I'm sitting in an internet cafe under a fan, sweating like a pig. That's because it's 39C - inside, under the fan! It's gotta be well over 40C on the street.
It cooled down here for a while when Cyclone Mala stirred up weather in the Bay of Bengal causing a grey and intermittently raining sky to settle over the Pai valley. On the evening of the second full day of rain, a globular insect with flapping lacy wings hatched. Swarms of them filled our room, appearing from nowhere. They flew down my shirt and got tangled in my hair as we hurridly hung our mosquito net. A big, spotted gecko set up shop outside our bathroom window, grabbing excitedly at insects on both sides of the screen. At dinner, the chair by the light remained unoccupied - the air around it frothed with life. Nearby, frogs, toads and geckos chirrupped drunkenly. And then, as suddenly as they appeared, the insects were gone, though their brown winged carcasses littered our bathroom for days afterwards until the ants carried away those I hadn't managed to wash down the drain.
The rain cooled everything down and made the earth smell like it was growing. The river rose, the sandbanks disappeared, and we sat inside playing cards, reading, eating pad thai and discussing whether the clouds on the horizon were dark enough to signal rain or light enough to signal a break in the weather. Break it eventually did, with a spectacular day of brilliant blue sky and skudding puffy white clouds. The blue was so blue it hurt the eyes, and yet the clouds kept the sun from heating everything up excessively. That was a few days ago. Now we have flown rapidly past excessive heat and are into a whole other category of hot. Hot wind. Hot ground. Hot bicyle seat. It's even hot under a fan with a watermelon shake in hand. Everything's hot - it's the Grand Unified Theory of Hot.
I rode home last night at about 11:30. Riding fast, the warm air felt comfortably cool against my skin. I rounded a corner onto our street and was caressed by the scent of jasmine. In the sky, a yellowing crescent moon sank through a patch of wispy clouds. I was so carried away by the beauty of the moment that I barely managed to swerve in time to avoid riding over the flat and very dry toad that's been sitting in the middle of our street for days.
And that's what life is like. Beautiful this, beautiful that - and mind the dead toad.
May 04, 2006
May 02, 2006
The Memoir I Didn't Write
I just finished a book called All the Fishes Come Home to Roost. It's the memoir of a girl who is moved to an ashram in India when she is 7 years old. Both Z and I got a little creeped out by how similar it was to my own life. Her parents even considered naming her Arwen Evenstar, settling on an unpronounceable Indian name instead. Lucky me, I got both! Perhaps smarter than me, the author opted to change her name.
It's certainly been an interesting read. I've been thinking a lot about what it was that the ashram wanted us to believe and what I actually do believe. Realizing that it was all about relinquishing this material and illusory world in the pursuit of a higher plane of existence explains the poverty that I grew up in. Things like gym shoes and jeans didn't matter, but chanting every morning did, even if it made me late for school.
Some of the things Rachel writes about could have been lifted straight from my past: Accounts of spiritual experiences via a guru's photograph; plays full of humor usually involving people dressed in drag; endless cheek-pinching; interpreting all events as the will of someone; drinking water by pouring it from cup into mouth without touching lips to rim; and parents who were no longer speaking to one another.
There are some notable ways in which I had it much, much better than Rachel. For example, I had other children to play with, and I didn't have to attend a Catholic school full of abusive teachers. Also unlike Rachel, my time in India was full of freedom. My days were mainly my own, and Mum tells stories of me not coming back to the room until after 10:00pm, ridiculously late for a 7yo. I guess I ran a little wild.
And yet, in the background was the ashram and those beliefs. How did washing a statue bring someone closer to god? And waving lights at a chair with a photo on it? Z says that he feels like he has no idea what my upbringing was like; I guess I'm a little lost as well. I was involved until I was about 18, and yet have a really hard time describing Siddha Yoga when asked. Like most religions, I feel that it had a great heart but poor execution. (Another similarity with Rachel's story: Siddha Yoga claims not to be a relgion but a "practice".) Devotees obsessed about things that just didn't matter, that were beside the point, like how many times to wave the tray during puja.
In the end, I'm left with a low-level frustration with all things ashram. I don't know what it was all about, I no longer believe any of it, and yet it did form me, my beliefs and my childhood reality. I wish I had been clever enough to question it at the time; perhaps that would have resulted in more immediate answers. Now it's like assembling a jigsaw puzzle in which the pieces are my quirks and beliefs, but the picture was lost long ago.
So if you, like Z, are curious about my upbringing, I recommend reading All the Fishes Come Home to Roost. Subtract the abuse and about two thirds of the really freakish characters and you get a good approximation of what my childhood was like. Even I have to remind myself that it really was that weird.
It's certainly been an interesting read. I've been thinking a lot about what it was that the ashram wanted us to believe and what I actually do believe. Realizing that it was all about relinquishing this material and illusory world in the pursuit of a higher plane of existence explains the poverty that I grew up in. Things like gym shoes and jeans didn't matter, but chanting every morning did, even if it made me late for school.
Some of the things Rachel writes about could have been lifted straight from my past: Accounts of spiritual experiences via a guru's photograph; plays full of humor usually involving people dressed in drag; endless cheek-pinching; interpreting all events as the will of someone; drinking water by pouring it from cup into mouth without touching lips to rim; and parents who were no longer speaking to one another.
There are some notable ways in which I had it much, much better than Rachel. For example, I had other children to play with, and I didn't have to attend a Catholic school full of abusive teachers. Also unlike Rachel, my time in India was full of freedom. My days were mainly my own, and Mum tells stories of me not coming back to the room until after 10:00pm, ridiculously late for a 7yo. I guess I ran a little wild.
And yet, in the background was the ashram and those beliefs. How did washing a statue bring someone closer to god? And waving lights at a chair with a photo on it? Z says that he feels like he has no idea what my upbringing was like; I guess I'm a little lost as well. I was involved until I was about 18, and yet have a really hard time describing Siddha Yoga when asked. Like most religions, I feel that it had a great heart but poor execution. (Another similarity with Rachel's story: Siddha Yoga claims not to be a relgion but a "practice".) Devotees obsessed about things that just didn't matter, that were beside the point, like how many times to wave the tray during puja.
In the end, I'm left with a low-level frustration with all things ashram. I don't know what it was all about, I no longer believe any of it, and yet it did form me, my beliefs and my childhood reality. I wish I had been clever enough to question it at the time; perhaps that would have resulted in more immediate answers. Now it's like assembling a jigsaw puzzle in which the pieces are my quirks and beliefs, but the picture was lost long ago.
So if you, like Z, are curious about my upbringing, I recommend reading All the Fishes Come Home to Roost. Subtract the abuse and about two thirds of the really freakish characters and you get a good approximation of what my childhood was like. Even I have to remind myself that it really was that weird.
April 26, 2006
Sorry Bro
But not so sorry. This picture perfectly sums up why I love the Kushners. They are in a word, awesome. And I get to see this particular one in 18 days. But who's counting?
April 25, 2006
Close
The news about the bombs in Dahab is downright creepy. I was there three months ago. This was our favorite restaurant; their grilled chicken was fantastic.
We've talked about our safety a fair amount on this trip, perhaps understandable considering where we've been. I remember a moment in Cairo when we were walking past a large important building surrounded by armed guards called the World Trade somethingorother. As we walked past, an old beat-up car pulled up as close as it could get to the building and a man leaned out. I had a moment of pure fear. But he was only asking for directions from one of the guards.
The only other time I've been really scared was when our bus from Louang Prabang to Vientiane almost skidded out of control on a mountain curve.
But now this. And in a backpacker place. Relatively low-budget. When we went to Amman fairly soon after the blasts there, we assuaged our fear by remembering that we wouldn't be staying at the Hilton and that our small, crappy guesthouse wouldn't be a target.
But Dahab was.
SE Asia is the first non-western part of the world that I've come back to after a prolonged absence. And this Dahab incident is the first time I've been somewhere and then seen it blown to pieces. I guess New Yorkers, Londoners, Madrid-ers and many, many others relate. It's just my first.
Being back has got me thinking about the homogenization of culture as the west penetrates ever deeper into the east, north and south. One night over dinner in Louang Prabang, Anne, Alex, Z and I talked about the foods we miss and crave. I was hard-pressed to come up with anything, finally settling on Mexican cuisine and Kettle Chips. Pai has both. Cravings satisfied? Check.
This homogenization is related to the fact that more and more people are traveling. We talk about why: travel's easier; more places are accessible; travel is more accepted. But not necessarily safer. I once asked my Dad if he felt like the world was going to hell when he was my age. He said, Yes - but it wasn't nearly as bad as it is today.
He knows how to cheer a person up!
I do not mean to be alarmist. This is one incident in a world of travelers who have had perfectly safe days. It's just makes me think.
And considering how hot it is here, there's little else to do. Though the middle of the day is usually too hot even for thought.
We've talked about our safety a fair amount on this trip, perhaps understandable considering where we've been. I remember a moment in Cairo when we were walking past a large important building surrounded by armed guards called the World Trade somethingorother. As we walked past, an old beat-up car pulled up as close as it could get to the building and a man leaned out. I had a moment of pure fear. But he was only asking for directions from one of the guards.
The only other time I've been really scared was when our bus from Louang Prabang to Vientiane almost skidded out of control on a mountain curve.
But now this. And in a backpacker place. Relatively low-budget. When we went to Amman fairly soon after the blasts there, we assuaged our fear by remembering that we wouldn't be staying at the Hilton and that our small, crappy guesthouse wouldn't be a target.
But Dahab was.
SE Asia is the first non-western part of the world that I've come back to after a prolonged absence. And this Dahab incident is the first time I've been somewhere and then seen it blown to pieces. I guess New Yorkers, Londoners, Madrid-ers and many, many others relate. It's just my first.
Being back has got me thinking about the homogenization of culture as the west penetrates ever deeper into the east, north and south. One night over dinner in Louang Prabang, Anne, Alex, Z and I talked about the foods we miss and crave. I was hard-pressed to come up with anything, finally settling on Mexican cuisine and Kettle Chips. Pai has both. Cravings satisfied? Check.
This homogenization is related to the fact that more and more people are traveling. We talk about why: travel's easier; more places are accessible; travel is more accepted. But not necessarily safer. I once asked my Dad if he felt like the world was going to hell when he was my age. He said, Yes - but it wasn't nearly as bad as it is today.
He knows how to cheer a person up!
I do not mean to be alarmist. This is one incident in a world of travelers who have had perfectly safe days. It's just makes me think.
And considering how hot it is here, there's little else to do. Though the middle of the day is usually too hot even for thought.
April 20, 2006
Reasons to love Laos
An old woman wobbles a tumbler of lao-lao aloft in the vague direction of the companions seated at the table around her, cracks a large gap-toothed grin and collapses onto her nearest neighbor in a fit of giggles. She is one of several thousand drunks in Louang Prabang and all of them appear to be having a good time; there is no threat of the mood deteriorating into angry drunk. What other place can make this claim?
Drag queens grind against poles set up outside a guesthouse facing the Mekong. They are just short of fall-down drunk and it's the middle of the day. One wears a kimono, one a Sadaam mask and green beret, another a peaked chinaman hat and ao dai. I feel like I have traveled back to the Castro for Pride.
Our bus from Louang Prabang to Vientiane plays Asian pop videos that make me want to shoot myself in the foot. They are, it turns out, also karaoke videos. One of the three conductors who started drinking Beer Lao at 8:00am picks up the mic and sings along. Fortunately, he has a decent singing voice. This is the same conductor who offers a giggled two-word explanation for each of our frequent stops: Pee pee.
There is no way to avoid the water - no way to say no, only a way to take it graciously, with a smiled "Sabaidee pi mai!". But most people pour it graciously, making it feel like the blessing it is intended to be. By early afternoon each day, I feel very, very, very blessed. Blessed to the undies.
One afternoon, Anne, Alex, Z and I retreat from the water to an outdoor table at a cafe. We order spring rolls and laap and very chewy beef and mekong seaweed that never shows up and drink vast quantities of beer over several hours of serious card playing that involves wiggling our butts while standing on chairs, quacking like ducks and doing our best impression of Anakin's Noooooooo from Star Wars III. Our tab is $10. Total.
Walking through the night market alone, I realize how different it is to any other market I have ever been in: It is quiet. There is no yelling, no, "Meeeeester, you wan' (fill in the blank)?", no music, just women sitting by their hand-made wares talking quietly with eachother. The hush makes me feel like I'm walking through a temple. All of a sudden, the power goes out and the quiet crowd emits an "Oooooooooh!" in unison. I just have to smile.
And that is what Laos is like: It forces me to smile. Even when I don't feel like it, I smile.
Drag queens grind against poles set up outside a guesthouse facing the Mekong. They are just short of fall-down drunk and it's the middle of the day. One wears a kimono, one a Sadaam mask and green beret, another a peaked chinaman hat and ao dai. I feel like I have traveled back to the Castro for Pride.
Our bus from Louang Prabang to Vientiane plays Asian pop videos that make me want to shoot myself in the foot. They are, it turns out, also karaoke videos. One of the three conductors who started drinking Beer Lao at 8:00am picks up the mic and sings along. Fortunately, he has a decent singing voice. This is the same conductor who offers a giggled two-word explanation for each of our frequent stops: Pee pee.
There is no way to avoid the water - no way to say no, only a way to take it graciously, with a smiled "Sabaidee pi mai!". But most people pour it graciously, making it feel like the blessing it is intended to be. By early afternoon each day, I feel very, very, very blessed. Blessed to the undies.
One afternoon, Anne, Alex, Z and I retreat from the water to an outdoor table at a cafe. We order spring rolls and laap and very chewy beef and mekong seaweed that never shows up and drink vast quantities of beer over several hours of serious card playing that involves wiggling our butts while standing on chairs, quacking like ducks and doing our best impression of Anakin's Noooooooo from Star Wars III. Our tab is $10. Total.
Walking through the night market alone, I realize how different it is to any other market I have ever been in: It is quiet. There is no yelling, no, "Meeeeester, you wan' (fill in the blank)?", no music, just women sitting by their hand-made wares talking quietly with eachother. The hush makes me feel like I'm walking through a temple. All of a sudden, the power goes out and the quiet crowd emits an "Oooooooooh!" in unison. I just have to smile.
And that is what Laos is like: It forces me to smile. Even when I don't feel like it, I smile.
April 15, 2006
Wet
There are a few things in my bag that I haven't used all that much and that I look at on those repack-the-bag occasions and think, Why the hell am I carrying this around? Like our mosquito net; we've used it maybe three times, but on each of those occasions we were exceedingly glad to have it.
And like the dry bag which I unearthed from the bottom of my pack yesterday, trying not to drip into it. It now contains our cameras and money. It is the only thing that I have on me that remains dry. I'm very glad to have it; it has allowed me to take several pictures that can later be used to blackmail my friends and husband. Thank god for dry bags!
And like the dry bag which I unearthed from the bottom of my pack yesterday, trying not to drip into it. It now contains our cameras and money. It is the only thing that I have on me that remains dry. I'm very glad to have it; it has allowed me to take several pictures that can later be used to blackmail my friends and husband. Thank god for dry bags!
April 12, 2006
Elsewhere
I am back in Laos. Back in Louang Prabang. When I was here 5 long years ago I loved it. I still think it's a nice place, though it's very different. There are lots more foreigners. And a night market. And street lights. And fancy cafes serving real coffee and bagels with cream cheese. And I've been here before, even if here has changed. Perhaps that's the main difference; it's no longer new to me.
I read an interesting article by Marcel Theroux in a Newsweek I found in Vientiane. He wrote about travel as the search for Elsewhere, a place that's harder and harder to find in this age of rapid communication. For example, on the road from Vientiane to Louang Prabang we passed tiny villages perched on the side of immense valleys with satellite dishes hooked up to huts with palm-thatch roofs and walls.
And the more one travels, the harder it is to find somewhere really different. When I traveled five years ago, everything felt foreign. It was all new. Being back in Laos proves this point: it's beautiful here, but it doesn't fill me with a tingling sensation of Strange.
This partially explains our reason for going to Africa (the other part being how exotic the word Zanzibar sounded). We were searching for an Elsewhere to experience and call home for a while. But it didn't quite work out like I hoped or expected; it's been much more of a struggle. We've spent lots and lots of time examining ourselves in search of an answer to the question of why - why travel has been this way. The answer lies in the fact that we've changed. We're married, and that makes a huge difference. Marriage is an Elsewhere all of its own - being physically Elsewhere at the same time complicates things. True to form, we're doing too many things at once.
When I stop and think about what I want, it all comes down to a home somewhere. Anywhere! A place of comfort from which to explore this new state I'm in. And that's why we're going to New Zealand for a while. It will be foreign but not too foreign; different, but not too different. There, I think, we can be just married for a while. And that will be enough.
Laos New Year starts tomorrow, though the traditional celebrations (water fights) started several days ago. We bought some water pistols in Bangkok so that we could join in, though they will be rather ineffective against the buckets full of water thrown at us. Yesterday, each of the three main streets had multiple road blocks where people stood waiting to drench all who walked, rode or drove by. And that was two days before New Year. Tomorrow should be madness. I'm looking forward to it.
An Aussie we met in Jordan sent us some pictures, including my new favorite picture of Z:
I just love it.
I read an interesting article by Marcel Theroux in a Newsweek I found in Vientiane. He wrote about travel as the search for Elsewhere, a place that's harder and harder to find in this age of rapid communication. For example, on the road from Vientiane to Louang Prabang we passed tiny villages perched on the side of immense valleys with satellite dishes hooked up to huts with palm-thatch roofs and walls.
And the more one travels, the harder it is to find somewhere really different. When I traveled five years ago, everything felt foreign. It was all new. Being back in Laos proves this point: it's beautiful here, but it doesn't fill me with a tingling sensation of Strange.
This partially explains our reason for going to Africa (the other part being how exotic the word Zanzibar sounded). We were searching for an Elsewhere to experience and call home for a while. But it didn't quite work out like I hoped or expected; it's been much more of a struggle. We've spent lots and lots of time examining ourselves in search of an answer to the question of why - why travel has been this way. The answer lies in the fact that we've changed. We're married, and that makes a huge difference. Marriage is an Elsewhere all of its own - being physically Elsewhere at the same time complicates things. True to form, we're doing too many things at once.
When I stop and think about what I want, it all comes down to a home somewhere. Anywhere! A place of comfort from which to explore this new state I'm in. And that's why we're going to New Zealand for a while. It will be foreign but not too foreign; different, but not too different. There, I think, we can be just married for a while. And that will be enough.
Laos New Year starts tomorrow, though the traditional celebrations (water fights) started several days ago. We bought some water pistols in Bangkok so that we could join in, though they will be rather ineffective against the buckets full of water thrown at us. Yesterday, each of the three main streets had multiple road blocks where people stood waiting to drench all who walked, rode or drove by. And that was two days before New Year. Tomorrow should be madness. I'm looking forward to it.
An Aussie we met in Jordan sent us some pictures, including my new favorite picture of Z:
I just love it.
April 06, 2006
Click!
The further we get from our travels in Africa, the better they become. Funny how time allows us to forget pain. I suppose it's an integral part of our species; without this mechanism, I'm not sure that women would ever get pregnant a second time. And just last night, Z said that he would consider returning to Ethiopia to see Harare and the south. Yet he covers his ears at the mention of Ethiopian food. Humans are strange, strange creatures.
Memories from our trip through East Africa are with me still...
...The Ugandan sky darkening rapidly as a storm approached, the light tinged with yellow and every leaf shaking in the sudden wind. And then a crack of thunder and splash of lightning and all the birds in the trees flying up into the sky...
...A conversation with an Egyptian taxi driver in which we tried to explain the outcome of the last U.S. elections using only hand gestures and the words Bush and Kerry: vigorous thumbs down; palms held upwards as scales; violent head shakes...
...A woman walking down the street in Dar es Salaam catches up with me and utters one word: thief. I look at her, my face a question. She nods her head in the direction of the man behind my left shoulder. I thank her profusely and slow down as she walks on unperturbed...
And there are many more. And not just from Africa. These pictures reminded me of more from our travels through Jordan and Sri Lanka. It's been a wild ride. And we're nearing the end. Just Laos and nothern Thailand and Nice City X with Lev and perhaps some diving with Roberto. All too soon we'll be setting up shop in New Zealand, home to fjords and hot water beaches. And us for a while.
Memories from our trip through East Africa are with me still...
...The Ugandan sky darkening rapidly as a storm approached, the light tinged with yellow and every leaf shaking in the sudden wind. And then a crack of thunder and splash of lightning and all the birds in the trees flying up into the sky...
...A conversation with an Egyptian taxi driver in which we tried to explain the outcome of the last U.S. elections using only hand gestures and the words Bush and Kerry: vigorous thumbs down; palms held upwards as scales; violent head shakes...
...A woman walking down the street in Dar es Salaam catches up with me and utters one word: thief. I look at her, my face a question. She nods her head in the direction of the man behind my left shoulder. I thank her profusely and slow down as she walks on unperturbed...
And there are many more. And not just from Africa. These pictures reminded me of more from our travels through Jordan and Sri Lanka. It's been a wild ride. And we're nearing the end. Just Laos and nothern Thailand and Nice City X with Lev and perhaps some diving with Roberto. All too soon we'll be setting up shop in New Zealand, home to fjords and hot water beaches. And us for a while.
April 02, 2006
Frame
Whoever named Thailand the Land of Smiles must have never visited Sri Lanka. In Sri Lanka I learnt how to lower my guard smile at people again. I didn't realize how closed off Africa and the Middle East had made me. There, smiles were interpreted as invitations to hit on me or sell me things. In Sri Lanka, a smile was just a smile. And the women smiled back. Interacting with women in Muslim countries was very difficult. I had two conversations with women in the several months we spent in Islamic countries, and both occured when I was alone.
But perhaps the person who named Thailand had traveled from Viet-Nam and couldn't believe how friendly the Thai people are. It's really all about where you've been.
This morning, we landed at Bangkok airport after 1.5 hours worth of delays on our 2:25am flight. We were delirious - still are - and trying to function on 1 hour of sleep. At one point I looked at the bus ticket in my hand and thought, I can't believe I never noticed that Thai is written from right to left, like Arabic. Then I realized that I was holding the bus ticket upside down. Yep, another brilliant moment.
I've been thinking a lot on this trip about how everything is relative. (While at UCSC, we had a comic on the Foster Ct fridge for a while that showed some hillbillies with snouts and pigs with noses hanging out on a porch. The caption read, Einstein's theory of the back woods: Everthing's a relative.) A person's reaction to a country or city depends on where they have been. This makes it very hard to get good travel advice. For example, folks I met who had arrived in Cairo from Europe were aghast at the insanity and couldn't wait to leave. One guy I met in Gonder (Ethiopia) had just started traveling through Africa and seemed to be having a great time while we struggled. And several people we met coming from India commented that the roads in Sri Lanka seem so calm.
Even with Cairo behind us, I wouldn't call the roads calm (whatever I may have said in earlier posts). En route from Kandy to the airport, our bus driver pulled out to overtake a truck. Shortly after we moved into the oncoming traffic's lane, the car between us and the truck pulled out in front of us, also wanting to overtake the truck. As it grew close to the truck, the truck pulled out to overtake a van. I think that I can safely say that I've never before been in a bus overtaking a car overtaking a truck overtaking a van. And I'd be content if I wasn't ever again.
Bangkok is strange. There are SO MANY FOREIGNERS. And there are things available on the street corner that we've been looking for for 5 months. I miss the quiet of Sri Lanka and the fact that we white folk were far outnumbered. For those who haven't been to Asia before, Thailand can seem so foreign and exotic. Right now it seems uncomfortably familiar and not like traveling at all. See? It's all about your frame of reference.
On our last day in Sri Lanka, we walked back around Kandy lake and saw two big black and yellow monitor lizards swimming lazily by. And an egret of some kind eating a juicy dragonfly. And a turtle. And a brilliant blue kingfisher doing the Sri Lankan head waggle - the one that means yes and no and maybe. And a really big fish that I named the biglip monkey faced damselcarp. (Fish joke - ha ha ha.) And we watched macaques pick lice off each other and eat them through our bedroom windows at a distance of about 2 ft.
As we walked around looking for a hotel this morning we realized that it's election day here today. It was election day a few days ago in Sri Lanka. And elections loomed large while we were in Israel. And Uganda. And of course, Zanzibar. It's possible that we are just completing a tour of countries that you probably shouldn't visit and that are having elections.
This post was all over the place. Must be the lack of sleep. I think it's time for a nap.
But perhaps the person who named Thailand had traveled from Viet-Nam and couldn't believe how friendly the Thai people are. It's really all about where you've been.
This morning, we landed at Bangkok airport after 1.5 hours worth of delays on our 2:25am flight. We were delirious - still are - and trying to function on 1 hour of sleep. At one point I looked at the bus ticket in my hand and thought, I can't believe I never noticed that Thai is written from right to left, like Arabic. Then I realized that I was holding the bus ticket upside down. Yep, another brilliant moment.
I've been thinking a lot on this trip about how everything is relative. (While at UCSC, we had a comic on the Foster Ct fridge for a while that showed some hillbillies with snouts and pigs with noses hanging out on a porch. The caption read, Einstein's theory of the back woods: Everthing's a relative.) A person's reaction to a country or city depends on where they have been. This makes it very hard to get good travel advice. For example, folks I met who had arrived in Cairo from Europe were aghast at the insanity and couldn't wait to leave. One guy I met in Gonder (Ethiopia) had just started traveling through Africa and seemed to be having a great time while we struggled. And several people we met coming from India commented that the roads in Sri Lanka seem so calm.
Even with Cairo behind us, I wouldn't call the roads calm (whatever I may have said in earlier posts). En route from Kandy to the airport, our bus driver pulled out to overtake a truck. Shortly after we moved into the oncoming traffic's lane, the car between us and the truck pulled out in front of us, also wanting to overtake the truck. As it grew close to the truck, the truck pulled out to overtake a van. I think that I can safely say that I've never before been in a bus overtaking a car overtaking a truck overtaking a van. And I'd be content if I wasn't ever again.
Bangkok is strange. There are SO MANY FOREIGNERS. And there are things available on the street corner that we've been looking for for 5 months. I miss the quiet of Sri Lanka and the fact that we white folk were far outnumbered. For those who haven't been to Asia before, Thailand can seem so foreign and exotic. Right now it seems uncomfortably familiar and not like traveling at all. See? It's all about your frame of reference.
On our last day in Sri Lanka, we walked back around Kandy lake and saw two big black and yellow monitor lizards swimming lazily by. And an egret of some kind eating a juicy dragonfly. And a turtle. And a brilliant blue kingfisher doing the Sri Lankan head waggle - the one that means yes and no and maybe. And a really big fish that I named the biglip monkey faced damselcarp. (Fish joke - ha ha ha.) And we watched macaques pick lice off each other and eat them through our bedroom windows at a distance of about 2 ft.
As we walked around looking for a hotel this morning we realized that it's election day here today. It was election day a few days ago in Sri Lanka. And elections loomed large while we were in Israel. And Uganda. And of course, Zanzibar. It's possible that we are just completing a tour of countries that you probably shouldn't visit and that are having elections.
This post was all over the place. Must be the lack of sleep. I think it's time for a nap.
March 30, 2006
Choo Choo Choo
The buses in Sri Lanka are crowded and full of seats designed for people with only one ass cheek. The drivers think nothing of passing on a blind corner and then will screech to a halt for squirrel. Our few bus rides from Mirissa to Matara and back involved being tossed around as the bus swung wildly all over the narrow road. Not exactly fun. On one memorable ride I got a seat and Z stood next to me. At the next stop, somehow a large woman pushed between Z and I. I spent the rest of the ride with her belly smooshed into the side of my head, not wanting to turn my face for fear of drowning in her cleavage. When Z found out that there was a train from Matara to Kandy that only took 6 hours, we decided to take it rather than risk imminent death in Bus Plunge Horror (thanks to Paul Theroux for that line).
We were not too dismayed when we learnt that the 6 hour ride departed Matara at 1:00pm and arrived in Kandy at 8:00pm. We are, after all, seasoned travelers who expect such things.
The ride between Matara and Colombo mainly traveled the coast. The views of the ocean were beautiful, and some places seem to have been not affected by the tsunami at all. And then we'd pass a long stretch where all that remained of houses were concrete foundations and the occasional walls. One group of boys had turned a concrete slab into a cricket pitch. Many people had built small shacks of crude wooden boards on their old, much larger foundations. Many more people still live in tents donated by various international aid groups, their names stenciled on the blue plastic walls.
In Colombo, we pulled into the station and were immediately swamped by a veritable stampede of office workers trying to get home. I don't know how people managed to get off the train considering how many people were pushing on. The lights and fans quickly went out, leaving us to sweat in a press of bodies.
Outside Colombo, the light began to fade from the sky, the crepuscular mist making the fields look soft enough to pet and the palm trees and distant hills appear blue. It was beautiful, but we were now passing our 6 hour travel time. And then we passed seven hours. And eight. We arrived in Kandy at close to 10pm. There's nothing about a 9hr train ride that feels like 6 hours. It's a known fact that every extra travel hour feels like two.
Apparently, we did not learn our lesson because several days later, we got on a train to Elle, a mountain town 163km from Kandy. This time the 6 hour journey only took 8 hours. Our speed was governed by various signs along the track: 20Km/H; Bad sleepers 10Km/H; and, inexplicably, 15Km/Ph. At one point, and I exagerrate not, I watched a butterfly fly along next to us, keeping apace with the train until it turned away in search of sweeter smells. Yes, we were going as fast as a butterfly.
On the positive side, we met several nice Sri Lankans on the train. The kind of people that insist on buying you all of the food you glance at as it makes its way down the aisles in someone's basket. One man even offered us land upon which to build a house. Sri Lankans are really, really nice.
But we're going to Bangkok anyway. In a couple of days. We planned to go north to Trincomalee but reading about showers that spray mould in $30/night rooms turned us off. Thailand will be good. Easy. Full of other travelers. No pressure to see the sites because we've already seen them. And I hear they have Thai food there. Yum!
We were not too dismayed when we learnt that the 6 hour ride departed Matara at 1:00pm and arrived in Kandy at 8:00pm. We are, after all, seasoned travelers who expect such things.
The ride between Matara and Colombo mainly traveled the coast. The views of the ocean were beautiful, and some places seem to have been not affected by the tsunami at all. And then we'd pass a long stretch where all that remained of houses were concrete foundations and the occasional walls. One group of boys had turned a concrete slab into a cricket pitch. Many people had built small shacks of crude wooden boards on their old, much larger foundations. Many more people still live in tents donated by various international aid groups, their names stenciled on the blue plastic walls.
In Colombo, we pulled into the station and were immediately swamped by a veritable stampede of office workers trying to get home. I don't know how people managed to get off the train considering how many people were pushing on. The lights and fans quickly went out, leaving us to sweat in a press of bodies.
Outside Colombo, the light began to fade from the sky, the crepuscular mist making the fields look soft enough to pet and the palm trees and distant hills appear blue. It was beautiful, but we were now passing our 6 hour travel time. And then we passed seven hours. And eight. We arrived in Kandy at close to 10pm. There's nothing about a 9hr train ride that feels like 6 hours. It's a known fact that every extra travel hour feels like two.
Apparently, we did not learn our lesson because several days later, we got on a train to Elle, a mountain town 163km from Kandy. This time the 6 hour journey only took 8 hours. Our speed was governed by various signs along the track: 20Km/H; Bad sleepers 10Km/H; and, inexplicably, 15Km/Ph. At one point, and I exagerrate not, I watched a butterfly fly along next to us, keeping apace with the train until it turned away in search of sweeter smells. Yes, we were going as fast as a butterfly.
On the positive side, we met several nice Sri Lankans on the train. The kind of people that insist on buying you all of the food you glance at as it makes its way down the aisles in someone's basket. One man even offered us land upon which to build a house. Sri Lankans are really, really nice.
But we're going to Bangkok anyway. In a couple of days. We planned to go north to Trincomalee but reading about showers that spray mould in $30/night rooms turned us off. Thailand will be good. Easy. Full of other travelers. No pressure to see the sites because we've already seen them. And I hear they have Thai food there. Yum!
March 23, 2006
Mmmm...
We just spent 9 days on a beach in southern Sri Lanka. The water was warm. The waves were fun. The sand was soft. The food was cheap. And the best part? No-one tried to sell us anything. It's that last part that separates the merely wonderful from paradise.
We are now in Kandy which everyone from tuk-tuk drivers to travelers has warned us is busy, polluted, loud and full of con-men. Obviously these people have never been to Cairo. After that city, nothing will ever seem busy, polluted or full of touts again. Ever.
You can enjoy our travels vicariously by checking out some new pictures. Not so many this time. Egypt to Jordan. Mouth watering pictures of Sri Lanka will come later.
We are now in Kandy which everyone from tuk-tuk drivers to travelers has warned us is busy, polluted, loud and full of con-men. Obviously these people have never been to Cairo. After that city, nothing will ever seem busy, polluted or full of touts again. Ever.
You can enjoy our travels vicariously by checking out some new pictures. Not so many this time. Egypt to Jordan. Mouth watering pictures of Sri Lanka will come later.
March 12, 2006
Things I will miss, things I won't
I had just relearned how to cross the road by waiting for the little man to turn green when we arrived in Jordan where I have had to unlearn the relearning in order to throw my body in front of moving vehicles, little green and red men be damned.
The roads here aren't nearly as bad as Cairo, which may not be saying all that much. However, when Jordanian motorists see pedestrians in the street they usually slow down, unlike Cairenes who speed up and lean on the horn. People here are on the whole like their friendly Egyptian neighbours but without the wandering hands, the marriage proposals and the You wanna alabaster pyramid? When it comes to ruins and things that are old, however, Egypt does take the cake, perhaps with one exception: in the Archaelogical Museum in Amman they have statues that are 9,000 years old. The only other human things I've seen that age have been bits of rock that some specialist claims are tools but that just look like bits of rock that fell off another bit of rock in just the right way that if you use your imagination you can see that they could once have been used as a knife.
Speaking of rocks, the Nabateans who built Petra apparently listened to their realtors when they said, Location! Location! Location! The facades of the buildings there are nice, but the rock they are carved into is stunning: sandstone in blue, red, white, pink, purple, yellow and cream swirls and stripes. It sometimes resembled abstract art and sometimes big slabs of meat, depending on how long it had been since we last ate. On our second day in Petra we avoided the raging winds laden with scouring Saharan dust by wandering through a side canyon. It was one of the most beautiful natural places I've ever been. At one point, the canyon narrowed to a few feet wide and twisted sinously in waves of colored stone. If you haven't been, you should go.
And tomorrow, we are leaving the cold parts of the world. We fly to Dubai for dinner and then on to Sri Lanka where we'll take a bus to a beach where we can string up our hammocks, remove our layers, open our books and say things like, Why yes! I would like another coconut daquari. I will, however, miss the hummous. I like the hummous. I will not miss herpes, which was listed on a menu in Wadi Musa under the heading, Warm Drinks.
The roads here aren't nearly as bad as Cairo, which may not be saying all that much. However, when Jordanian motorists see pedestrians in the street they usually slow down, unlike Cairenes who speed up and lean on the horn. People here are on the whole like their friendly Egyptian neighbours but without the wandering hands, the marriage proposals and the You wanna alabaster pyramid? When it comes to ruins and things that are old, however, Egypt does take the cake, perhaps with one exception: in the Archaelogical Museum in Amman they have statues that are 9,000 years old. The only other human things I've seen that age have been bits of rock that some specialist claims are tools but that just look like bits of rock that fell off another bit of rock in just the right way that if you use your imagination you can see that they could once have been used as a knife.
Speaking of rocks, the Nabateans who built Petra apparently listened to their realtors when they said, Location! Location! Location! The facades of the buildings there are nice, but the rock they are carved into is stunning: sandstone in blue, red, white, pink, purple, yellow and cream swirls and stripes. It sometimes resembled abstract art and sometimes big slabs of meat, depending on how long it had been since we last ate. On our second day in Petra we avoided the raging winds laden with scouring Saharan dust by wandering through a side canyon. It was one of the most beautiful natural places I've ever been. At one point, the canyon narrowed to a few feet wide and twisted sinously in waves of colored stone. If you haven't been, you should go.
And tomorrow, we are leaving the cold parts of the world. We fly to Dubai for dinner and then on to Sri Lanka where we'll take a bus to a beach where we can string up our hammocks, remove our layers, open our books and say things like, Why yes! I would like another coconut daquari. I will, however, miss the hummous. I like the hummous. I will not miss herpes, which was listed on a menu in Wadi Musa under the heading, Warm Drinks.
February 26, 2006
Then and Now
For four months, we've been slogging our way through Africa. And now, we're in the Land of Milk and Honey, which I humbly suggest be renamed the Land of Chocolate Cake and Cappucino. After a hassle-free week of good food and comfortable living, I find that my tendency to laugh in difficult situations has returned - not that we've had any difficult situations recently. This weekend was spent at the King David Hotel thanks to my wonderful parents-in-law and parents-not-in-law. It was the opposite of difficult. Our room with a view over the Old City was upgraded to a suite with a view over the Old City. We had two TV's, a king size bed with down pillows and comforter, and a wonderfully deep bathtub which I took advantage of twice. It was bubblicious.
In addition to bathing and watching bad movies on TV, we took the rampart walk around the Old City. I've visited many old and beautiful places in my life (Tikal, Angkor Wat, Valley of the Kings, etc.), but none that have permeated the fabric of my consciousness quite like the sites in Jerusalem. While walking through the city last week, Z pointed out that we were on the Via Dolorosa. "So?" I asked in my areligious ignorance. He explained that it's the route Jesus walked carrying his cross. Oh. And the eye of the needle is here, too - as in, pass a camel through the eye of the needle. It's crazy old. And crazy important to so many people.
As for me, I'm discovering, much to the dismay of our bank account, that clothes are important. It's taken me 30 years to accept the fact that I do have feminine tendencies and to admit that I like nice clothes. For four months, I've been wearing the same clothes over and over again. This was particularly problematic in Egypt where the cold made us reticent to remove said clothes so that they could be laundered; let's just say that they got a little narsty. Not only that, but in Egypt I didn't want to look attractive or feminine; I got enough unwelcome attention in my baggy pants and shapeless top. For my birffday (pronounciation care of Raelin), I got new clothes from Miryana, Dad and Zack. I know have cute skirts and tops that do not make me look "big" as one saleswoman put it - this in a boutique near Ben Yehudah where the aformentioned baggy and stained pants were exchanged for a series of beautiful skirts and elegant tops. Both Z and I stood and stared at me, shocked at the difference good tailoring will make.
This would, I believe, be an appropriate moment to heap praise upon my exceptional husband who figured out how to make me happy and who planned this fantastic 30th birthday by e-mail from another country - and managed to keep it all a secret despite my tendancy to read over his shoulder. Thanks also for all of the phone calls and letters and cards and a beautiful red necklace and a pair of ExOfficio underwear and the chocolate fudge and the chocolate bars and photos and NY Times crossword puzzles and the cominc book and the big pink lollipop. It was wonderfully comforting to feel you all so close.
Todah rabah. Shockran. Amaseganallo. Asante sana. Thank you!
In addition to bathing and watching bad movies on TV, we took the rampart walk around the Old City. I've visited many old and beautiful places in my life (Tikal, Angkor Wat, Valley of the Kings, etc.), but none that have permeated the fabric of my consciousness quite like the sites in Jerusalem. While walking through the city last week, Z pointed out that we were on the Via Dolorosa. "So?" I asked in my areligious ignorance. He explained that it's the route Jesus walked carrying his cross. Oh. And the eye of the needle is here, too - as in, pass a camel through the eye of the needle. It's crazy old. And crazy important to so many people.
As for me, I'm discovering, much to the dismay of our bank account, that clothes are important. It's taken me 30 years to accept the fact that I do have feminine tendencies and to admit that I like nice clothes. For four months, I've been wearing the same clothes over and over again. This was particularly problematic in Egypt where the cold made us reticent to remove said clothes so that they could be laundered; let's just say that they got a little narsty. Not only that, but in Egypt I didn't want to look attractive or feminine; I got enough unwelcome attention in my baggy pants and shapeless top. For my birffday (pronounciation care of Raelin), I got new clothes from Miryana, Dad and Zack. I know have cute skirts and tops that do not make me look "big" as one saleswoman put it - this in a boutique near Ben Yehudah where the aformentioned baggy and stained pants were exchanged for a series of beautiful skirts and elegant tops. Both Z and I stood and stared at me, shocked at the difference good tailoring will make.
This would, I believe, be an appropriate moment to heap praise upon my exceptional husband who figured out how to make me happy and who planned this fantastic 30th birthday by e-mail from another country - and managed to keep it all a secret despite my tendancy to read over his shoulder. Thanks also for all of the phone calls and letters and cards and a beautiful red necklace and a pair of ExOfficio underwear and the chocolate fudge and the chocolate bars and photos and NY Times crossword puzzles and the cominc book and the big pink lollipop. It was wonderfully comforting to feel you all so close.
Todah rabah. Shockran. Amaseganallo. Asante sana. Thank you!
February 20, 2006
The Unlearning Curve
Last night, we went out for a late dinner with our wonderful hosts Lorel and Arnie. I had coffee that tasted like coffee and an immense salad full of goat cheese and walnuts. On our walk back, I saw a lull in traffic and stepped out to cross the street. Lorel pulled me back and pointed to the pedestrian light saying, "You walk when the little guy is green." Silly me going all Cairo on the Jerusalem traffic -- which, by the way, people claim is crazy though it looks downright sane to me. I mean, cars generally drive between the lines and use their headlights at night and the horn does not appear to be an integral part of the accelerator. So, yes, I'm relearning how to cross the street. And how to use a stove. And that it's just fine to leave my passport out. And that it's not necessary to wear shoes in the shower. It's very exciting here in Jerusalem.
Also exciting is the fact that we have more pictures to share. Check 'em out.
Also exciting is the fact that we have more pictures to share. Check 'em out.
February 16, 2006
Five Unrelated Thoughts
1. In the Valley of the Kings, we stopped in one tomb to watch two men inject silicon into a crack in the wall using hypodermic syringes. One of the workers was quite friendly and spoke some English. After asking us where we were from, he asked if we were married. He then muttered something about camels and gave us an expectant look, the only indication that he'd just asked us a question. Z shot me a what-the-hell? look. "I think he's asking how many camels you paid for me," I responded. Z chose what he thought would be a high number (45) and immediately realized this was in fact a low number, judging from the expression on the man's face and the fact that he said something involving the number 600. Oops. He next asked how long we'd been married, and then said, "Shildreeen?" When we said, "No" he looked at us aghast, clearly very upset. Having received this reaction before I repeated, "Four months." He smiled and laughed and said, "Soon inshallah". Uh, yeah.
2. There once was a queen named Hatchepsut. When the king died, her son and heir was too young to rule. So she assumed title of pharaoh, even going so far as to don a fake beard. Her son grew up. She did not relinquish her rule. Feeling the title of pharaoh was rightfully his, the son murdered his mother and ascended to the throne. This son scratched out her name in the temples, tore down one of the beautiful pink granite obelisks she'd erected, and surrounded the other with tall sandstone walls so that no-one would see it. In 2006, her name was further dishonored by a certain Troublonian who insisted on calling her Ketchup's Foot. Poor lady.
3. All too often when traveling, I see someone who looks a lot like someone I know, someone who couldn't possibly be wherever it is that I am. For example, I saw Mojo dressed in a turban and dress in the night market in Luxor and I saw Zay somewhere in Uganda. Yesterday, Z saw Kenneth walking down the street near our Cairo hostel. Feeling the burning torch of inspiration, I christened this the Kenneth Syndrome.
4. Cairo parking tips: It is perfectly permissible to park in a lane of traffic and in such a way as to block in several cars that are parked against the curb as long as you leave your car in neutral and don't set the break. If the cars need to leave, they will simply push your car out of the way. Similarly, if a parking spot is too small to fit your car, simply drive up to the bumper of the car ahead of you and push it out of the way. It is preferable that you do not push the car into oncoming traffic or any pedestrians stupid enough to be in your way.
5. We have plans that involve several countries. Tomorrow, we go to Israel. After a couple of weeks, we go to Jordan. Then we fly to Dubai where we spend several hours. And then it's on to Colombo, Sri Lanka. I hear it's warm there.
2. There once was a queen named Hatchepsut. When the king died, her son and heir was too young to rule. So she assumed title of pharaoh, even going so far as to don a fake beard. Her son grew up. She did not relinquish her rule. Feeling the title of pharaoh was rightfully his, the son murdered his mother and ascended to the throne. This son scratched out her name in the temples, tore down one of the beautiful pink granite obelisks she'd erected, and surrounded the other with tall sandstone walls so that no-one would see it. In 2006, her name was further dishonored by a certain Troublonian who insisted on calling her Ketchup's Foot. Poor lady.
3. All too often when traveling, I see someone who looks a lot like someone I know, someone who couldn't possibly be wherever it is that I am. For example, I saw Mojo dressed in a turban and dress in the night market in Luxor and I saw Zay somewhere in Uganda. Yesterday, Z saw Kenneth walking down the street near our Cairo hostel. Feeling the burning torch of inspiration, I christened this the Kenneth Syndrome.
4. Cairo parking tips: It is perfectly permissible to park in a lane of traffic and in such a way as to block in several cars that are parked against the curb as long as you leave your car in neutral and don't set the break. If the cars need to leave, they will simply push your car out of the way. Similarly, if a parking spot is too small to fit your car, simply drive up to the bumper of the car ahead of you and push it out of the way. It is preferable that you do not push the car into oncoming traffic or any pedestrians stupid enough to be in your way.
5. We have plans that involve several countries. Tomorrow, we go to Israel. After a couple of weeks, we go to Jordan. Then we fly to Dubai where we spend several hours. And then it's on to Colombo, Sri Lanka. I hear it's warm there.
February 12, 2006
In the Black
Travel is a series of ups and downs, as everyone who's ever left their home will know. It seems like most of our time in Africa has been in the red - more downs that ups. Egypt has been in the black.
We organized a felucca trip from Aswan to Edfu for us and 6 other travelers. It was supposed to be three days and three nights. On the first day we had been sailing for no more than 20 minutes when the top boom snapped, forcing us to stop at the northern limits of Aswan town to have it repaired. Our captain said, "Half an hour." Maybe he meant until lunch because the repairs took all day. Five hours later, we set sail again. A couple of hours later, at the twilit end of sunset, the boom snapped again. This time the repair did only take half an hour. We sailed long into the night under a 3/4 moon illuminating the tall sail which arced above us to the few visible stars, all of us wearing everything in our bags and swaddled in blankets against the cold. We spend the night tied up to the river bank near a large pack of dogs that were almost hoarse from barking - almost but not hoarse. I think I slept about three hours, huddled under blankets next to my shivering husband. Somehow, it had managed to be a good day.
The next day was hazy, misty and cold. We played games, chatted, laughed, ridiculed one another and our countries, ate hot food, sipped hot tea with lots of sugar, drank beers that were too cold to hold, and sang loudly and badly. Our second night was much warmer, and the third day was clear and sunny. I was able to remove my goretex jacket. Around noon the meuzzin began their Friday call to prayer and our captain announced that we were in Edfu. A day early. There was much confusion. How did three days three nights become two nights and three half days of sailing??? My bladder took precedence over any discussions and I, with the three other women de-boated in search of a bathroom. We were immediately surrounded by a group of boys insisting that a bathroom was "Thees way" and pointing in about five different directions. We followed for a while and then decided to ditch them and try our luck asking at one of the nearby flotels. One of the young boys grabbed inappropriately at our Austrian "tea maiden" who turned and punched him hard. Meanwhile, our crowd of followers was growing: carriage drivers offered us rides; taxi drivers offered us rides; Ahwa owners offered us tea and coffee and soda; vendors tried to sell us postcards and kalabiyas and water pipes. It was an immediate, graceless transition from relaxation to tout-filled travel. I was not happy. I wanted to stay on the Nile, even with the cold eating away at my joints and making me feel like a 60 year old arthritic woman.
Declining offers of carriages and taxis, we walked through Edfu to the Temple of Horus, an immense structure most of which is still standing. Carvings or gods and pharoahs and wives and hieroglyphics. Immense columns. Graffiti in Greek. A colorful painting of a woman with a skirt of blue stars on a ceiling. A carving of Isis giving birth to Horus. And masses of tourists giving me dirty looks for elbowing my way through their groups which had completely blocked all passage through the temple.
Back to the felucca for bags and to try to explain to our captain that we were not paying the last 200 pounds we owed because the trip was 2.5 days, 2 nights instead of 3 days 3 nights. Much confusion. Much tension. Much ickiness. But it all sorted itself out... I think.
Then on to the bus station, with a following band of boys and carriage drivers telling us it was "Thees way" and pointing in about five different directions. Eventually we discovered we had to walk across the river to the main road where we would hopefully flag down a bus at the police checkpoint. When we arrived at the checkpoint 4 hot kilometers later and asked about a bus to Luxor we were told, "Maybe" by an officer with a face crinkled in doubt. Astonishingly, a bus appeared after only about 20 minutes - and we were allowed to board. There were even seats. And a movie without sound - but it was "Air Force One" so sound wasn't necessary. We stopped for half an hour in a cafe somewhere and caught the beginning of the Africa Nations Cup final: Egypt vs. Cote d'Ivoire. We left and the score was 0-0.
The bus dropped us off somewhere near Luxor, on a dark street in the countryside. Bilge Pump Bob immediately ran off to check the score: still 0-0. A taxi appeared, as they tend to do, and the driver with attendant crowd of men asked us for a ridiculous price, as they tend to do. He also claimed to have heard of the hotel we were aiming for, and then proceeded to stop to ask for directions at least three times. We were growing more and more irritable, wanting to be watching the game and/or showering and/or eating. We found the hotel which amazingly had enough rooms for all 8 of us, rooms that were clean and affordable. Most importantly, there was a TV in the lobby - and the score was still 0-0. The game went to penalty kicks when the Egypt goalkeeper stopped not one but two balls, winning the game for Egypt. Oh the honking celebrations! The flag waving! The shouts of Masr! The mad, sober revelry! I can only imagine that all of Cairo was turned into one hootin' tootin' parking lot.
We found a restaurant for dinner which served $1.25 roast chicken and $2.00 berbekio (bbq) which was delicious. Then we all collapsed into our warm beds with comfortable pillows realizing that despite the downs of the previous few days, we were still in the black.
We organized a felucca trip from Aswan to Edfu for us and 6 other travelers. It was supposed to be three days and three nights. On the first day we had been sailing for no more than 20 minutes when the top boom snapped, forcing us to stop at the northern limits of Aswan town to have it repaired. Our captain said, "Half an hour." Maybe he meant until lunch because the repairs took all day. Five hours later, we set sail again. A couple of hours later, at the twilit end of sunset, the boom snapped again. This time the repair did only take half an hour. We sailed long into the night under a 3/4 moon illuminating the tall sail which arced above us to the few visible stars, all of us wearing everything in our bags and swaddled in blankets against the cold. We spend the night tied up to the river bank near a large pack of dogs that were almost hoarse from barking - almost but not hoarse. I think I slept about three hours, huddled under blankets next to my shivering husband. Somehow, it had managed to be a good day.
The next day was hazy, misty and cold. We played games, chatted, laughed, ridiculed one another and our countries, ate hot food, sipped hot tea with lots of sugar, drank beers that were too cold to hold, and sang loudly and badly. Our second night was much warmer, and the third day was clear and sunny. I was able to remove my goretex jacket. Around noon the meuzzin began their Friday call to prayer and our captain announced that we were in Edfu. A day early. There was much confusion. How did three days three nights become two nights and three half days of sailing??? My bladder took precedence over any discussions and I, with the three other women de-boated in search of a bathroom. We were immediately surrounded by a group of boys insisting that a bathroom was "Thees way" and pointing in about five different directions. We followed for a while and then decided to ditch them and try our luck asking at one of the nearby flotels. One of the young boys grabbed inappropriately at our Austrian "tea maiden" who turned and punched him hard. Meanwhile, our crowd of followers was growing: carriage drivers offered us rides; taxi drivers offered us rides; Ahwa owners offered us tea and coffee and soda; vendors tried to sell us postcards and kalabiyas and water pipes. It was an immediate, graceless transition from relaxation to tout-filled travel. I was not happy. I wanted to stay on the Nile, even with the cold eating away at my joints and making me feel like a 60 year old arthritic woman.
Declining offers of carriages and taxis, we walked through Edfu to the Temple of Horus, an immense structure most of which is still standing. Carvings or gods and pharoahs and wives and hieroglyphics. Immense columns. Graffiti in Greek. A colorful painting of a woman with a skirt of blue stars on a ceiling. A carving of Isis giving birth to Horus. And masses of tourists giving me dirty looks for elbowing my way through their groups which had completely blocked all passage through the temple.
Back to the felucca for bags and to try to explain to our captain that we were not paying the last 200 pounds we owed because the trip was 2.5 days, 2 nights instead of 3 days 3 nights. Much confusion. Much tension. Much ickiness. But it all sorted itself out... I think.
Then on to the bus station, with a following band of boys and carriage drivers telling us it was "Thees way" and pointing in about five different directions. Eventually we discovered we had to walk across the river to the main road where we would hopefully flag down a bus at the police checkpoint. When we arrived at the checkpoint 4 hot kilometers later and asked about a bus to Luxor we were told, "Maybe" by an officer with a face crinkled in doubt. Astonishingly, a bus appeared after only about 20 minutes - and we were allowed to board. There were even seats. And a movie without sound - but it was "Air Force One" so sound wasn't necessary. We stopped for half an hour in a cafe somewhere and caught the beginning of the Africa Nations Cup final: Egypt vs. Cote d'Ivoire. We left and the score was 0-0.
The bus dropped us off somewhere near Luxor, on a dark street in the countryside. Bilge Pump Bob immediately ran off to check the score: still 0-0. A taxi appeared, as they tend to do, and the driver with attendant crowd of men asked us for a ridiculous price, as they tend to do. He also claimed to have heard of the hotel we were aiming for, and then proceeded to stop to ask for directions at least three times. We were growing more and more irritable, wanting to be watching the game and/or showering and/or eating. We found the hotel which amazingly had enough rooms for all 8 of us, rooms that were clean and affordable. Most importantly, there was a TV in the lobby - and the score was still 0-0. The game went to penalty kicks when the Egypt goalkeeper stopped not one but two balls, winning the game for Egypt. Oh the honking celebrations! The flag waving! The shouts of Masr! The mad, sober revelry! I can only imagine that all of Cairo was turned into one hootin' tootin' parking lot.
We found a restaurant for dinner which served $1.25 roast chicken and $2.00 berbekio (bbq) which was delicious. Then we all collapsed into our warm beds with comfortable pillows realizing that despite the downs of the previous few days, we were still in the black.
January 31, 2006
Not It
That last post was awful chipper, wasn't it? I'm still fairly chipper, though the freezing afternoon winds that plague this supposed-to-be-warm beach town are wearing me down. This is not the relaxing beach time I had in mind. I haven't dared do more than dabble my toes in the water while looking for brittle stars (one of which blew out of my hand, smacking our friend Tamr in the face before landing back in the water). And as for diving - forget it! I used to do cold, miserable dives for free; hell if I'm paying for them! Yes, we appear to have run smack-dab into winter. In January! The nerve!
I have spent a lot of time thinking about what it is that I'm doing, what I want to be doing, and what I think I should be doing - all while huddled in our room under blankets looking across the choppy waters at Saudi Arabia. Rather than traveling to see/experience things, I'm traveling to find somewhere else to live (for a while). I keep forgetting this and going off to see the sites which I just can't enjoy. See previous post about Ethiopia for more details. Last time I traveled, I found lots of places that I could have imagined staying (for a while, anyway). This trip has been a series of, Not Heres. And while ruling things out is valuable, it doesn't actually get me any closer to figuring out where I want to be. It's frustrating. And cold. Did I mention that it's cold in the northern hemisphere in January? Well, it is. And the $0.50 falafels, while delicious, are small consolation.
I have spent a lot of time thinking about what it is that I'm doing, what I want to be doing, and what I think I should be doing - all while huddled in our room under blankets looking across the choppy waters at Saudi Arabia. Rather than traveling to see/experience things, I'm traveling to find somewhere else to live (for a while). I keep forgetting this and going off to see the sites which I just can't enjoy. See previous post about Ethiopia for more details. Last time I traveled, I found lots of places that I could have imagined staying (for a while, anyway). This trip has been a series of, Not Heres. And while ruling things out is valuable, it doesn't actually get me any closer to figuring out where I want to be. It's frustrating. And cold. Did I mention that it's cold in the northern hemisphere in January? Well, it is. And the $0.50 falafels, while delicious, are small consolation.
January 26, 2006
It's Different Here
Egypt is different to Ethiopia. For starters, we're having fun in Egypt - and we're eating. Today we mailed a package; it took about 20 minutes. The post office employee not only gave us a box and taped it up for us, but also gave Z a cheese sandwich. In Addis, it took us over 45 minutes to mail a package to Aus, time we spent wandering between window 2 who sent us to window 15 who sent us back to window 2 who insisted that we go to window 15 who told us that window 2 was the only place to help us. It was not fun. Cairo is fun. When we walk down the streets we hear, Welcome to Cairo! rather than, Give me pen. And they have the pyramids here. Them's big piles of rocks; much more impressive than big rocks.
Last night we went to the Morocco vs. Egypt match of the Africa Nations Cup. There was at least one cop in riot gear for every five people. Another difference between Ethiopia and Egypt: there are so many more police here. Maybe that's because there are things worth stealing in Egypt.
Z and I are discovering just how much we don't like the tourist sites. And how much we do like shops cluttered with dusty "antiques", even if they apply dust every day just to make the stuff look old. We travel well together; it's a wonderful thing. We're able to realize this and appreciate it now that we're in Egypt. Travel is fun again.
I am happy. Excited even. Renewed and rejeuvenated. By Cairo! Who woulda thunk? Other travelers that have been to Cairo have tried to minimize their time here saying it's too polluted and crazy. Polluted it certainly is; crazy too. But it's also lively and full of friendly strangers who do things like buy us lunch just because we're sitting at the next table over and are foreign.
Strikes against Cairo include the excessive usage of the automobile horn. Right now, in the background, it's a veritable symphonie de honk. The streets are madness; crossing them requires faith and fast footwork. On our first day in Cairo, we stood at the crosswalk staring into the mass of cars and wondering how we would ever get cross. As we stood there, a man passed us riding a bicycle and deftly wove his way through the traffic balancing an immense tray of pita bread on his head.
Tomorrow, we're going to Dahab where there will be less honking and hopefully less black-booger-inducing smog. We plan to relax for as long as it takes us to relax. Then we'll see some sights down on the Nile and then... Well, we're not sure what will we'll do after that. But then again, we're never really sure what's going to happen next. Especially in Egypt.
Last night we went to the Morocco vs. Egypt match of the Africa Nations Cup. There was at least one cop in riot gear for every five people. Another difference between Ethiopia and Egypt: there are so many more police here. Maybe that's because there are things worth stealing in Egypt.
Z and I are discovering just how much we don't like the tourist sites. And how much we do like shops cluttered with dusty "antiques", even if they apply dust every day just to make the stuff look old. We travel well together; it's a wonderful thing. We're able to realize this and appreciate it now that we're in Egypt. Travel is fun again.
I am happy. Excited even. Renewed and rejeuvenated. By Cairo! Who woulda thunk? Other travelers that have been to Cairo have tried to minimize their time here saying it's too polluted and crazy. Polluted it certainly is; crazy too. But it's also lively and full of friendly strangers who do things like buy us lunch just because we're sitting at the next table over and are foreign.
Strikes against Cairo include the excessive usage of the automobile horn. Right now, in the background, it's a veritable symphonie de honk. The streets are madness; crossing them requires faith and fast footwork. On our first day in Cairo, we stood at the crosswalk staring into the mass of cars and wondering how we would ever get cross. As we stood there, a man passed us riding a bicycle and deftly wove his way through the traffic balancing an immense tray of pita bread on his head.
Tomorrow, we're going to Dahab where there will be less honking and hopefully less black-booger-inducing smog. We plan to relax for as long as it takes us to relax. Then we'll see some sights down on the Nile and then... Well, we're not sure what will we'll do after that. But then again, we're never really sure what's going to happen next. Especially in Egypt.
January 23, 2006
Pretty as a Picture
We have traveled a long, long way. I realize that now, looking at these pictures. We've seen some really beautiful things, and collected a lot of dust and mud to go along with the stories. The photos go way back to a certain monkey-eating incident in Tanzania. They chronicle our times in Uganda and Ethiopia and even the beginning of our time here in Cairo. Happy vicarious traveling!
January 19, 2006
My barrel is full
This wonderful phrase is the German equivalent of, I've had it up to here. It's a colorful way to describe the lack of patience I've had of late. I think that three months travel through Africa is the equivalent of a year in Asia. So, I'm tired. We are in the land of fast internets now (Cairo) and so will try to keep this blog more updated than it's been recently, thereby stemming the flood of complaints. Without further ado...
Ethiopia. From the air, I can see that the horizon is rimmed by a thick layer of brown. Not smog: dust. The terrain is a series of brown plateaus carved by deep ravines. At the bottom flow wide rivers of dry, grey stones. It is hard to imagine that there has ever been or ever will be enough water to cut such deep gorges. Like the air, the ground is also dusty. Most of the fields lie fallow, a collection of dry stalks and rocks. Most of the rivers are completely dry. In one riverbed, I see women washing clothing in a puddle - all the water that remains. The rains don't arrive until May and everyone is predicting massive droughts for the Horn and East Africa. We take short showers every other day.
The roads are impressive feats of engineering carved up and down gorges the size of the grand canyon. The buses are less impressive being about 40 years old and full of dust. On the 11-hour trip from Gonder to Shire, I spent much of the time with my sarong wrapped around my mouth and nose to facilitate breathing. It was like a mini-burning-man dust storm inside the bus. In addition to dust, the air is filled with the sound of Ethiopian music played on cassettes that have been baked on the dashboard for months. Z and I joke that the songs are hits by such memorable groups as The Strangling Cats, The Gurgling Dervishes and The Drowning Eunechs. A man seated behind us complains loudly and asks the conductor to turn off the music (even though all was spoken in Amharic, the meaning was clear). The bus goes silent - for at least five minutes. And then the music starts again. We suffer on through a land with very little green - what green exists is a dusty shade of olive; there's no freshness. It would be a hard land to live in; I now understand what people mean when they say that Africa is a mess.
There are so many poor people here and so many of them are disabled by age or polio or elaphantitus or other disfiguring diseases. Many are amputees. All are beggars. We make it a habit to not give money to children or people who look like they could work (not that there are any jobs to be had), saving our coins instead for the old and disabled. One older man stops us on the cobbled street of Lalibela to ask for change. He sports a dusty grey turban and is leaning heavily on a staff. Z digs into his pocket and gives him some change - not much, but something. The man looks at the coins in his palm, makes a face, shakes his finger at Z and says something at us in Amharic. The meaning is clear: somehow we have insulted him by the smallness of our donation. Outraged, Z takes the money back and we walk off thinking, Don't beg if you don't need whatever you can get. This is not the only time this happens. But it is balanced by moments where people seem grateful. Also in Lalibela, we see a woman in front of us crawling because she has no feet. Without her asking, we give her some money. Her face lights up with joy and immense gratitude. She seems so happy; we gave so little. I appreciate her for combatting my growing cynicism.
On an island in Lake Tana near Bahar Dar we walk up a rocky trail to a monastery. The round church in the compound has dark brown dirt walls flecked with hay; they seem velvety. The center of the roof is topped with a cross and bells that tinkle delicately in the breeze. Three of us pay the guard to go in. The doors are solid wood, tall - the kind that fold in half and then push open. As they open, sunlight hits the walls of the inner sanctuary which are painted with brilliant colors: saints and angels and more saints with afros in purples, greens, yellow, reds, oranges and blues. The colors have the vivacity of central America. We recognize a couple of figures: here's the saint who was a cannibal; there's the saint whose leg fell of and then flew up to heaven. It's brilliant and beautiful and completely unexpected.
We reach Lalibela as our barrels begin to overflow. It's a poor town on a steep hill. The nicest house we see doesn't have glass in its windows. And the churches! Carved from solid rock! Some are still partly attached to the rock around them; some have been excised and stand as monoliths. The walls are pocked by chisel marks; there are columns and arches and complicated drainage systems and one tunnel that we walk through that is completely pitch black. I walk with one hand on the ceiling, one hand on the wall. We emerge into the light tingling with the thrill of it. Walking through yet another giant monument to God, I am astounded as the lengths to which people will go because of faith.
I am also astounded as to the lengths we will go to avoid talking to people. Most are touts and children selling things, though I'm sure we also spurn some well-meaning folk. On one memorable walk, when asked where he is from, Z replies, "Venus." The children seem puzzled for a moment and ask, pointing at the sky, "Venus?" Z assures them that yes, they understand him correctly; he is from Venus. "Did you come by rocket?" they ask. "No," Z replies and then pantomimes flying and climbing a rope. I am in hysterics. The children are also laughing. They they ask Z what he does. He explains that he's a vampire (a word they instantly understand), which is why he cannot buy any of the leather or silver crosses that they are hawking. At another time, I pretend that I don't speak English and discover just how hard it is to not react to people when they are talking to you. One group of men lounging by a wall in Aksum asks us if we need a guide. When we say no thank you, they ask, "Would you like to be heckled?" We laugh and walk on.
So for all the moments of exasperation and the lack of culinary delight, there have also been funny moments and beautiful things to see. The churches of Lalibela; the castles of Gonder. This country is certainly worth visiting if you have a two week holiday. Just remember to bring vitamins.
Ethiopia. From the air, I can see that the horizon is rimmed by a thick layer of brown. Not smog: dust. The terrain is a series of brown plateaus carved by deep ravines. At the bottom flow wide rivers of dry, grey stones. It is hard to imagine that there has ever been or ever will be enough water to cut such deep gorges. Like the air, the ground is also dusty. Most of the fields lie fallow, a collection of dry stalks and rocks. Most of the rivers are completely dry. In one riverbed, I see women washing clothing in a puddle - all the water that remains. The rains don't arrive until May and everyone is predicting massive droughts for the Horn and East Africa. We take short showers every other day.
The roads are impressive feats of engineering carved up and down gorges the size of the grand canyon. The buses are less impressive being about 40 years old and full of dust. On the 11-hour trip from Gonder to Shire, I spent much of the time with my sarong wrapped around my mouth and nose to facilitate breathing. It was like a mini-burning-man dust storm inside the bus. In addition to dust, the air is filled with the sound of Ethiopian music played on cassettes that have been baked on the dashboard for months. Z and I joke that the songs are hits by such memorable groups as The Strangling Cats, The Gurgling Dervishes and The Drowning Eunechs. A man seated behind us complains loudly and asks the conductor to turn off the music (even though all was spoken in Amharic, the meaning was clear). The bus goes silent - for at least five minutes. And then the music starts again. We suffer on through a land with very little green - what green exists is a dusty shade of olive; there's no freshness. It would be a hard land to live in; I now understand what people mean when they say that Africa is a mess.
There are so many poor people here and so many of them are disabled by age or polio or elaphantitus or other disfiguring diseases. Many are amputees. All are beggars. We make it a habit to not give money to children or people who look like they could work (not that there are any jobs to be had), saving our coins instead for the old and disabled. One older man stops us on the cobbled street of Lalibela to ask for change. He sports a dusty grey turban and is leaning heavily on a staff. Z digs into his pocket and gives him some change - not much, but something. The man looks at the coins in his palm, makes a face, shakes his finger at Z and says something at us in Amharic. The meaning is clear: somehow we have insulted him by the smallness of our donation. Outraged, Z takes the money back and we walk off thinking, Don't beg if you don't need whatever you can get. This is not the only time this happens. But it is balanced by moments where people seem grateful. Also in Lalibela, we see a woman in front of us crawling because she has no feet. Without her asking, we give her some money. Her face lights up with joy and immense gratitude. She seems so happy; we gave so little. I appreciate her for combatting my growing cynicism.
On an island in Lake Tana near Bahar Dar we walk up a rocky trail to a monastery. The round church in the compound has dark brown dirt walls flecked with hay; they seem velvety. The center of the roof is topped with a cross and bells that tinkle delicately in the breeze. Three of us pay the guard to go in. The doors are solid wood, tall - the kind that fold in half and then push open. As they open, sunlight hits the walls of the inner sanctuary which are painted with brilliant colors: saints and angels and more saints with afros in purples, greens, yellow, reds, oranges and blues. The colors have the vivacity of central America. We recognize a couple of figures: here's the saint who was a cannibal; there's the saint whose leg fell of and then flew up to heaven. It's brilliant and beautiful and completely unexpected.
We reach Lalibela as our barrels begin to overflow. It's a poor town on a steep hill. The nicest house we see doesn't have glass in its windows. And the churches! Carved from solid rock! Some are still partly attached to the rock around them; some have been excised and stand as monoliths. The walls are pocked by chisel marks; there are columns and arches and complicated drainage systems and one tunnel that we walk through that is completely pitch black. I walk with one hand on the ceiling, one hand on the wall. We emerge into the light tingling with the thrill of it. Walking through yet another giant monument to God, I am astounded as the lengths to which people will go because of faith.
I am also astounded as to the lengths we will go to avoid talking to people. Most are touts and children selling things, though I'm sure we also spurn some well-meaning folk. On one memorable walk, when asked where he is from, Z replies, "Venus." The children seem puzzled for a moment and ask, pointing at the sky, "Venus?" Z assures them that yes, they understand him correctly; he is from Venus. "Did you come by rocket?" they ask. "No," Z replies and then pantomimes flying and climbing a rope. I am in hysterics. The children are also laughing. They they ask Z what he does. He explains that he's a vampire (a word they instantly understand), which is why he cannot buy any of the leather or silver crosses that they are hawking. At another time, I pretend that I don't speak English and discover just how hard it is to not react to people when they are talking to you. One group of men lounging by a wall in Aksum asks us if we need a guide. When we say no thank you, they ask, "Would you like to be heckled?" We laugh and walk on.
So for all the moments of exasperation and the lack of culinary delight, there have also been funny moments and beautiful things to see. The churches of Lalibela; the castles of Gonder. This country is certainly worth visiting if you have a two week holiday. Just remember to bring vitamins.
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