and I am very alone.
Just 5 hours ago I stood at Dubrovnik bus station under the hot Adriatic sun. All around me backpackers and Croatians hustled and rushed. People fled onto the local buses headed for the glory of the Old town while others bundled their way onto the vehicles destined for Split, Zagred and Korcula. Old ladies scrambled for the attention of newcomers, offering room and board for reasonable prices 'Old Town very near' they shout as they press and harry the bemused new faces. After 5 minutes you want to get away from the hustle, after 10 you are a veteran, fobbing off demands for your attention with a warm smile and a hurried step. The road that swept past the station was full of cars, new and gleaming under the hot sun with a confident sense of purpose to their destination. Houses clamber up the steep hillside to the west while the Adriatic welcomes you to the east. Most dramatically of all, the cruise liners tower over the northern skyline like the floating cities that they are. This place is alive. I was alone but I was smiling.
I wander a
Hunting oysters and crabs
T and C rummaging the seaweed and puddles for crabs and other interesting creatures, and oysters for use as crab bait.
Low tide. This is not usually the part of the bay area where most people go swimming, though some crave to be different. Mind you, with the tide coming in higher, this bit doesn't look quite as red.
With the Ixus dozing with too few volts left in its pack to play, I figured I'd see if the firmware update on the Nokia N73 had helped any on the photo part. To my delightful surprise the pictures now come out far less muddled, though colours are occasionally still somewhat negotiable. Operating the phone, however, is still only a hair shy of watching paint dry.
Sunday excursion to Ringshaug Bay.
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