Our Ponytails
I see us in the children here.
My sisters and me, ages one, four, five
Onion tops, or front of head “goat horn” dos.
Pale, thin skin, large impish eyes
Sun-drenched against backdrops of rooftops, desert, haze.
Why did they come? And how did they feel, my young parents?
Learning new names, new faces, new foods I learn now—menaeesh, beitenjan, labneh, benadura.
Navigating playmates, home repair, pastoral visits, emergencies, impish children, nosy neighbors,
With fondness undimmed by foreign-ness.
The accents, customs, and foods of Syria feel like an old aunt.
Safety, comfort, with occasional self-consciousness, funny clothes, or bad breath,
Learned and felt mostly second-hand through my parents.
Finger-bunched motion of “stanna swaya” held out the windows of impatient taxis.
“Ya habibi!!” to the child who runs in front of a cart on a cobble-stoned street.
“Hemar!!” to the other stupid driver.
Plentiful sweet orange juice and creamy labneh.
And the generosity of the Armenian lady who put down her groceries and took us half-a-mile away to the best foul medemas shop, just because we asked where to get some for breakfast—all along jabbering in Arabic and apologizing that her own house was too small.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Learnings and Jordan observations - by Yvette
When one takes a “midlife crises pre-children” kind of round-the-world trip, it seems that there are deep, meaningful, abstract lessons one should learn. My original dreaming about this trip included words like “spontaneity,” “aesthetic,” “art,” “creativity,” “self-expansion.” And yes, in their own messy way, those ideas are being explored. But there are some more immediate lessons I’ve learned recently which I’d like to share:
1) Chinese suction cups suck—or, rather, they don’t suck enough. Our potholders keep falling from their suction-cupped-to-the-tile vantage point. Much more significantly, our $2 tub-bottom anti-slip mat has a similar effect as a slimy banana peel. As I sat in the bottom of the tub with the shower raining down on me, trying to secure the suction cups yet again and rubbing my bruised shoulder, it took no imagination to ponder what it must be like to be elderly and afraid of falling in the tub. (The mat has now been demoted to use as a rug on the dry floor.)
2) Building codes rock. Okay, so we’ve violated them before. However, now that we’ve a) melted our heater plug twice; b) blown a hole in the side of a lightbulb we were trying to screw in (even worse, this didn’t throw the breaker); c) melted the plug our mostly-gas stove is plugged into (the broiler is electric, go figure); d) enjoyed a show of sparks any time we plug anything in, we’ve decided that housing codes are good things. We’re still going through light bulbs at a rapid rate, but that may relate to item #1 above—made in China.
3) Peeled garlic stinks. Initially, the only garlic we could find came pre-peeled, by the kilo. Now, I like garlic, but even so. . . The plastic bag did little to contain the smell, and soon everything in our fridge (yoghurt, milk, left-over pudding from the night before) smelled like garlic. We attempted a rubber-gasket glass jar, the garlic still escaped. We ate it in everything we could, by the handful. We’ve now found unpeeled garlic—who knew that those peels were so much more effective than modern plastic or glass, in keeping the smell in until one really wants to include garlic in what one is eating.
4) Hot and cold proportions are surprising. When bathing from water one has heated on the stove, the appropriate proportions of hot and cold are surprising. For example, one might think one should fill the bucket with half ice cold water from the tap, and half hot water from the steaming pan one has just carefully carried up the stairs to the bathroom. One would be wrong, painfully wrong.
5) Shopping for jeans is hard. On the Southeast Asia tourist route, most women are dressed in very cool Capri pants and short-sleeved, v-necked t-shirts. Not so true in Syria. Capri pants turn every head in our neighborhood (well, the women try to be discreetly in following you with their eyes, but fail, even from behind a veil)—wow, they scream, there’s ankles here!!! Similarly so with a v-neck. I think people try to be respectful, but it’s hard to gawk respectfully, and, well, I’m foreign enough already (note the uncovered hair), that dressing this way just makes me an easy target to stare at. So, I decide that a second pair of jeans would be a good plan. Okay, so shopping for jeans is hard in the US as well. But here, the challenging factors include that almost all the shopkeepers are men who either try to be helpful or just scrutinize you while you shop—both of these are end up feeling like an ambush anytime one walks into a store. Further, Syrian thighs—not to mention current fashion trends—seem to suggest that all legs are bird-like. My grandfather was a Swiss dairy farmer and thus my thighs are not bird-like. Most of the jeans are very bling-ey, with silver thread and sequins all over the hips and pickets, some more attractive than others. And then there’s the whole price issue. Prices are negotiable in almost every shop. My 13-year-old neighbor assures me I shouldn’t pay more than SP 500 (about $10), but the prices seem to range from there to $80 jeans in the local fancy mall. Ergh. So the shopping sagas I’ve not talked about? A) peanut butter; B) camel meat, this the shop keeper’s idea and not our own; C) parts for our broken toilet; D) bikini line waxing.
Jordan . . .
Our five-day trip to Jordan was really great. We’d gotten a rough translation of the itinerary, but each new day was largely a mystery. Much more spontaneous that way. . . .
Favorites . . . we saw a lot in our 5 days, but I’ll not list everything. Here are a few faves from the trip: 1) Mt. Nebo, from which Moses saw the Promised Land and was then taken to heaven. Beautiful, peaceful, mountain with a lovely breeze and sweeping views. I hope it was a less-hazy day for Moses than it was for us, but even so we were able to see the Dead Sea, the Golan Heights, the suburbs of Amman from here. 2) Wadi Rum – beautiful desert protected area where we rode jeeps (the sun was setting, it was cold!), played football with the Bedouin kids, tried to pet protesting camels, and succeeded in petting baby goats. 3) Madaba -- mosaic of the world’s earliest / largest map, mosaics everywhere were very cool, but this one especially. 4) Jarash – ancient Roman city, a lot of it still intact. Two large theaters (love that), long colonnaded streets and circular plazas, temples to Zeus or Artemis. 5) Petra – of course, fascinating. The site is amazing. Favorite things there beyond the obvious, were the handsomely-decked-out Bedouin policeman we got our picture with, the camels we rode on (first time), and the music being played / sung out from one of the lookout towers, by the church that we hiked to on the far end of Petra. (Petra is where we were the “late ones” back to the bus—sorry, Mary!) 6) Aqaba – A very touristy, somewhat glitzy, party city. I believe 90% of people there are foreigners, it’s a duty-free zone within Jordan, situated on the beautiful blue of the Red Sea (go figure) just across from Israel. We went on glass bottom boats, didn’t see too many fish, but nice to be out on the blue water in the sunshine and the breeze.
Differences with Syria . . . I like that, during this trip, we’re learning about the nuanced differences between places by experience and exposure. Jordan has more friendly relations with the west – evidenced in the Burger King, Pizza Hut, McDonald’s and Starbucks that we saw there. There are some quite fancy malls (also one in Aleppo, but smaller). The roads seem a bit better, and the infrastructure in general a bit better / cleaner / well-repaired. Some have told us that Jordan’s put their bet on education—such as, the taxi driver may have a university degree and speak English. However, he’s working as a taxi driver. Being one of the smallest Middle Eastern countries by population, I wonder if it can “afford” to invest in things other than defense, etc. It also has been blessed, it seems, with relatively good governance by the royal family. That said, it’s also the country with the longest border to Israel—and it does have a very visible military / police presence. We visited the Jordan River, site where Jesus was baptized by John the Baptist, and just 20 feet across the river there is Israel—with a large flag and visitor’s center. I watched another tourist on the Jordanian side as she realized that was Israel, responding with a sniff and, it seemed, “well, I don’t need to go any closer, then.” There seemed a combined fascination, fear, and irritation among our group as various tour guides pointed out which lights were Israel, beyond which set of trees, etc. Syria is still formally at war with Israel, and Syrians cannot go to Israel even if they wanted to.
Swimming. . . we got to swim in the Dead Sea (more a matter of “bobbing” than swimming), the Red Sea (I waded, Neil swam and saw some nice fish while holding to his face a child’s snorkel set which was too small to fit), and thermal hot springs. How does this work in a Muslim culture, we were eager to know. Well, all the women say they’ll swim but nearly all end up wading. Those who do swim generally wear covering (depending on the sophistication of their swimming gear, could be lycra swim suits, or just pants and a shirt) from ankle to wrist to neck). At the thermal springs, there was a “women only” area with high walls, in which the women still wore at least a swim suit with skirty-thing and biker-type shorts beneath, but there they uncovered their hair. My questions were graciously answered by many female friends.
New friends . . . Several wonderful new friends looked out for us: Moona (who shared much better food than we shared with her, loaned us sweaters when we were cold, laughed a lot, tolerated and even tried to understand our bad Arabic, practiced reading with us (she’s a grandma so I think this came naturally), argued with the bathroom guy who charged me 5 times what others were paying and got my money back. Rami (grad student in archeological restoration and conservation, good photographer, co-leader of the trip; he always made sure we knew when / where to go, ensured we were back on the bus, shared pictures and photo tips back-and-forth with Neil, told us how mosaics were preserved, and laughed at our bad jokes); Anita (young business-woman, hip-ster, fashionista, shopper, bathroom groupie); Myrna (young French teacher, photographer and picture-poser ad infinitum, sub-group organizer (dinner together back in Aleppo one week from tonight, okay?), who brought smiles, humor, beauty, grace, enthusiasm), Julie and Joaquim (Canadian and German couple working in Aleppo on water infrastructure, we shared expat stories, a distaste for high-volume Arabic music and yet another shopping mall stop, and together navigated the Jordan visa lines for foreigners). Others on the bus became less shy over the days, and were very helpful in translating a few facts about what we were seeing, or telling us when we were to be at breakfast, how many hours we had at Petra, whether to bring our swimsuits and/or a jacket, when to be back at the bus when we stopped at the mall, etc. Great group of people.
1) Chinese suction cups suck—or, rather, they don’t suck enough. Our potholders keep falling from their suction-cupped-to-the-tile vantage point. Much more significantly, our $2 tub-bottom anti-slip mat has a similar effect as a slimy banana peel. As I sat in the bottom of the tub with the shower raining down on me, trying to secure the suction cups yet again and rubbing my bruised shoulder, it took no imagination to ponder what it must be like to be elderly and afraid of falling in the tub. (The mat has now been demoted to use as a rug on the dry floor.)
2) Building codes rock. Okay, so we’ve violated them before. However, now that we’ve a) melted our heater plug twice; b) blown a hole in the side of a lightbulb we were trying to screw in (even worse, this didn’t throw the breaker); c) melted the plug our mostly-gas stove is plugged into (the broiler is electric, go figure); d) enjoyed a show of sparks any time we plug anything in, we’ve decided that housing codes are good things. We’re still going through light bulbs at a rapid rate, but that may relate to item #1 above—made in China.
3) Peeled garlic stinks. Initially, the only garlic we could find came pre-peeled, by the kilo. Now, I like garlic, but even so. . . The plastic bag did little to contain the smell, and soon everything in our fridge (yoghurt, milk, left-over pudding from the night before) smelled like garlic. We attempted a rubber-gasket glass jar, the garlic still escaped. We ate it in everything we could, by the handful. We’ve now found unpeeled garlic—who knew that those peels were so much more effective than modern plastic or glass, in keeping the smell in until one really wants to include garlic in what one is eating.
4) Hot and cold proportions are surprising. When bathing from water one has heated on the stove, the appropriate proportions of hot and cold are surprising. For example, one might think one should fill the bucket with half ice cold water from the tap, and half hot water from the steaming pan one has just carefully carried up the stairs to the bathroom. One would be wrong, painfully wrong.
5) Shopping for jeans is hard. On the Southeast Asia tourist route, most women are dressed in very cool Capri pants and short-sleeved, v-necked t-shirts. Not so true in Syria. Capri pants turn every head in our neighborhood (well, the women try to be discreetly in following you with their eyes, but fail, even from behind a veil)—wow, they scream, there’s ankles here!!! Similarly so with a v-neck. I think people try to be respectful, but it’s hard to gawk respectfully, and, well, I’m foreign enough already (note the uncovered hair), that dressing this way just makes me an easy target to stare at. So, I decide that a second pair of jeans would be a good plan. Okay, so shopping for jeans is hard in the US as well. But here, the challenging factors include that almost all the shopkeepers are men who either try to be helpful or just scrutinize you while you shop—both of these are end up feeling like an ambush anytime one walks into a store. Further, Syrian thighs—not to mention current fashion trends—seem to suggest that all legs are bird-like. My grandfather was a Swiss dairy farmer and thus my thighs are not bird-like. Most of the jeans are very bling-ey, with silver thread and sequins all over the hips and pickets, some more attractive than others. And then there’s the whole price issue. Prices are negotiable in almost every shop. My 13-year-old neighbor assures me I shouldn’t pay more than SP 500 (about $10), but the prices seem to range from there to $80 jeans in the local fancy mall. Ergh. So the shopping sagas I’ve not talked about? A) peanut butter; B) camel meat, this the shop keeper’s idea and not our own; C) parts for our broken toilet; D) bikini line waxing.
Jordan . . .
Our five-day trip to Jordan was really great. We’d gotten a rough translation of the itinerary, but each new day was largely a mystery. Much more spontaneous that way. . . .
Favorites . . . we saw a lot in our 5 days, but I’ll not list everything. Here are a few faves from the trip: 1) Mt. Nebo, from which Moses saw the Promised Land and was then taken to heaven. Beautiful, peaceful, mountain with a lovely breeze and sweeping views. I hope it was a less-hazy day for Moses than it was for us, but even so we were able to see the Dead Sea, the Golan Heights, the suburbs of Amman from here. 2) Wadi Rum – beautiful desert protected area where we rode jeeps (the sun was setting, it was cold!), played football with the Bedouin kids, tried to pet protesting camels, and succeeded in petting baby goats. 3) Madaba -- mosaic of the world’s earliest / largest map, mosaics everywhere were very cool, but this one especially. 4) Jarash – ancient Roman city, a lot of it still intact. Two large theaters (love that), long colonnaded streets and circular plazas, temples to Zeus or Artemis. 5) Petra – of course, fascinating. The site is amazing. Favorite things there beyond the obvious, were the handsomely-decked-out Bedouin policeman we got our picture with, the camels we rode on (first time), and the music being played / sung out from one of the lookout towers, by the church that we hiked to on the far end of Petra. (Petra is where we were the “late ones” back to the bus—sorry, Mary!) 6) Aqaba – A very touristy, somewhat glitzy, party city. I believe 90% of people there are foreigners, it’s a duty-free zone within Jordan, situated on the beautiful blue of the Red Sea (go figure) just across from Israel. We went on glass bottom boats, didn’t see too many fish, but nice to be out on the blue water in the sunshine and the breeze.
Differences with Syria . . . I like that, during this trip, we’re learning about the nuanced differences between places by experience and exposure. Jordan has more friendly relations with the west – evidenced in the Burger King, Pizza Hut, McDonald’s and Starbucks that we saw there. There are some quite fancy malls (also one in Aleppo, but smaller). The roads seem a bit better, and the infrastructure in general a bit better / cleaner / well-repaired. Some have told us that Jordan’s put their bet on education—such as, the taxi driver may have a university degree and speak English. However, he’s working as a taxi driver. Being one of the smallest Middle Eastern countries by population, I wonder if it can “afford” to invest in things other than defense, etc. It also has been blessed, it seems, with relatively good governance by the royal family. That said, it’s also the country with the longest border to Israel—and it does have a very visible military / police presence. We visited the Jordan River, site where Jesus was baptized by John the Baptist, and just 20 feet across the river there is Israel—with a large flag and visitor’s center. I watched another tourist on the Jordanian side as she realized that was Israel, responding with a sniff and, it seemed, “well, I don’t need to go any closer, then.” There seemed a combined fascination, fear, and irritation among our group as various tour guides pointed out which lights were Israel, beyond which set of trees, etc. Syria is still formally at war with Israel, and Syrians cannot go to Israel even if they wanted to.
Swimming. . . we got to swim in the Dead Sea (more a matter of “bobbing” than swimming), the Red Sea (I waded, Neil swam and saw some nice fish while holding to his face a child’s snorkel set which was too small to fit), and thermal hot springs. How does this work in a Muslim culture, we were eager to know. Well, all the women say they’ll swim but nearly all end up wading. Those who do swim generally wear covering (depending on the sophistication of their swimming gear, could be lycra swim suits, or just pants and a shirt) from ankle to wrist to neck). At the thermal springs, there was a “women only” area with high walls, in which the women still wore at least a swim suit with skirty-thing and biker-type shorts beneath, but there they uncovered their hair. My questions were graciously answered by many female friends.
New friends . . . Several wonderful new friends looked out for us: Moona (who shared much better food than we shared with her, loaned us sweaters when we were cold, laughed a lot, tolerated and even tried to understand our bad Arabic, practiced reading with us (she’s a grandma so I think this came naturally), argued with the bathroom guy who charged me 5 times what others were paying and got my money back. Rami (grad student in archeological restoration and conservation, good photographer, co-leader of the trip; he always made sure we knew when / where to go, ensured we were back on the bus, shared pictures and photo tips back-and-forth with Neil, told us how mosaics were preserved, and laughed at our bad jokes); Anita (young business-woman, hip-ster, fashionista, shopper, bathroom groupie); Myrna (young French teacher, photographer and picture-poser ad infinitum, sub-group organizer (dinner together back in Aleppo one week from tonight, okay?), who brought smiles, humor, beauty, grace, enthusiasm), Julie and Joaquim (Canadian and German couple working in Aleppo on water infrastructure, we shared expat stories, a distaste for high-volume Arabic music and yet another shopping mall stop, and together navigated the Jordan visa lines for foreigners). Others on the bus became less shy over the days, and were very helpful in translating a few facts about what we were seeing, or telling us when we were to be at breakfast, how many hours we had at Petra, whether to bring our swimsuits and/or a jacket, when to be back at the bus when we stopped at the mall, etc. Great group of people.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Jordan (by Neil)
We are now half-way into our whirlwind Jordan tour. We stayed last night in Aqaba and after failing to find the seashore last night we were greeted by a great view of the bay this morning with tankers in floating in the gulf and the sun striking the water. After typical hotel breakfast chaos – no clean glasses, running out of orange juice, trying to find a place to sit, we headed out to the Red Sea for a glass bottom boat ride – I saw a fish or two, but the people watching was better than the fish. The Israel-Jordan border and checkpoints were clearly visible, and it was interesting to watch our Syrian friends’ reactions to the proximity to a country they consider to be an enemy and occupier of their territory.
After the boat ride we visited a small aquarium and got to see a few more creatures up close and personal. A small sea turtle making the rounds in his tank, a very dashing looking octopus flashing different colors and putting on quite a display, along with a downright dapperly dressed green fish with radiating orangish-pink lines from his eye and a showy tail fin like that of a beta. As tours often do we were packing it in, and the next thing on the agenda was a stop at a beach - for an hour. I took the chance to swim and buy a cheap snorkel. The snorkel band was kid’s sized and wouldn’t fit over my head, so I just had to hold it onto my face and hope that my mouth could hold the breathing tube upright… I ingested too much sea water, but the fish that I saw were really beautiful and I like seeing them in the open water better than the aquarium. 
From the beach we headed for Wadi Rum – a truly impressive desert valley. The monoliths are huge and rise out of the sandy valley. The sun was painting them in golden hues as we arrived and soon it brought out its red brush and shadow tools for a desert sunset. We jeeped out to some Bedouin tents and a place to walk about a bit. I ended up playing soccer with some runny-nosed kids who were all toting plastic guns and asking me for a dollar to take a picture. I ignored the latter request, and they soon were posing for me and getting in the way of the camel pictures I was hoping to take against the landscape. Yvette, Julie and Joachim came over and we all went over by the fold that held the cute little goat kids – about 30 of them or so with the youngest being 5 days old or so. They were springy-legged little things, and the one I picked up decided to snack a bit on my shirt. 
As dusk gave way to night we have headed back to Aqaba and are now at the mall. We will go shopping for the next 2 hours or so, but I would rather be looking at the stars in the desert.Sunday, November 22, 2009
Lattakia (by Neil)
I swam in the Mediterranean today in Lattakia (that is ancient Laodicea) , and I am pleased to announce that it is lukewarm. Just as the apostle Paul complained about years ago. We are here for 2 days with a newly made friend and two of his children – staying at their vacation apartment on the sea. The end of November is nearing, so the tourists and summer vacationers are all gone and only a few weekend warriors such as ourselves were out on the terraced balconies.
This morning I sketched the sea and the adjacent villa, and painted it in the afternoon. In the interim we attended Friday prayers at the local mosque. I have asked a number of questions about Islam and now have a pending engagement with an English speaking Imam to talk with me as well as a Quran in English and a set of commentaries – about 10” worth of books I think.
Today was my first time to be in a mosque during the actual prayer time and to witness the collective prayer and worship service. The imam was impressive in his flowing beige robe and impeccable head wrap. He was articulate and expressive and told a number of stories to illustrate his points. I sat near the back which was lined with chairs for those too infirmed to be able to fully kneel down and bow their foreheads to the ground. They were full of character and the usual indiscretion of loud voices (thought perhaps to be a whisper) that comes with old age and hearing loss. One of my favorite scenes was of the room full of men, aligned and facing east, ready to communally pray. One small girl was there with her father and she was the only one I saw bobbing about with her head back and forth and twisting impatiently. I wish I could download the copy of my mental videotape to be able to share it with you.
After driving about in Lattakia, we came back home and I took a swim in the sea in my jeans as I hadn’t packed my swimming trunks (and it was a bit spontaneous after discovering mildly warm water)… We had a good conversation tonight about Syrian education, music and art in Islam, domestic violence and gender roles, and more personal goals for us and our families.
One of the dubious thoughts put forward was around the sin of a woman dressing overly sexually. Yvette asked if it is equally wrong for the man and the woman, and our host answered “no, it is worse for the woman.” Each man who looks and lusts has a mark against him, and she has a mark against her for each man that looks and lusts about her, so if her dress causes 100 men to look and lust after her, she may have 100 marks against her, whereas they each have 1.” Yvette felt this was dubious logic at best.
This morning I sketched the sea and the adjacent villa, and painted it in the afternoon. In the interim we attended Friday prayers at the local mosque. I have asked a number of questions about Islam and now have a pending engagement with an English speaking Imam to talk with me as well as a Quran in English and a set of commentaries – about 10” worth of books I think.
Today was my first time to be in a mosque during the actual prayer time and to witness the collective prayer and worship service. The imam was impressive in his flowing beige robe and impeccable head wrap. He was articulate and expressive and told a number of stories to illustrate his points. I sat near the back which was lined with chairs for those too infirmed to be able to fully kneel down and bow their foreheads to the ground. They were full of character and the usual indiscretion of loud voices (thought perhaps to be a whisper) that comes with old age and hearing loss. One of my favorite scenes was of the room full of men, aligned and facing east, ready to communally pray. One small girl was there with her father and she was the only one I saw bobbing about with her head back and forth and twisting impatiently. I wish I could download the copy of my mental videotape to be able to share it with you.
After driving about in Lattakia, we came back home and I took a swim in the sea in my jeans as I hadn’t packed my swimming trunks (and it was a bit spontaneous after discovering mildly warm water)… We had a good conversation tonight about Syrian education, music and art in Islam, domestic violence and gender roles, and more personal goals for us and our families.
One of the dubious thoughts put forward was around the sin of a woman dressing overly sexually. Yvette asked if it is equally wrong for the man and the woman, and our host answered “no, it is worse for the woman.” Each man who looks and lusts has a mark against him, and she has a mark against her for each man that looks and lusts about her, so if her dress causes 100 men to look and lust after her, she may have 100 marks against her, whereas they each have 1.” Yvette felt this was dubious logic at best.
Monday, November 16, 2009
The Back (by Neil)
Flowers, flirtations, jealousy
The last two exist in the mind perhaps as much as reality
The last two exist in the mind perhaps as much as reality
The border of decorum is explored by the young and old
The raucous group in the back is peppered with a few staid ones
Perhaps wishing their inhibitions gone as they witness the comingling -
The head covered flirtations of the Middle East
The drum is brought out and beat into a rhythm
Singing brings old men to their feet and drives others to wince
We are two busses – a front and a back
The front consists of quiet couplets talking of the day, cracking open pumpkin seeds, trying to sleep or reflect or converse
While the back escalates in exuberance –
The after-party that began with chit-chat and charades and jokes and riddles now nears its climax
The after-party that began with chit-chat and charades and jokes and riddles now nears its climax
Our busload camaraderie is birthed from 16 hours of shared experience:
An ancient grape pressing center from the Roman with stone channels now laced with cracks from earthquakes and erosion yet smoothed by the bygone harvests’ acidic sluices
A shopping stop for the large yellow pomegranates and orchard fresh persimmons
A hike from Darkoosh below the cliffs of the river through the orchards, past the cave tombs from antiquity, past the goats with their growling guard-dog and smoking shepherds, stopping for a stolen piece of fruit from the tree to relish the joy of plucking and sucking out the sweetness or tartness, a borrowed table from an empty home becomes a rest stop for 4 or 5 of us
At the end of the hike for the young and those who wish to be a scramble up, up, up. We slip our way to caves and shelters and goat pens hewn from the rock to provide a place to weather a passing storm or cold night. Our German and English and Syrian and American whistles and whoops and yodels echo back to us across the fertile valley.
The church atop the hill painted creamy on the backdrop of the olive groves and orchards in the setting sun
And betwixt all – the bus ride.
The stop for supper.
The stop to smoke.
The stop for coffee.
The hours of sitting and the musical chairs seating that brings the familiarity and the exuberance of the songs and the drum and the voices and the glances that say we are happy and we are family and we are friends
We slowly subdue and merge back into whispered gossip
or philosophical discussions laced with smiled affections
Numbers and emails are exchanged
Invitations extended and postulated
The outskirts of the city are lifted as we return to the womb that birthed us
We are home and tired
Another bus trip completed
Numbers and emails are exchanged
Invitations extended and postulated
The outskirts of the city are lifted as we return to the womb that birthed us
We are home and tired
Another bus trip completed
Friday, November 6, 2009
Krak de Chevaliers (by Neil)
The sky toyed with us all day and showed us many moods. The skies raced about changing from cloudy to blue and back again. We drove the serpentine roads beneath them from church to viewpoint to castle. At length we arrived at the crusader stronghold. It sits in the Homs gap that provides a way from the Mediterranean to the East…. One of the key and therefore fought over trade routes of antiquity. Bedia – who is pushing 75 – wasn’t quite up to the wet slippery citadel steps, and the up and down that it entailed, but still acted as tour guide and went with us up to the entrance before bidding us to continue on.
The scale of the undertaking to build something of this scale and complexity always amazes me. Lots of levels and layers of massive stones. The steps turned into a waterfall when the rain was at its peak and it was fascinating to see some of the ancient drainage systems hard at work funneling and diverting water . I was looking over the outer wall towards an aqueduct that must have supplied additional water to the castle. Just then a shepherd appeared beneath the structure with 30 wet sheep walking in two files trailing behind him. I wasn’t quick enough with the camera to capture the scene, but still it imprinted in my memory as something that seemed fitting with the setting – in contrast to the tour busses and the French and British tourist groups.
We traipsed about photographing one another and eavesdropping on occasional tidbits of history from passing tour groups. I understand that once this mountain fortress was one of a series signal towers that could be used to quickly send warnings of danger across the countryside.
Upon our return we had a light lunch: greenbeans slow cooked with oil and garlic and onions; baked cauliflower with onions with a tahini garlic lemon sauce; homemade pizza dough with corn, mushrooms, olives, tomatoes, and peppers; bulghar mujedrah; cabbage and tomato salad dressed with lemon and olive oil; pomegranates; tea; sweets; homemade yogurt. Six hours later and lunch was just wrapping up for some visiting and a few more treats and sweets for the road. The hospitality is really wonderful.
The scale of the undertaking to build something of this scale and complexity always amazes me. Lots of levels and layers of massive stones. The steps turned into a waterfall when the rain was at its peak and it was fascinating to see some of the ancient drainage systems hard at work funneling and diverting water . I was looking over the outer wall towards an aqueduct that must have supplied additional water to the castle. Just then a shepherd appeared beneath the structure with 30 wet sheep walking in two files trailing behind him. I wasn’t quick enough with the camera to capture the scene, but still it imprinted in my memory as something that seemed fitting with the setting – in contrast to the tour busses and the French and British tourist groups.
We traipsed about photographing one another and eavesdropping on occasional tidbits of history from passing tour groups. I understand that once this mountain fortress was one of a series signal towers that could be used to quickly send warnings of danger across the countryside.
Upon our return we had a light lunch: greenbeans slow cooked with oil and garlic and onions; baked cauliflower with onions with a tahini garlic lemon sauce; homemade pizza dough with corn, mushrooms, olives, tomatoes, and peppers; bulghar mujedrah; cabbage and tomato salad dressed with lemon and olive oil; pomegranates; tea; sweets; homemade yogurt. Six hours later and lunch was just wrapping up for some visiting and a few more treats and sweets for the road. The hospitality is really wonderful.
Kafroon - Syria (by Neil)
Kafroon… We have left Aleppo for the countryside. The terrain and weather and religious backdrop has changed dramatically. The valleys have become wooded, water is seen flowing in the valleys, and the hills are wooded and green with olive groves, apricots, apples, walnuts, pomegranate, and other fruit trees. The day was threatening rain as we left around 7 a.m., and as we moved toward the coast and up into the mountains it strengthened its resolve and dumped buckets.
We are visiting Auntie Bedia in Kafroon a Christian community just north of Lebanon and off the Eastern Mediterranean. Bedia is an honorary relation who has helped in the rearing of some of Yvette’s sisters, been with her family in Libya, and is now a neighbor to them in California. Bedia is in Syria for 2 months with her sisters and brothers and the extended family that is her home village. On our bus ride from Aleppo we met Dr. Bassem who grew up next to the home where we will be staying. He answered our grammar questions, shared with us his knowledge of the Bedouin people, helped with our pronunciation, filled us in on the medical education in Syria, and discussed with us the current system of military service in Syria: families with only one boy don’t have to send their son, some medical conditions exempt one from service, immigrants who stay abroad – for example a Syrian doctor who does his residence in the states and then starts to work there can pay a fee in lieu of service.
Kafroon welcomed us with armies of olive trees standing sentinel on the terraced hills. The bus took us up and around a few hairpins before halting on one and honking - the driver motioning us to enter the house on the corner. We were the last passengers receiving this door to door service and he stayed to chat with our host family. There were 8 – 10 people visiting in the room –people with 40 – 70 years of shared history and stories who know each other well and welcome us into their midst with English and Arabic and food and gestures and smiles. By the end of the day we will have visited 5 more families in their spaces, held twin babies, bounced balls on our heads, drawn pictures and letters , stretched out our Arabic vocabularies, and eaten walnut and pistachio laden sweets and oranges and carrots and cake and drunk numerous cups of tea and coffee. Neil will also have been lectured repeatedly about the merits of babies and why he should have one soon – “don’t be selfish”, “God has said to be fruitful and multiply”, “it isn’t the same”, “this area is very romantic”, “if you don’t want baby – why married.”
After lunch we are whisked away to see the sites. The Syrian equivalent of my sister (and Lisa I mean that in all the good ways) acts as tour guide and has a very efficient agenda mapped out to optimize our viewing pleasures: An old church in a cave – “look the ceiling – very beautiful”, “take a picture – very old”, “ok, we go” ; a cave on another hilltop, a church that people make pilgrimages to pray for babies. The hilltop views are expansive and show the sprouting condominium developments of the last 10 years marching up the ridges. We manage to finish this itinerary before the skies really let loose and knock the power out leading to a candle-lit supper of smoky baba-ghanouj, benijan (eggplant, onion and tomato), cheese, bread, salad, and the ultimate comfort food for a cold stormy night – warm lentil soup with freshly squeezed lemon.
I am now experiencing the ineptitudes of hosting by the most well meaning of hosts. Assuming that we are devout kiddos and missing Christian sermons, our host has tuned to the English 3ABN channel (Three Angels Broadcasting Network – a conservative Seventh Day Adventist channel, the religion of our parents) - spouting out information about baptism and converts and the devil and how your best friend may turn on you in the end of time and how much worse it will be when those inside the church will turn on us – much worse than when the infidels or the agnostics turn against us, and how we must be strong…. Because English is harder to understand, our host has cranked the volume to an ear piercing level…. There is almost nothing else I wouldn’t rather have blaring in my ear, but I am enjoying the family scene of wrinkled grandmother (Bedia’s sister) having her blood pressure checked and picking her nose and grinning from ear to ear and gesturing with great animation. She is wearing 5 visible layers and sitting right in front of the small central heater: black tights underneath with knee-high white stockings with runs in them ; over this are calf-high grey socks; padded slippers and a grey polyester skirt complete the ensemble - along with a greenish tee-shirt and a navy cardigan. Wonderfully Monty-Pythonesque.
Tomorrow we will visit Krak de Chevaliers – one of the great Crusader castles just north of Lebanon.
We are visiting Auntie Bedia in Kafroon a Christian community just north of Lebanon and off the Eastern Mediterranean. Bedia is an honorary relation who has helped in the rearing of some of Yvette’s sisters, been with her family in Libya, and is now a neighbor to them in California. Bedia is in Syria for 2 months with her sisters and brothers and the extended family that is her home village. On our bus ride from Aleppo we met Dr. Bassem who grew up next to the home where we will be staying. He answered our grammar questions, shared with us his knowledge of the Bedouin people, helped with our pronunciation, filled us in on the medical education in Syria, and discussed with us the current system of military service in Syria: families with only one boy don’t have to send their son, some medical conditions exempt one from service, immigrants who stay abroad – for example a Syrian doctor who does his residence in the states and then starts to work there can pay a fee in lieu of service.
Kafroon welcomed us with armies of olive trees standing sentinel on the terraced hills. The bus took us up and around a few hairpins before halting on one and honking - the driver motioning us to enter the house on the corner. We were the last passengers receiving this door to door service and he stayed to chat with our host family. There were 8 – 10 people visiting in the room –people with 40 – 70 years of shared history and stories who know each other well and welcome us into their midst with English and Arabic and food and gestures and smiles. By the end of the day we will have visited 5 more families in their spaces, held twin babies, bounced balls on our heads, drawn pictures and letters , stretched out our Arabic vocabularies, and eaten walnut and pistachio laden sweets and oranges and carrots and cake and drunk numerous cups of tea and coffee. Neil will also have been lectured repeatedly about the merits of babies and why he should have one soon – “don’t be selfish”, “God has said to be fruitful and multiply”, “it isn’t the same”, “this area is very romantic”, “if you don’t want baby – why married.”
After lunch we are whisked away to see the sites. The Syrian equivalent of my sister (and Lisa I mean that in all the good ways) acts as tour guide and has a very efficient agenda mapped out to optimize our viewing pleasures: An old church in a cave – “look the ceiling – very beautiful”, “take a picture – very old”, “ok, we go” ; a cave on another hilltop, a church that people make pilgrimages to pray for babies. The hilltop views are expansive and show the sprouting condominium developments of the last 10 years marching up the ridges. We manage to finish this itinerary before the skies really let loose and knock the power out leading to a candle-lit supper of smoky baba-ghanouj, benijan (eggplant, onion and tomato), cheese, bread, salad, and the ultimate comfort food for a cold stormy night – warm lentil soup with freshly squeezed lemon.
I am now experiencing the ineptitudes of hosting by the most well meaning of hosts. Assuming that we are devout kiddos and missing Christian sermons, our host has tuned to the English 3ABN channel (Three Angels Broadcasting Network – a conservative Seventh Day Adventist channel, the religion of our parents) - spouting out information about baptism and converts and the devil and how your best friend may turn on you in the end of time and how much worse it will be when those inside the church will turn on us – much worse than when the infidels or the agnostics turn against us, and how we must be strong…. Because English is harder to understand, our host has cranked the volume to an ear piercing level…. There is almost nothing else I wouldn’t rather have blaring in my ear, but I am enjoying the family scene of wrinkled grandmother (Bedia’s sister) having her blood pressure checked and picking her nose and grinning from ear to ear and gesturing with great animation. She is wearing 5 visible layers and sitting right in front of the small central heater: black tights underneath with knee-high white stockings with runs in them ; over this are calf-high grey socks; padded slippers and a grey polyester skirt complete the ensemble - along with a greenish tee-shirt and a navy cardigan. Wonderfully Monty-Pythonesque.
Tomorrow we will visit Krak de Chevaliers – one of the great Crusader castles just north of Lebanon.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Making a house a home in Aleppo (by Yvette)
Greetings from the courtyard of our new Syrian home. Neil and I have successfully rented a beautiful old home in Bab el Ahmar (which means “Red Gate”) in the “old city” portion of Aleppo, Syria—very near The Citadel which is an impressive structure—first bits of which were built in 300’s BC, but which really took shape in the 12th century during yes, the crusades—complete with handy features to pour boiling oil on one’s opponents. Nice how the Pope’s edict to recapture Jerusalem drove increased militarization way back when, eh?
Our home is big for the two of us, and sparsely furnished (with a few rugs), so we’re knocking around in it a bit. We’ve christened it with the smell of garlic (bought about 1 pound of peeled garlic—hard to find any quantities smaller—and boy is it pungent!! Must find a jar to better contain it. . . ), a few plants, and our smattering of suitcase contents. Our landlord, Abdel Hay Kaddour, is a well-accomplished, well-known, and well-thought-of tour / travel operator who owns two boutique hotels here in the old city. This seems a somewhat conservative Muslim quarter. Our immediate neighbors are two families, two brothers and their wives—one family with four children, the other with five. They’ve asked through the children, I think, that I wear a scarf over my head and neck when I’m in their house (when the men are around)—in addition to me attempting to keep arms and legs mostly covered which seems to attract less attention in general. Communication is a very approximate science, since they speak virtually no English and my Arabic is minimal and stumbling at best. The kids range from 4 to 15 years, and aren’t shy so that helps with lots of engagement despite lack of language. They’ve brought their two white bunnies over to show us (who are now “mafi” (not there) so perhaps went in the soup pot? Not sure), have invited me for tea (not Neil), have asked if we’ll be here for Eid (celebration I think in early December), and have told me with conviction that if I will cover my head and pray, Allah will help me to get pregnant. (I know it’s well-intended, but how does one respond to that? “Really? You don’t say.” I chose, instead, to say “mumpkin” (maybe) with a big smile, and then proceeded to describe that I eat medicine in order to not get pregnant. Unfathomable here, it seems.)
Our house was pretty dirty but we opted to move in rather than wait for it to be cleaned, in order not to spend one more night in a hotel. Which meant that the next morning, Neil was kindly asked to leave for a few hours so the cleaning women could take off their black robes to clean more effectively. And boy did they ever. The hose was taken to every corner--even the shelves in the bedroom—along with scrub brush and soapy water. The landlord had asked that I (Yvette) stay, which felt awkward as I sat and read my book like a diva. But I also didn’t really want to dive in and scrub with them (maybe I am a diva). Anyway, it was a lesson in how differently homes are kept in various places. I would swept and wiped but been in a hubbub of dust all day, who knew that one could simply flood the place and then squeegee it? The place certainly could use a good dose of “demineralization” chemicals as the moisture in the walls comes out, displacing any paint or plaster and causing lots of sand/dust clumps on our shelves. Fortunately the bathroom and kitchen are mostly tiled. The carved medallions in the walls of our 20-foot-high covered courtyard, the stone staircase, the oriental lights, the numerous alcoves (including one that used to be an old well) all make for an inspiring space, if a bit dusty. And our bedroom has a restored (not perfectly, okay, but restored) decoratively-painted wood ceiling and walls, with patterned tile floor.
Our most-frequented-food so far is the $0.50 each take-away falafel sandwiches that can be found on almost every block. Yummy, though there’s quite a variety and we’ve found 1-2 stands that we like better than others. We also are pretty keen on foul-medemas, the large flat beans cooked with cumin and served with lots of olive oil, tahini sauce, and fresh tomatoes, onions, bread and salt. The idea is to dip the tomato and/or onion slice in salt, wrap it in bread, chew it and chase it with a spoonful of foul medemas. Also pretty yummy. We visited ”the” place to have it in Al Jdeida (which means “the new” and refers to the new as of the Ottoman era, I think 200-ish years ago), the Christian / Armenian quarter, where Abu (father) someone has been making it for 75 years. He’s quite cheerful about it, too. Makes one question the McDonald’s fast food model—the foul medemas, tomatoes, onions—the works--are in front of you within literally one minute of taking your seat. But then, McDonald’s has a higher turn-over rate I guess. There’s also lots of yoghurt here. Smallest portion we seemed to be easily able to buy was about 3 quarts of fresh, plain yoghurt. And lots of breads, bread-filled with cheese, bread with zatar (thyme spices) on it, bread with sweet cheese, more bread, flat bread, brown bread, big bread, little bread, puffy bread, sweet bread. We’re still trying to find a place with relatively cheap and good humus and eggplant / tomato sauce where we can buy it prepared—some of these things are quite an art to make, and we have nothing to prove.
Many people—especially young people, university students, etc.—have been very warm. Friday we went with the Aleppo Archeological Society on a 14-hour excursion to ruins west of the city. The 30-something group contained no other foreigners, but many people that spoke varying bits of English, some quite good, including archeology students, tour guides trying to improve their own knowledge, children who ran around and climbed on the stones, etc. Nice group from which we have several phone numbers and promises of personalized tours of the citadel. (As the students said, “We know it very well.”) And other people we’ve met / chatted with on the street (while trying to avoid overly friendly vendors in the overly-touristed souq) have invited us to their homes, shared their food, offered their help, showed us where to go, etc.
We’ve noted that, unlike Singapore, there are really very few “thou shalt not” signs here in Syria. Hmm. . . though there are certainly things that one shalt not do. But the only one that’s sign-posted (no smoking) is regularly ignored, even on the bus. Ah well, that album on Neil’s FaceBook page may have to wait until our next stop (oh, which may be France. Never mind, it may have to wait even longer.)
I’m finding that I feel a bit introverted here. Part of it is that little English is spoken, and my Arabic is good enough to get by, but with significant effort. Also, trying to get our house found and set up has been like an all-day, unpredictable scavenger hunt. Everyone tries to help and knows someone who knows someone who can show us a house, so just wait right there, we can go just now, do you want to drink tea? Or maybe sludgey coffee? Price? No, we don’t do that so quickly, let’s drink. And we’re never quite sure if we could ever find them (or the apartment!) again, so now’s the opportune time. And I’m also trying to communicate without being quite committal, because I’m not sure if I’m accepting a dinner invitation or simply saying thank you for the compliment. Argh. I think I’m also feeling the build-up of being “a foreigner, therefore on display” since March. While it’s all been good, it is a bit tiring to be different, notable, not one of us for such a long time—perhaps especially for someone like me who engages a lot with others and is pretty observant even with strangers. And to have been on the move so much over the last few weeks. So I don’t mind spending some quiet time behind my very high house walls. We even have a nicely-private rooftop courtyard.
I will, over the next week or so, try to find an Arabic teacher / tutor / friend who can help with navigating both language and culture. We have found a good friend in Ahmad (nearly everyone here is named Ahmed) Magribe, a tour guide we first connected with on the internet. He seems a trustworthy, conservative, family man—through whom we were able to go on the afore-mentioned tour. And our landlord Abdel also seems very genuine. Both men speak English very well, and are very accustomed to tourists and our wants / needs. Neil had crummy tummy and felt hot to the touch but was asking me to pile blankets on Friday night—at the time I thought that these two men and the local doctor Lonely Planet recommends would be my local if I needed to take Neil anywhere. Fortunately, however, he seems to be feeling much better though is willing to rest a lot just now.
Our home is big for the two of us, and sparsely furnished (with a few rugs), so we’re knocking around in it a bit. We’ve christened it with the smell of garlic (bought about 1 pound of peeled garlic—hard to find any quantities smaller—and boy is it pungent!! Must find a jar to better contain it. . . ), a few plants, and our smattering of suitcase contents. Our landlord, Abdel Hay Kaddour, is a well-accomplished, well-known, and well-thought-of tour / travel operator who owns two boutique hotels here in the old city. This seems a somewhat conservative Muslim quarter. Our immediate neighbors are two families, two brothers and their wives—one family with four children, the other with five. They’ve asked through the children, I think, that I wear a scarf over my head and neck when I’m in their house (when the men are around)—in addition to me attempting to keep arms and legs mostly covered which seems to attract less attention in general. Communication is a very approximate science, since they speak virtually no English and my Arabic is minimal and stumbling at best. The kids range from 4 to 15 years, and aren’t shy so that helps with lots of engagement despite lack of language. They’ve brought their two white bunnies over to show us (who are now “mafi” (not there) so perhaps went in the soup pot? Not sure), have invited me for tea (not Neil), have asked if we’ll be here for Eid (celebration I think in early December), and have told me with conviction that if I will cover my head and pray, Allah will help me to get pregnant. (I know it’s well-intended, but how does one respond to that? “Really? You don’t say.” I chose, instead, to say “mumpkin” (maybe) with a big smile, and then proceeded to describe that I eat medicine in order to not get pregnant. Unfathomable here, it seems.)
Our house was pretty dirty but we opted to move in rather than wait for it to be cleaned, in order not to spend one more night in a hotel. Which meant that the next morning, Neil was kindly asked to leave for a few hours so the cleaning women could take off their black robes to clean more effectively. And boy did they ever. The hose was taken to every corner--even the shelves in the bedroom—along with scrub brush and soapy water. The landlord had asked that I (Yvette) stay, which felt awkward as I sat and read my book like a diva. But I also didn’t really want to dive in and scrub with them (maybe I am a diva). Anyway, it was a lesson in how differently homes are kept in various places. I would swept and wiped but been in a hubbub of dust all day, who knew that one could simply flood the place and then squeegee it? The place certainly could use a good dose of “demineralization” chemicals as the moisture in the walls comes out, displacing any paint or plaster and causing lots of sand/dust clumps on our shelves. Fortunately the bathroom and kitchen are mostly tiled. The carved medallions in the walls of our 20-foot-high covered courtyard, the stone staircase, the oriental lights, the numerous alcoves (including one that used to be an old well) all make for an inspiring space, if a bit dusty. And our bedroom has a restored (not perfectly, okay, but restored) decoratively-painted wood ceiling and walls, with patterned tile floor.
Our most-frequented-food so far is the $0.50 each take-away falafel sandwiches that can be found on almost every block. Yummy, though there’s quite a variety and we’ve found 1-2 stands that we like better than others. We also are pretty keen on foul-medemas, the large flat beans cooked with cumin and served with lots of olive oil, tahini sauce, and fresh tomatoes, onions, bread and salt. The idea is to dip the tomato and/or onion slice in salt, wrap it in bread, chew it and chase it with a spoonful of foul medemas. Also pretty yummy. We visited ”the” place to have it in Al Jdeida (which means “the new” and refers to the new as of the Ottoman era, I think 200-ish years ago), the Christian / Armenian quarter, where Abu (father) someone has been making it for 75 years. He’s quite cheerful about it, too. Makes one question the McDonald’s fast food model—the foul medemas, tomatoes, onions—the works--are in front of you within literally one minute of taking your seat. But then, McDonald’s has a higher turn-over rate I guess. There’s also lots of yoghurt here. Smallest portion we seemed to be easily able to buy was about 3 quarts of fresh, plain yoghurt. And lots of breads, bread-filled with cheese, bread with zatar (thyme spices) on it, bread with sweet cheese, more bread, flat bread, brown bread, big bread, little bread, puffy bread, sweet bread. We’re still trying to find a place with relatively cheap and good humus and eggplant / tomato sauce where we can buy it prepared—some of these things are quite an art to make, and we have nothing to prove.
Many people—especially young people, university students, etc.—have been very warm. Friday we went with the Aleppo Archeological Society on a 14-hour excursion to ruins west of the city. The 30-something group contained no other foreigners, but many people that spoke varying bits of English, some quite good, including archeology students, tour guides trying to improve their own knowledge, children who ran around and climbed on the stones, etc. Nice group from which we have several phone numbers and promises of personalized tours of the citadel. (As the students said, “We know it very well.”) And other people we’ve met / chatted with on the street (while trying to avoid overly friendly vendors in the overly-touristed souq) have invited us to their homes, shared their food, offered their help, showed us where to go, etc.
We’ve noted that, unlike Singapore, there are really very few “thou shalt not” signs here in Syria. Hmm. . . though there are certainly things that one shalt not do. But the only one that’s sign-posted (no smoking) is regularly ignored, even on the bus. Ah well, that album on Neil’s FaceBook page may have to wait until our next stop (oh, which may be France. Never mind, it may have to wait even longer.)
I’m finding that I feel a bit introverted here. Part of it is that little English is spoken, and my Arabic is good enough to get by, but with significant effort. Also, trying to get our house found and set up has been like an all-day, unpredictable scavenger hunt. Everyone tries to help and knows someone who knows someone who can show us a house, so just wait right there, we can go just now, do you want to drink tea? Or maybe sludgey coffee? Price? No, we don’t do that so quickly, let’s drink. And we’re never quite sure if we could ever find them (or the apartment!) again, so now’s the opportune time. And I’m also trying to communicate without being quite committal, because I’m not sure if I’m accepting a dinner invitation or simply saying thank you for the compliment. Argh. I think I’m also feeling the build-up of being “a foreigner, therefore on display” since March. While it’s all been good, it is a bit tiring to be different, notable, not one of us for such a long time—perhaps especially for someone like me who engages a lot with others and is pretty observant even with strangers. And to have been on the move so much over the last few weeks. So I don’t mind spending some quiet time behind my very high house walls. We even have a nicely-private rooftop courtyard.
I will, over the next week or so, try to find an Arabic teacher / tutor / friend who can help with navigating both language and culture. We have found a good friend in Ahmad (nearly everyone here is named Ahmed) Magribe, a tour guide we first connected with on the internet. He seems a trustworthy, conservative, family man—through whom we were able to go on the afore-mentioned tour. And our landlord Abdel also seems very genuine. Both men speak English very well, and are very accustomed to tourists and our wants / needs. Neil had crummy tummy and felt hot to the touch but was asking me to pile blankets on Friday night—at the time I thought that these two men and the local doctor Lonely Planet recommends would be my local if I needed to take Neil anywhere. Fortunately, however, he seems to be feeling much better though is willing to rest a lot just now.
Prayers in the Morning (by Neil)
Orion lies spread eagle; his dagger – so Shakespeare called it – hangs limp and to the left
The week lies pregnant as it enters the final sacred hours
The cantors’ arias echo and rebound and reverberate with sadness and poetry and supplication
Tens of overlapping songs issue from the minarets bathed in green luminescence
The tenor voices bounce off the citadel walls, they bathe my rooftop
The hour of prayer is ending, one by one the singers fall mute
Until only one voice sustains and soars on the breeze
The sun is not yet tingeing the sky, only stars and the light of my laptop compete with the light pollution
The laundry is drying around me – the desert air does this effortlessly
The birth of a new Friday is here – I manage to pick out to words of a sung prayer:
“ Allah Akbar” – God is Great
Orion slinks away to the prominence elsewhere– knowing these praises are not sung to him
The week lies pregnant as it enters the final sacred hours
The cantors’ arias echo and rebound and reverberate with sadness and poetry and supplication
Tens of overlapping songs issue from the minarets bathed in green luminescence
The tenor voices bounce off the citadel walls, they bathe my rooftop
The hour of prayer is ending, one by one the singers fall mute
Until only one voice sustains and soars on the breeze
The sun is not yet tingeing the sky, only stars and the light of my laptop compete with the light pollution
The laundry is drying around me – the desert air does this effortlessly
The birth of a new Friday is here – I manage to pick out to words of a sung prayer:
“ Allah Akbar” – God is Great
Orion slinks away to the prominence elsewhere– knowing these praises are not sung to him
Friday, October 16, 2009
Syria - 24 hours in
Today has been a full Damascene day in Syrian. It is our first. I have just sat with an old man, who was calling for his son repeatedly from the courtyard. His calls had become increasingly incessant and twice Yvette and I had witnessed the hotel staff try to quiet him – once harshly – as his voice escalated in stridency. I came downstairs and sat with him and eventually went over to hold his hand and murmur to him in English interspersed with a few Arabic words. He seemed calmer, but when one of the hotel guys came back over he whacked his cane at him. He was working to get out of his chair and motioned for me to help, so I walked with him across the courtyard to the office where he proceeded to whack his cane down on the desk… Fortunately he sat down and I took his cane away and he touched his nose to my nose – a familiar, intimate greeting that I witnessed a number of times between men - first in the Doha airport. He began to weep and held my hand over his heart, and we gave him a tissue and I then discovered he could speak some English. His son came shortly afterward and the three of us sat for another 5 minutes until I took my leave. He reminded me so of my grandmother who would become easily emotional without all her mental facilities or reasoning abilities to be able to have rational conversations with – that one needed to work to connect on an emotional plane. At 10 years old, emotional planes weren’t (and still aren’t) my strong point, but this evening was poignant for the experience and the memories it conjured.
The evening sky has come now and I have returned to the courtyard to type. Four men – including the old man’s two sons sit conversing over tea and a water pipe – occasionally bringing in a 5th person to their circle with a cell phone conversation. Several foreign guests are also having conversations in French and perhaps English – muted to me by the babbling of the fountain courtyard.
Syrian hospitality has been constant and frequent and deep. People have offered their language skills, their homes, their shops, their food, and their hand in friendship to us. We have met people from Iran, Iraq, UK, France, Lebanon and people from across Syrian towns – Damascus, Palmyra, Bosra, Allepo, and Hama. We have been invited to tea and coffee. We have been urged to visit, to stay longer, and to study the language. We have been warmly welcomed in the mosques and told the stories of Hussein and Hassan – grandsons of the prophet. We visited one of the most sacred sites of Islam today – the Umayyad Mosque in Damascus. It is a place with a very long history – this site was once a temple to Zeus, it was used by the Romans, converted to a church by early Christians, became a shared space with Islam and Christianity later in history, and now is a mosque. It contains the tomb of Salhadin – the famous adversary of the crusaders – who is remembered for the mercy he showed people after his victory. The mosque is particularly dear to Shiite Muslims from Iran as Hussein’s tomb is here and we witnessed much weeping and singing and rhythmic chest thumping and kissing of the stones and the pillars at the site of his tomb. One of the Cantors/tour guides/Imam had a beautiful voice and sang the stories for at least 30 minutes to a group before they entered the tomb area. All of the women in this group were shrouded in black but with expressive faces that have seen much history – often the short stick of it has been theirs I fear.
We have enjoyed seeing the street hawkers – especially the country-fair like showman: The Turkish tea-seller, with his ornate metal backpack contraption, pouring out water into his cup from 2’ up and then tossing the water into the air like a water fountain, tossing and spinning the glass before catching it and setting it back down; The Spiro-graph man with his paper filled with arrays of tri-color 2” circles whipping out more as we watch; The vegetable super-slicer hawkers creating art from cucumbers, carrots, and potatoes; The whistling-balloon helicopters being shot up into the atrium before drifting back down to the pedestrian zone once the air is exhausted; The dancing dolls spinning in the lane; The ladies lining the cobbles by the mosque with piles of shelled walnuts. My eyes are full from the feast.
We spent most of our day in the Old City and Souk of Damascus. We have decided on Allepo (known as Haleb in Syria) as a base for our next two months. Yvette is amazing me with her Arabic linguistic skills. She is navigating beautifully the language and making friends left and right. I feel blessed to have some greetings and niceties at my disposal from marrying into Yvette’s family and the lingua franca they use. Merhaba, Enshallah, Hum-del-Allah, Salaam Aleukum, Mas Salaam, Shukarin, Kefiya – they are my starting point for interactions while Yvette chats up the locals I say “Hello. My name is Neil. What is your name? I am American. Nice to meet you. Goodbye. ” Pretty heady stuff I know, but it is a start, and today I tackled the number system and a few more phrases. I can add the Arabic Rosetta Stone (100 Syrian Pounds) to my computer… I wonder if that is a legal copy at the price of $2.20? Anyways we are committing to tackling this language more diligently than we did Lao, so hopefully the brain synapses will resonate well and be faithful to remember more than they forget.
Blessings all. From the Land of Paul, from the land of Hussein, from the “Axis of Evil”, from the ancient mud-wattled homes – we bid you the local goodbye: “Mas Salaam” (Much Peace).
The evening sky has come now and I have returned to the courtyard to type. Four men – including the old man’s two sons sit conversing over tea and a water pipe – occasionally bringing in a 5th person to their circle with a cell phone conversation. Several foreign guests are also having conversations in French and perhaps English – muted to me by the babbling of the fountain courtyard.
Syrian hospitality has been constant and frequent and deep. People have offered their language skills, their homes, their shops, their food, and their hand in friendship to us. We have met people from Iran, Iraq, UK, France, Lebanon and people from across Syrian towns – Damascus, Palmyra, Bosra, Allepo, and Hama. We have been invited to tea and coffee. We have been urged to visit, to stay longer, and to study the language. We have been warmly welcomed in the mosques and told the stories of Hussein and Hassan – grandsons of the prophet. We visited one of the most sacred sites of Islam today – the Umayyad Mosque in Damascus. It is a place with a very long history – this site was once a temple to Zeus, it was used by the Romans, converted to a church by early Christians, became a shared space with Islam and Christianity later in history, and now is a mosque. It contains the tomb of Salhadin – the famous adversary of the crusaders – who is remembered for the mercy he showed people after his victory. The mosque is particularly dear to Shiite Muslims from Iran as Hussein’s tomb is here and we witnessed much weeping and singing and rhythmic chest thumping and kissing of the stones and the pillars at the site of his tomb. One of the Cantors/tour guides/Imam had a beautiful voice and sang the stories for at least 30 minutes to a group before they entered the tomb area. All of the women in this group were shrouded in black but with expressive faces that have seen much history – often the short stick of it has been theirs I fear.
We have enjoyed seeing the street hawkers – especially the country-fair like showman: The Turkish tea-seller, with his ornate metal backpack contraption, pouring out water into his cup from 2’ up and then tossing the water into the air like a water fountain, tossing and spinning the glass before catching it and setting it back down; The Spiro-graph man with his paper filled with arrays of tri-color 2” circles whipping out more as we watch; The vegetable super-slicer hawkers creating art from cucumbers, carrots, and potatoes; The whistling-balloon helicopters being shot up into the atrium before drifting back down to the pedestrian zone once the air is exhausted; The dancing dolls spinning in the lane; The ladies lining the cobbles by the mosque with piles of shelled walnuts. My eyes are full from the feast.
We spent most of our day in the Old City and Souk of Damascus. We have decided on Allepo (known as Haleb in Syria) as a base for our next two months. Yvette is amazing me with her Arabic linguistic skills. She is navigating beautifully the language and making friends left and right. I feel blessed to have some greetings and niceties at my disposal from marrying into Yvette’s family and the lingua franca they use. Merhaba, Enshallah, Hum-del-Allah, Salaam Aleukum, Mas Salaam, Shukarin, Kefiya – they are my starting point for interactions while Yvette chats up the locals I say “Hello. My name is Neil. What is your name? I am American. Nice to meet you. Goodbye. ” Pretty heady stuff I know, but it is a start, and today I tackled the number system and a few more phrases. I can add the Arabic Rosetta Stone (100 Syrian Pounds) to my computer… I wonder if that is a legal copy at the price of $2.20? Anyways we are committing to tackling this language more diligently than we did Lao, so hopefully the brain synapses will resonate well and be faithful to remember more than they forget.
Blessings all. From the Land of Paul, from the land of Hussein, from the “Axis of Evil”, from the ancient mud-wattled homes – we bid you the local goodbye: “Mas Salaam” (Much Peace).
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Singapore - Stereotypes falling fast
(by Neil)
Singapore surprises me – the open minded, me – the traveler, me – the simplifier, me the stereotypist…
The water is lovely tonight. The breeze and the boats and the MerLion’s spitting fountain conspire to ripple the bay. The clouds provide a canvas for the play of sunlight against the backdrop of gleaming glass and steel giants. They cast shadows in hues of grey and blue in the ripples which are punctuated by points of light from the camera flashes, the whirling construction caution lights, the spotlights on the bridge. At least 50 cranes sit idle, waiting for the morning shift of workers to reanimate them, but a pile driver drums across the bay sounding ominously of destruction rather than its opposite.
My neighbors at the outdoor Esplanade theater have a hundred stories in their dress and faces. The sitar player has just arrived and a small entourage of tech people walk up to the stage with him. A bright orange tank top illuminates its owner, and the short pink skirt nearby competes for brightest outfit. The lady and the man next to me are sure prize-winners in their respective long hair categories. She with hair well beyond her spine, and he with a flowing white belly-button length beard.
Night comes gracefully to the waterfront. The blues and yellows of the day are being pushed out by the steel greys and pinks of dusk. Even the pile-driver rhythm has fallen into beat with the concert sound-system. James Galloway is playing tonight in the theater behind us. Last night was Al Jareau, and Elvis Costello the night before. But we are here for the free Sitar Funk concert and the view and the company of diverse folks. A man resembling the Neanderthal on the TV commercials just walked past me with a superman shirt on – I wonder if he sees the irony.
Last night we wandered the Deepavali decorated Little India quarter that was awash with lights and garlands and veggie eats. I balked twice at the s$10/kilo price before buying 1 Alfonso Mango that I had heard about on NPR - described as the King of Mangoes and only recently approved for import to the USA (very yummy deep-orange flesh). Everywhere this cosmopolitan city has shown different faces – mosques, churches, temples, beaches, shopping, nature – we picked a wonderful red frangipani and drunk in its fragrance.
We are here now – Passport-less while we await visas for Syria. And it is good. None of the “DON’Ts” have impinged on us, and we are grateful for the cleanliness, the greenness, the variety, the selection, the multiculturalism, the arts, the quirky exhibits and lectures (“How to grow a Tomatillo”, “ Zap Your Stress & Transform Negative Emotions with Flower Remedies”), the friends, the English-Language friendliness that is Singapore.
Epilogue
The warm-up band was a youthful percussion group complete with gum-chewing, midriff-baring, vivacious girls and torn T-shirt, punked out boys. The Sitar Funk ensemble from Mumbai has exceeded expectations of virtuosity and acoustic pleasure. Yvette and Francis arrived both bearing munchies and sustenance which we chowed down between the two groups. A right pleasant way to pass the evening capped off by a stroll along the waterfront on a circuitous route to the MRT station and home to shower and be curled up with the laptop.
Singapore surprises me – the open minded, me – the traveler, me – the simplifier, me the stereotypist…
The water is lovely tonight. The breeze and the boats and the MerLion’s spitting fountain conspire to ripple the bay. The clouds provide a canvas for the play of sunlight against the backdrop of gleaming glass and steel giants. They cast shadows in hues of grey and blue in the ripples which are punctuated by points of light from the camera flashes, the whirling construction caution lights, the spotlights on the bridge. At least 50 cranes sit idle, waiting for the morning shift of workers to reanimate them, but a pile driver drums across the bay sounding ominously of destruction rather than its opposite.
My neighbors at the outdoor Esplanade theater have a hundred stories in their dress and faces. The sitar player has just arrived and a small entourage of tech people walk up to the stage with him. A bright orange tank top illuminates its owner, and the short pink skirt nearby competes for brightest outfit. The lady and the man next to me are sure prize-winners in their respective long hair categories. She with hair well beyond her spine, and he with a flowing white belly-button length beard.
Night comes gracefully to the waterfront. The blues and yellows of the day are being pushed out by the steel greys and pinks of dusk. Even the pile-driver rhythm has fallen into beat with the concert sound-system. James Galloway is playing tonight in the theater behind us. Last night was Al Jareau, and Elvis Costello the night before. But we are here for the free Sitar Funk concert and the view and the company of diverse folks. A man resembling the Neanderthal on the TV commercials just walked past me with a superman shirt on – I wonder if he sees the irony.
Last night we wandered the Deepavali decorated Little India quarter that was awash with lights and garlands and veggie eats. I balked twice at the s$10/kilo price before buying 1 Alfonso Mango that I had heard about on NPR - described as the King of Mangoes and only recently approved for import to the USA (very yummy deep-orange flesh). Everywhere this cosmopolitan city has shown different faces – mosques, churches, temples, beaches, shopping, nature – we picked a wonderful red frangipani and drunk in its fragrance.
We are here now – Passport-less while we await visas for Syria. And it is good. None of the “DON’Ts” have impinged on us, and we are grateful for the cleanliness, the greenness, the variety, the selection, the multiculturalism, the arts, the quirky exhibits and lectures (“How to grow a Tomatillo”, “ Zap Your Stress & Transform Negative Emotions with Flower Remedies”), the friends, the English-Language friendliness that is Singapore.
Epilogue
The warm-up band was a youthful percussion group complete with gum-chewing, midriff-baring, vivacious girls and torn T-shirt, punked out boys. The Sitar Funk ensemble from Mumbai has exceeded expectations of virtuosity and acoustic pleasure. Yvette and Francis arrived both bearing munchies and sustenance which we chowed down between the two groups. A right pleasant way to pass the evening capped off by a stroll along the waterfront on a circuitous route to the MRT station and home to shower and be curled up with the laptop.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Gongs and Throngs and Visits to Farangs (westerners)
(by Neil)
Too many meals eaten and too many kilometers covered and too many hours have ticked by to give a thorough accounting. The thought of trying to “catch up” my writing with my experiences is always daunting. So I’ll be scattershot and hopefully compress the adventure into a trailer- length version.
Ubon Thailand was un-touristed by westerners and lent itself to internet access, watching movies, indulging in Swenson’s ice cream and having a pizza party with friends. We rented bicycles for the week we were there and road about to and from the language school where our friend works. On the weekend we took an excursion out to a village where they manufacture gongs. In my mind I pictured these as being cast, but most of them were welded from sheets of steel and then hammered into their characteristic shapes. The gongs ranged from 10” to more than 10” across and were fun to beat on. I enjoyed watching the workers hammering them (alas without earplugs) into shape.
We headed out to the confluence of the Mekong and the Mun river which is billed as “the two-color river” as the Mekong tends toward reddish brown and the Mun towards greenish-blue. Where they meet one is supposed to be able to see this mixing, (best in April I read)… I didn’t see it, but it is an impressive amount of water.. Our destinations for the day were two waterfalls. One was particularly distinct for the way the water has eroded a hole that the falls pour through. I stood underneath the flow and took my shower for the week. The water was the perfect temperature for refreshment without shocking the senses. After an hour or so of playing about there, we went to another waterfall that was broad and terrace-like with big jumbles of stones at the bottom. We scrambled over these and posed for pictures before heading back into the city. 
The next day we ventured out for a quick excursion to a village that did bronze casting based on the lost-wax method. The people at the workshop were great at pantomiming the different steps that they followed to craft and cast the bronze. I bought a small cowbell as a souvenir or small gift for a teacher friend . 
We crossed the border into Cambodia overland at O’smach and did Angkor temples for two days. Because of dear friends in this part of the world we succumbed for a few weeks of lugging suitcases from one port to the next. Despite weariness that on-the-move travel brings, the rewards can also be great and Angkor lived up to its billing as a magical destination. The weather was perfect for us on day- one as we did a 43 km bicycle trip about the temples. We were well steered by our guesthouse manager along a path that suited us – avoiding crowds and seeing a variety of sites: jungle temples and shrines, two troops of playing monkeys (including one juvenile who decided to climb up my leg that I had to shoo off), the wall of Angkor Thom from the south gate to the west gate seeing only a few crews of workers as we biked along shaded by the jungle on one side with a view of the moat on the other, the enigma that is Bayon with its huge carved meditative faces on all the towers. We splurged that evening and took a $1 taxi down to the old market and ate a $20 meal at a yummy Khmer vegetarian restaurant – we know how to be decadent! That night the heavens opened up and the rain came down. The ground floor of the guest house flooded as did half the town.
We had saved Angkor Wat for our second day when we planned to hire a guide – which we still did but a bit soggily. Angkor Wat is resplendent even without blue skies and sunsets. We eventually had “bas-relief fatigue” and went out 15 miles to Bantey Srei – sometimes called the women’s temple. It is a miniature temple compared with many, but exquisite in the detail and intricacy of carvings. I took my favorite picture of the day here of a man with his yellow umbrella framed in the red laterite and sandstone doorway. 
Our tuk-tuk driver had been valiantly plowing through stretches with 8 – 10 inches of water on the road. He stopped at one point to ask if we wanted to see Cambodians fishing methods and we took some pictures and enjoyed watching the men casting the nets and the generally happy faces dealing with water everywhere. Yvette did note at a petrol station a man, his wife and 4 children piling off a motorcycle and they looked pretty wet and miserable – at least that is our projection of how we would have felt in that situation. 
We have arrived now in Phnom Penh. Six hours by bus with lots of people watching along the way including a cute, cute kid that the dad joked with us as we took her picture and asked if we wanted to take her with us to America. I wonder what would happen if I said “yes”? We declined but shared a banana with her and took another picture.Friday, September 18, 2009
Bladder Hell - Neil
The air conditioner is losing the battle with the sunshine and body heat creating a glassed-in sauna for the 30 of us suffering on this 10 hour “VIP” bus ride from Luang Prabang to Vientienne. Lush panoramic views of jungle and blue skies dotted with cotton-puff clouds and waterfalls taunt those of us trapped in the convection oven. My bladder is inconsolate. The bus yaws and pitches and rolls about like a mechanical bull pitching our anatomies and jostling all the fluid in us that hasn’t already turned to sticky sweat. The harmonics of the bus set up no soothing rhythm. No comfort or pleasure that might be found on the back of a galloping horse or the cadence of a train. Instead dissonance prevails – bones are jarred, the head is rocked about, and my bladder is squashed and pressed on every inopportune bounce. The onboard bathroom, which one of the passengers now staggers towards, is only a different type of sensory torture. One man pitches down the stairs towards it as the bus lurches. On the previous 4 hour stint I myself braved that bathroom journey and stench. Standing , as men often do, I found continence had gripped me. One needs safety – a calm moment for the body to relax and let the fluids flow, and with my head banging into the 10” too-low ceiling and the bus lurching me about from side to side that calm, reflective moment never came . I lowered the toilet seat which slid off the perch as the hinges had long since rusted through. Replacing it I eventually eeked out the contents of my wary bladder, but by then my stomach was churning with nausea from riding backwards in this smelly cubical. So now I sit – inwardly peevish, outwardly stoic. Asking the childhood question “ARE WE THERE YET?” I check my watch again – surely there is only a little more to endure. Sadly only ten minutes have passed since last check. Five more hours to go.
Eplilogue: We reached the guesthouse and both of us were pleased with our clean Western style non-lurching toilet. h
Eplilogue: We reached the guesthouse and both of us were pleased with our clean Western style non-lurching toilet. h
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Quite a trek, now packing up to move along
Here’s a quick from update as we’re soon to be in-transit here out of Muang Sing; we're busily recovering from our trek and shedding our “sorta household” we’ve collected here so as to be ready to leave Friday morning. We had our 3-night, 2-day trek on Saturday, Sunday, Monday. A tough trek, both physically and mentally, we definitely got “off the beaten-path!”, and overall successful. Here were the highlights:
· A beautiful blessing ceremony in the little village of Ban Sai, at the corner of the Mekong River and Nam Soh River, looking west into Myanmar. The four big-men of the village including the chief—all apparently thoughtful, serious, considerate, careful, responsible, family men—each came around and tied little strings around our wrists while very respectfully chanting blessings about our good journey and good health, and then drank lots of lao lao (rice whiskey) on our behalf. The ceremony was in the home a very kind family where we slept, they were so careful and eager to make us comfortable, with many smiles, veggie food (bamboo shoot/chili soup, egg and rice nicely laid out in clean dishes on a banana-leaf-lined little bamboo table), and clean, comfy beds, and gentle massages for our exhausted bodies by beautifully dressed Tai-Lu young women from the village. 
· Bathing in the smaller river, including being joined by 5-6 young boy monks; though I still haven’t mastered bathing gracefully in a sarong. Feeling clean was awesome, woulda’ done it with the whole village watching if I had to. The river was fast, cool, perfectly-sized, with lots of rocks to make for non-muddy bathing. · Though miserable, the fact that it rained on us much of the second day was also a blessing as it kept us from getting hot as we trudged up from the Mekong thru beautiful views, rice fields (lined with cucumber vines, pumpkin vines, sesame plants, etc.)—up a 1500-meter high mountain, then back down, then back up—finally reaching Ban Eurla (an Akha village) for our second night.
· Though not necessarily pleasant, we had many observations of how challenged this village is—school building run down, teacher “not yet arrived” (empty house also waiting for him/her). What seems dirtiness to us—the village itself, the homes (at least where we stayed), the dishes, the furniture, the children. Lucky for this village, their water at least seems pretty clean from a village stream. Chief was away on business, we were hosted by his family including his very-addicted father (we think?), and kid-brother (16 years old—and one of the very few in the village who speaks Lao). Are the challenges because of Akha culture? Poverty? A dysfunctional chief’s family? Bad air from Vientianne (300 miles south), as one family believes and shared with us? Or perhaps not enough sacrificed chickens, pigs, cows, water buffalo? Or the secret war that pillaged this country 30 years ago in the USA’s seemingly-ill-advised effort to combat the Red Threat? Or the opium that has been, in some way, a focus of political and economic attention in this region for centuries? Or just “fate”? Who knows . . . regardless of causal elements, depressing. 
· Again—bathing at the stream, this time under the bamboo aqueduct (powerful force!!). Then dry clothes (woo-hoo!!) and warming up/drying off by the cozy fire in the Naiban’s house. · Baby dogs, baby pigs, baby cats, baby pigs, baby chickens, baby humans, exuberant children, lots of swings erected—seemingly one of the bigger past-times for kids and adults. And a way to be out of the collective mud/poop/garbage/run-off of the village. . .
· Hearing the story of the addicted man—despite his condition (which is how it seems to be viewed), he is seemingly an influential man in the village. A former soldier who was injured by a land mine with a long scar on his leg to prove it, he gets K400,000 ($50) /month, allowing him to support his habit and his large family of two wives and nine children in style in the village and also to have his opium without police interference (despite no school for his children). His two wives were among the most dignified beautiful grandmothers, with lots of smiles, laughter, tolerance for the children (including lots of pee puddles). Then having a very PAINFUL massage by the chief's bare-breasted daughter, a 20-year-old mother of two with quite a grip.
· That the mother of the sick baby trusted us enough and was able to comfortably decide to come with us even without her husband to consult with. Observing her beautiful smile for the baby, her tender care of him, and her uncomplaining perseverance as she carried the child 5 hours on foot, and held him for 5 hours in a tractor ride—including pre-chewing his rice, breast-feeding while hiking (!!), and giving him water out of the grubby-soda-bottle-turned-water-bottle cap.
· That the 16-year-old brother who also came with us survived the hike without incident despite his respiratory infection—causing difficulty breathing, lots of coughing and hawking (a farovite national past time even in normal times). Plus sore toes from his flip flops (eventually opting for barefoot and then Neil’s Teva’s—which he swam in but which protected his feet).
· Not a positive highlight, but we all were tasty to the leeches—I think only Neil and I were persistently grossed-out by them. We pulled off probably 20-30 of them from our shoes, socks, legs, feet, of which 5-6 had managed to connect to Neil (none to me). We’ve finally found the critter that likes Neil’s blood better than mine!!
· Imagining seeing the town thru the eyes of mom and brother, as we approached the Muang Sing valley at tractor-speed from high in the mountains, and increasingly saw bicycles, trucks, shops, lights, televisions in the shop fronts, and finally the very-bright-lights of the white-tiled hospital. With a television in the waiting room. · On arrival at the hospital here in Muang Sing, quick attention by the medical team. Although a very scant exam, within an hour they’d given the baby oral antibiotics, and anti-allergenic/anti-itch/sedative, and multivitamins. And started an IV drip plus IV-push antibiotics on the boy. Our guide, Ko, pictured here in the hospital with Neil, helped us to ensure the family was well-settled. Most poignant moment was when the staff asked mom to remove the baby’s beautiful hat. I had noted that she carefully kept the baby’s head covered even the evening before in the village, so had a gut feeling that what was under the hat wasn’t good. Indeed. Lots of impressive scabs and sores on the baby’s head—leading both mother and brother to tears.
And yes, it was very good, finally around 8:30pm, to eat a large bowl of noodle/egg/tomato/peanut soup made by the lovely, gracious Chinese lady who gets that we’re vegetarian and lets us come into her kitchen and select our ingredients every time we eat there. Plus lots of cold Fanta and water. And then home to the guest house for long hot showers, clean clothes, and “our own” (well, sorta) bed.
Friday morning we’ll be taken to the bus station around 7am by some of the young people Neil’s been working with. Quite a send-off it’ll be, I think. Love to all, we’re getting a lot of it here.
Trekking in Xieng Khaeng, Lao
We trekked for 3 days and visited 6 villages in the Golden Triangle region – along the border of Burma and Lao and China – a formerly predominantly-opium-growing region.
We visited a Tai-Lu village and 5 Akha villages. The Akha are arguably the poorest ethnic group in Lao not only economically, but educationally and in health. Betal nut has rotted out the teeth of successive generations, and the villages we visited were often in poor repair, without latrines, strewn with trash, littered with children, lacking school teachers (or schools), and the walking surface made up of the ubiquitous red mud mixed with dog, water buffalo, cow, pig, and chicken poop.
The engineer in me says – “We can divert this water, and channel it so it doesn’t erode your village. We can arrange all these rocks and stones to make paths and stairs and walls that the rain won’t wash away.”
The teacher in me says – “You have a school building and older adults and some children who know the Lao language – go to the school and set up a program using your community resources rather than just hope the teacher shows up. Maybe I could be a teacher here and help transform the village.”
The cynic in me says – “The village is doomed. Give up and move out. The kids have little future. The headman is an addict. Chairman Mao was right – the country people are bumpkins who need modernization - out with the old, in with the new.”
The anthropologist in me says – “The pride of the women in their stunning headdresses, the ability of the people to live from the land, the language and ancient ways make our world richer.”
The traveller in me says – “Been there, seen that, glad to be moving on.”
The philanthropist in me says – “I can save this baby’s life for somewhere between $5 and $100. Why am I traveling if I could use the money to help 1000 other babies? What is the right balance between “heart” and “head” giving? Triple my money to Operation Smile. Give to Health Frontiers. Ask other people I know to give.”
The coward in me says – “It is too hard, too complex, too entrenched to tackle. You don’t speak the language. You aren’t rich. You don’t know the nuances. It should really be one of their own to step up.”
So how should we live. Unaware? Guiltily? Generously? Simply?
The human in me said – “Bring the sick baby back to the hospital. If she was your baby you would unquestionably.”
Yvette and I brought back a family with us to the hospital. 9 hours of travel from her village. The baby’s hand and ear and head were encrusted with bloody scabs. The parents had asked if we could help. They spoke of bad air coming from the big city and making them sick. The father left early in the morning to sacrifice a chicken. The mother decided eventually to come with us, even though she couldn’t confer with him.
The advocate in me says to you – “Get involved – beyond girl-scouts and PTA and church. Become doctors, learn languages, become ambassadors for a more equitable planet and use your skills and $$ and time to make it so.”
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Chickens Crossing, Playing Chicken and Pondering Why
Today chickens are crossing the road - playing chicken with my bicycle, and I am left to ponder why. Despite the roosters many crows claiming it was all about them, my observations suggest otherwise that just as often Ms. Chicken is crossing away from one rooster and there just happens to be another on the other side thinking it was attraction that brought her rather than avoidance. In addition to our thoughts on Chickens Yvette and I penned a few lines over the last few days. Yvette thinks I should ask the question, not "Why did the chicken cross the road?" but How.... This after two chickens came flying across (gracefully as only chickens can be) our path on our way home from a waterfall that we sought out and found today...
Night
by Neil
Our bicycles parked, we stand on the blacktop under the Laotian sky – the Asian sky – the Earth Sky
The Big Dipper is here, an old friend far from home
The contrast of the sky magnified - brighter AND darker
Moon, stars and lightning coexist
The clouds wisp about the moon like a closer swirl of the Milky Way
The lightning adds drama at the fringes on the low clouds over the surrounding hills
A tractor putters by with a handheld flashlight for a headlight
The light swivels to our faces, surprised by Americans in the blackness, in the starlight, in the lightning, in the cicada song and the croaks of night
Web of Travelers
By Yvette
Polish, Finnish, Chinese, Japanese, French, Korean, American
Or combinations of these, each made up of where they’ve been
Joined by this thing called travel, a role, a pigeon box to be put in,
(What are you doing here? Ah, you’re tourists.)
Evoking Marco Polo, Gulliver, Canterbury, Mecca.
People identified as “that French couple,” or “those Finnish guys,”
If something happened to them, might I be one to speak to their families?
“We saw them last in the back of a tuk tuk on the way to . . .”
Wanderlust, restlessness, grunginess, discovery, brief connections, disconnection.
Scram Bled Eggs and Other Pleasures of the Road and the Dark Side of Familiarity
Our bicycles parked, we stand on the blacktop under the Laotian sky – the Asian sky – the Earth Sky
The Big Dipper is here, an old friend far from home
The contrast of the sky magnified - brighter AND darker
Moon, stars and lightning coexist
The clouds wisp about the moon like a closer swirl of the Milky Way
The lightning adds drama at the fringes on the low clouds over the surrounding hills
A tractor putters by with a handheld flashlight for a headlight
The light swivels to our faces, surprised by Americans in the blackness, in the starlight, in the lightning, in the cicada song and the croaks of night
Web of Travelers
By Yvette
Polish, Finnish, Chinese, Japanese, French, Korean, American
Or combinations of these, each made up of where they’ve been
Joined by this thing called travel, a role, a pigeon box to be put in,
(What are you doing here? Ah, you’re tourists.)
Evoking Marco Polo, Gulliver, Canterbury, Mecca.
People identified as “that French couple,” or “those Finnish guys,”
If something happened to them, might I be one to speak to their families?
“We saw them last in the back of a tuk tuk on the way to . . .”
Wanderlust, restlessness, grunginess, discovery, brief connections, disconnection.
Scram Bled Eggs and Other Pleasures of the Road and the Dark Side of Familiarity
by Neil
Satisfaction
The rainbows kissing the rice fields, butterflies dancing on the air currents, broods of chicks and ducks exploring the scratches of in the dirt and rivulets in the dikes, smiling babies, silver clad headdresses, wise weathered faces, the tidy compound by the river – surrounded by grass and tended by a grandmother with a young one on her hip, created wind by the bicycles speed, diligent students with an eagerness for more, Coldplay and U2 and Rufus played on the tinny speakers of our lugged laptop, eggplant jhao, mangos and sticky rice, bananas, fans, showers, smiles, glimpses of culture, saffron robes, expansive moody skies
Dissatisfaction
Trash thrown from the bus –the shop – the house - everywhere, hawking and spitting, cow and dog shit, dental work gone amiss and without, the rubber trees, the squalid toilets, ants, the hack job of pruning trees, the administrators dirt bowling while their buildings crumble, the males standing around smoking while the women work, the aimless teenagers cruising about, and the amateur-hour plumbing jobs, the diesel spewing tractors and trucks, the one same unimaginative menu in every restaurant, the indignity of beggars and hangers-on at the market, the apathy of many, the beer industry, suffering and addiction, cruelty of boys – boxing ears, jabbing each other in the butt, pushing and shoving to get their way
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Home is where you hang your toothbrush holder . . .
Well, we’re now about 10 days into our stay in Muang Sing. How to describe this little town? Great market, with lots of veggies (critically—onions, garlic, potatoes, tomatoes, carrots, cabbage, cucumbers), herbs (some known and some not—galangal, lemongrass, cilantro, parsley), plus chickens/ducks (live or not, with feet hanging out, and being carried about by feet or in “chicken purses”—I heard a quack and thought “oh, that person has a duck in their bag” but indeed the bag was the duck, just protesting being carried in an undignified manner), plus live eels swimming about in plastic bins, lots of noodles (dried or being “scissor-cut” from larger-than-lasagna-like sheets that have been folded for easy cutting), some fruit (rambuttans, oranges, semi-flavorless mangoes due to season, oranges, few pineapple, some
bananas, rare pineapple, few and somewhat flavorless apples, grapes, peaches, plums). Nextdoor a “mall” of sorts (big u-shaped building with lots of shops and a u-shaped interior corridor, all shops with garage-door sorts of openings), housing stacks of clothes, or Chinese plastics, or wash basins, rice cookers, woks up to 3-feet across, hoe or shovel heads, pesticide sprayers, cell phones, various sugarized drinks (we like the mango, tamarind, yogurt drinks and occasionally soy milk boxes) and “popped candy” or shrimp-flavored snacks, palm oil, fish sauce, chili sauce, polyester clothes or bedding . . . quite a place!! 
We’re surrounded by beauty . . . we’re in a very wide valley, surrounded on 3 sides by hills that are moody, surreal, often cloud or mist-covered. It’s rainy season which means green-ness is all around, also means that at least we can’t predict the weather. Our first few days here were very rainy, perfect for the poetry I’m intending to write. The hills are covered with quilt-patterns of plantations, either “upland rice” (which doesn’t have flat, water-filled terraces but instead can grow on steep fields), or more often rubber plantations.The weather’s good . . . mid-day is warm and certainly in the sun is downright hot, but mornings and evenings are cool. If you move around you get sticky, but after a shower lying still you’re cool. Fortunately for us the bugs are also relatively few. Our guesthouse is screened to keep out the biggies / baddies, the little black gnats still get thru so we leave the light mostly off above our bed. The idea of them makes us itchy but I don’t really think they bite much.
And we’ve made several friends . . . We've met some fabulous folks who are here doing local NGO work--and who know people we know! There's a couple named Brian and Laila from Santa Barbara, CA. They’re here doing very "off-the-beaten-path" health development work, and have a kids play / development time every afternoon, 4-6pm that Neil has quickly gotten involved in. She practiced for years as a pediatrician in the US, and he's a photographer by trade, now her right-hand man in health / development work. Also have met a German woman, Ingrid, working here for GTZ (the German govt-related NGO / bilateral group) on agricultural development with the ethnic hill tribes, around livestock development. Also have met a Chinese woman, Yunxi, who's getting her PhD in anthropology from a univ in Australia, by studying the Akha ethnic tribe (effect of rubber plantations on them), which shares ethnic heritage with her own ethnicity--the Hani people of China who Neil so enjoyed visiting a couple of years ago.
We've had some trouble finding a place to live. We were all set to move in with Yunxi as she has a big house (WITH kitchen and bath which seems to be the stickler here) and was happy to share, but then we got into a complicated negotiation translated with 3 separate languages involved, with her landlord, a policeman who lives right next door. It was clear the idea made him very nervous, they were worried for her safety, for their liability, for lots of things. (At one point Yunxi said something like, “so let’s speak frankly—in the worst case scenario if they killed me, he’s worried about something like that?” and everyone chuckled nervously.) We finally gracefully backed out which made everyone much more comfortable and we all remain friends. I bought two small pillows from the policeman’s wife a few days ago, and also visited with his brother-in-law (who speaks English) a bit. I was concerned we would
jeopardize Yungxi's relationships with them, which wouldn't be good as she needs to stay and do her research for months to come, yet. Anyway, so we've finally made a 3-week agreement with the owner of Chan Thimeng guest house, a very beautiful concrete two-story building in a beautiful, quiet part of town that overlooks stunning rice fields, is quiet and breezy and cool. Has a beautiful terrace. And importantly, is far away and pointed the opposite direction from the town loudspeakers which seem to include news and nationalistic music from about 6:30-8:30am and Buddhist chants in the early evening. And they've agreed to let us set up our electric wok, rice cooker, and dish basin (no running water near the cooking area, just work with a basin). So we’ve bought our cooking appliances and a few basics and some food. Nga, the young woman who runs the guest house, is very helpful and friendly. We’re exchanging light coaching on how to pronounce numbers (she in English, me in Laos—I’d never thought about how subtle the difference between 30 and 13 is. . . ).There's also a very nice man named Pohon whose family has a restaurant overlooking the rice fields, and who runs tours/treks up to the ethnic hill tribe areas. We've been helping him with the English for some of his displays about his tours, and in return have had several yummy veggie lunches. He speaks English and seems like a nice, good, hard-working family man. They also run an "herbal massage and sauna" business--though I for one can't imagine going into a sauna most of the time here. Neil and Pohon together built us a wood / bamboo shelf so we can hang our clothes and feel less like we’re living out of our suitcases. Quite the lovely piece of furniture!!
Note the instructions from the local tourist office / and police / and management unit, these are the “guest house rules” that are the same in each guest house, which addresses things like “be in by 10pm” and no prostitutes or drugs. We've bought bikes (which we're enjoying very much!) and Neil collaborated with a nearby mechanic to weld an extension to the "post" so his seat is a good 4-6" higher than other bikes in town, making his knees much less sore!As we've met especially the NGO expats who live here, and described that we want to live here for a month just "to be and to see", we got looks that I imagine we'd have given people when we lived in Juba, Sudan, if they said they just wanted to live local. Like: "Why did you pick here? What are you going to DO?" I feel self-conscious to sit and read my book / write my poems when there truly is poverty and need around and I see NGO folks working their 14-hr (or even 6-hr) days in demanding conditions. Hmm. 
Were we silly to try this here? I feel that we’ve probably picked a harder / poorer place than we realized initially. I do feel self-absorbed to sit here cool in my tidy little guest house room while farmers till their fields outside despite leeches, snakes, bugs, hot sun, etc.,--even the government workers here reportedly make $40/month so supplement with farming or other things. Neil commented that I’m a bit self-absorbed with my self-absorption—hmm, that’s a bit of a twister!! But I am doing a lot of reflective thinking about how best to spend my time here, and also how I want to spend the rest of our year after we leave Muang Sing. Seems that doing a sabbatical “well” is a bit tricky. I see in myself and I’ve seen in a few colleagues on sabbatical recently, a restlessness, unsureness re: what to do with oneself, etc. It really does seem to be an unnatural way to live, not to have daily work. Plus, I fear I’ve become a bit of a “city girl” and perhaps even in a US town this size, would have trouble finding enough to do.
Were we silly to try this here? I feel that we’ve probably picked a harder / poorer place than we realized initially. I do feel self-absorbed to sit here cool in my tidy little guest house room while farmers till their fields outside despite leeches, snakes, bugs, hot sun, etc.,--even the government workers here reportedly make $40/month so supplement with farming or other things. Neil commented that I’m a bit self-absorbed with my self-absorption—hmm, that’s a bit of a twister!! But I am doing a lot of reflective thinking about how best to spend my time here, and also how I want to spend the rest of our year after we leave Muang Sing. Seems that doing a sabbatical “well” is a bit tricky. I see in myself and I’ve seen in a few colleagues on sabbatical recently, a restlessness, unsureness re: what to do with oneself, etc. It really does seem to be an unnatural way to live, not to have daily work. Plus, I fear I’ve become a bit of a “city girl” and perhaps even in a US town this size, would have trouble finding enough to do.
So . . . on the good side, it's not too hot, the people are friendly, we've made friends here both expat and local, we’re both healthy so far, the market has a-plenty (only thing we're lacking is good bread and a place that has cheaper ice cream, so far have only found that at one of the guest houses in town for a whole 50cents per ice cream bar, which amazingly feels expensive. :-) ), there are many cute baby animals around, we have a comfy, clean place to sleep at night, and the pace of life here truly is slow. Really, our troubles are few.On the other- (I hesitate to say down-) side, we don't have our own house, it's a little "tougher living" here than we thought, and the need 
nearby makes one self-conscious about being too pamper-ey or even leisurely with one's time. We have to leave Laos to get our visa renewed as of Sept 12, and I think it's unlikely that we're return to Muang Sing, though we may come back to check out other parts of Laos, not sure. Anyway, we've negotiated to stay here until then, so it will be nice to do less "logistics" and more other stuff like writing and reading over the next few days. For me, part of it will be determining some of my personal objectives for this year--as Yunxi my Chinese friend here said, "oh, you're such an NGO person!!" when I told her that. Yup, guilty as accused. It will be nice to get into a bit more of a rhythm as so far it's felt like moving around, getting settled, making decisions, etc. I've found myself having reactions I recognize as "missionary wife-ish" like when Neil throws my pillow on the floor to sit on, or BRINGS a gecko into the room to show me, but then it gets loose, or my custard apple is covered with little tiny, white, pill-bug-like creatures which I attempt to eat around, or I just really would love some fresh orange juice or whatever. Ha!! Have seen that and felt it before in other settings! I'm trying to be "zen" and be "above" needing to control my surroundings. And feel okay about the fact that I do love a cool shower, feeling clean and not sticky in the middle of a warm day. Ah well.
nearby makes one self-conscious about being too pamper-ey or even leisurely with one's time. We have to leave Laos to get our visa renewed as of Sept 12, and I think it's unlikely that we're return to Muang Sing, though we may come back to check out other parts of Laos, not sure. Anyway, we've negotiated to stay here until then, so it will be nice to do less "logistics" and more other stuff like writing and reading over the next few days. For me, part of it will be determining some of my personal objectives for this year--as Yunxi my Chinese friend here said, "oh, you're such an NGO person!!" when I told her that. Yup, guilty as accused. It will be nice to get into a bit more of a rhythm as so far it's felt like moving around, getting settled, making decisions, etc. I've found myself having reactions I recognize as "missionary wife-ish" like when Neil throws my pillow on the floor to sit on, or BRINGS a gecko into the room to show me, but then it gets loose, or my custard apple is covered with little tiny, white, pill-bug-like creatures which I attempt to eat around, or I just really would love some fresh orange juice or whatever. Ha!! Have seen that and felt it before in other settings! I'm trying to be "zen" and be "above" needing to control my surroundings. And feel okay about the fact that I do love a cool shower, feeling clean and not sticky in the middle of a warm day. Ah well.
Yvette and I have wonted to write a bit of poetry and impose some more discipline on ourselves. Yesterday morning we headed out for a longer bike ride and an early start, but this morning we just lay in bed sleeping in, finally rousing ourselves to pen a few lines of poetry:
Sweat - the lubricant and the adhesive
by Neil
It beads on my forehead and carries the day’s dust into my eyes
My soaker hose arms pop out small beads which merge into pools and then an even gloss
My shirt clings to me now, becoming a second sheer sticky skin
Another loosed button invites cooling, but evaporation and humidity are equally matched in this moisture war
I envision a not too far moment of comingled sweat as our bodies slip together
The coolness of a breeze mixed with the heat of passion
But my visions are for the younger - the infatuated
Comfortable reality calls for a shower
Bangkok Monsoon Season
by Yvette
Stinky sauna, sweat seeping into and out of one’s skin
Slippery sidewalks, stones setting sideways, shifting
Storm water rushing, gushing, supplanting sewer smells.
Sweat - the lubricant and the adhesive
by Neil
It beads on my forehead and carries the day’s dust into my eyes
My soaker hose arms pop out small beads which merge into pools and then an even gloss
My shirt clings to me now, becoming a second sheer sticky skin
Another loosed button invites cooling, but evaporation and humidity are equally matched in this moisture war
I envision a not too far moment of comingled sweat as our bodies slip together
The coolness of a breeze mixed with the heat of passion
But my visions are for the younger - the infatuated
Comfortable reality calls for a shower
Bangkok Monsoon Season
by Yvette
Stinky sauna, sweat seeping into and out of one’s skin
Slippery sidewalks, stones setting sideways, shifting
Storm water rushing, gushing, supplanting sewer smells.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Picks and Pans: Bugs, Kids, Anniversary, Market
Outside our room we witnessed an insect war. A stealthy praying mantis had his eye on a bumbling cicada twice his heft in weight. Slowly the mantis worked his way across the 20” gap between them, moving one of its 6 legs at a time, testing the woven bamboo surface for a gap to secure its footing. After several minutes it was 3 inches away. We watched it strike at the cicada, but the cicada slipped its grasp and flew about as though blind – bumping into the ceiling, walls and the lamp’s two guardian geckos in a buzzing frenzy. The geckos retreated to the shadows, but the mantis waited and the cicada landed again near the light. Again the mantis worked its way slowly across the ceiling to the new battle ground. By now 4 of us were watching the action from below. Finally the mantis lunged and grabbed the cicada. They fell to the floor and for a second or two it looked as though the mantis had a supper snack, but the cicada buzzed free and bumped again into everything on its way back to the light. I retired, for the night as the mantis was climbing its way back up the wall towards the arena.
I am volunteering ~5 times a week at Bryan and Lyla’s house were 20 – 30 children descend every afternoon between 4 and 6 p.m. Bryan and Lyla are an American couple who have lived in worked in Lao since 2001 predominately with pediatric medical training and with youth. I am missing all my resources that I had in Seattle. I bought 40 small composition books for students to be able to take notes in, and am working to balance my time between writing, reading and speaking. O-ba-ma, ba-na-na, ma-ma, so-da, no, so, ha-ha, he-he, cat, bat, fat, rat, hat, sat… are some of the words kids are starting to be able to decode on their own. Of course the trouble with English is all the exceptions, but for now - to (toe) and do (dough) rhyme with no and so - as I try to get them to recognize the predominant patterns. Some of the best English speakers are 4 girls who work in a shop selling textiles to tourists. Yvette bought a skirt from them on our first day, and I had taken one of their pictures at the time. 
Our 14th anniversary was on the 20th, and we have now settled into a guesthouse for the duration of our time in this village. We have set up a cooking area in the communal space (but as we have the run of the place it is really our space). We bought a small rice cooker, an electric wok, a mortar and pestle, a large knife and a cutting board. For our anniversary we cooked Thai but had to substitute peanuts for cashews as we couldn’t find those anywhere. We also got a movie from our personal Blockbuster – YungXi – a Chinese graduate student who we almost ended up renting part of her house from. We watched The Reader which intermittently said “Property of the Weinstein company – do not copy” so we didn’t make a copy of it. The Chinese copies of DVD’s are much higher quality than the Thai or Lao ones. Those ones none of the submenus work (although the ones I saw in Thailand did fit 4 movies onto one DVD). The market here is sizeable, but filled with so much of the same junk that is a bit futile to keep moving from shop to shop. We bought a kilo of salt because we couldn’t find any small sizes, no one had anything except palm oil, no sesame seeds – not in season, but we can ask a truck to bring them from China, no nuts except peanuts. Occasionally we find something unique: the one store with breadboards and one store that has sponges with green scrubbers…
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Amplification
This morning I did a little walk-about in Luang Namtha. We are in the Northern reaches of Laos, not far from the Burmese, Chinese, and Vietnamese borders. The roosters had woken me up around 5:15 a.m. and I had a sound night of sleep beneath an oscillating ceiling fan. I found myself locked into the compound we are staying at, but decided to hop the gate rather than wake someone. I and the gate were both a bit precarious, but I managed to not fall off and to only injure my shirt with a 4” tear where a snag of metal caught me. There are 5 hill-tribe ladies encamped just outside this guest house – doing needle work, chewing something, and selling handiwork and perhaps substances. They were there and one of them watched me jump the gate and laughed and then tried to sell me something… Later when I returned she pointed me out to the group I think recapping my gate jumping.
The town dogs were out in force. Fighting, breeding, playing, walking with purpose, sniffing, or laying about. One puppy had an oversized stuffed creature about his size that he was worrying with his teeth. Another game I observed was being played by two young brothers, the half naked baby was trying to stomp on his brothers shoes, and he was dodging out of the way to the delight of both.
Walking a bit further a father and son emerged from the undergrowth by the road with a stick that had a short blade on one end. I gathered it might have been for digging up a type of root, but they didn’t appear to have any harvest yet.
I walked without a particular goal and eventually headed toward high ground. Soon I could hear music coming from a ways away and I headed that way. It kept growing louder as I neared, but 3 blocks had gone by and I still had not discovered the source. Eventually the source revealed itself: a temple atop a hill just outside of town. Several saffron robed chaps were sitting atop a knoll silently. The music was almost blaring from two speakers off a building next to them that had a number of monks bowls in it and mostly older people there for a morning prayer session. It is a doodle thought, but I wonder about how recorded music has taken away from the need for the monks to chant or for Americans to sing or in Muslim cultures for a cantor to sing the call to prayer. Too often I fear we trade in spectatorship for participation. I want to decree (when I am king for a day), that the monks should make their own music, that the mosques should have a live call to prayer- that, like the rooster or the crying baby, one’s own vocal power ought to determine the reach of the call - especially when one makes music at 5:30 a.m. I particularly wondered how the immediate neighbors felt about the daily music. On my way back I was greeted by more music emerging from one of the municipal buildings – exhorting the people I imagined to be good, upright, true and accepting of music and speaker announcements and roosters that blare in the morning air.
The town dogs were out in force. Fighting, breeding, playing, walking with purpose, sniffing, or laying about. One puppy had an oversized stuffed creature about his size that he was worrying with his teeth. Another game I observed was being played by two young brothers, the half naked baby was trying to stomp on his brothers shoes, and he was dodging out of the way to the delight of both.
Walking a bit further a father and son emerged from the undergrowth by the road with a stick that had a short blade on one end. I gathered it might have been for digging up a type of root, but they didn’t appear to have any harvest yet.
I walked without a particular goal and eventually headed toward high ground. Soon I could hear music coming from a ways away and I headed that way. It kept growing louder as I neared, but 3 blocks had gone by and I still had not discovered the source. Eventually the source revealed itself: a temple atop a hill just outside of town. Several saffron robed chaps were sitting atop a knoll silently. The music was almost blaring from two speakers off a building next to them that had a number of monks bowls in it and mostly older people there for a morning prayer session. It is a doodle thought, but I wonder about how recorded music has taken away from the need for the monks to chant or for Americans to sing or in Muslim cultures for a cantor to sing the call to prayer. Too often I fear we trade in spectatorship for participation. I want to decree (when I am king for a day), that the monks should make their own music, that the mosques should have a live call to prayer- that, like the rooster or the crying baby, one’s own vocal power ought to determine the reach of the call - especially when one makes music at 5:30 a.m. I particularly wondered how the immediate neighbors felt about the daily music. On my way back I was greeted by more music emerging from one of the municipal buildings – exhorting the people I imagined to be good, upright, true and accepting of music and speaker announcements and roosters that blare in the morning air.
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