Neil & Yvette's Travels & Travails

Final, final thoughts: France, and the year in summary (by Yvette)

2010-09-11T15:30:00.000-07:00

I’ve been determined for some time now to type up my final impressions of the road, I jotted down notes to this end on my flight home Paris > Los Angeles. But I’ve been reveling in being home, so only now (nearly 3 months later) I sit down to reflect on the last legs of our trip. (This is likely to be another epistle of hoarded thoughts.)

France . . . love it as an idea, a country, the language sounds musical, the sights are abundantly cute, the art is phenomenal, the quality of life magical. France was made so much more welcoming to us with the generosity of friends who offered that we could stay at their apartment in Toulouse. And so we got to know this beautiful little city. Toulouse—where the accent’s a bit “southern,” the sun warm, the brick streets and buildings soulful. Jacque (Neil’s mom) spent a few weeks with us—very nice to reconnect, have time to enjoy things together, to share impressions. I studied French for 3 weeks—enough to be convinced I can conquer French for real if I ever choose to, despite fellow student’s accusations that I was speaking “Fragnol” given my generous sprinkling of Spanish words into my new French!! The structure of 3 hours of language class is just perfect to feel like one is accomplishing something, while still being able to do some art, take naps, eat well, etc.

A few highlights from our France experience:

Like other places, we probably most enjoyed the time we “parked” it, lived normal life, and made friends. Annie and Jacques (friends of those whose apartment we lived in) were ever-so-generous to share family with us, feed us, take us to beautiful nearby towns. Also, Stephanie and her parents (who we’d met in Muang Sing, Laos!!) generously invited us to their home, shared art classes (Stephanie), and gave a personal tour of the Airbus 380 test plane (which Allan works on)—very impressive! And we made good friends in our Thursday night sculpture class—always facilitated by lively music, a bottle of wine, some crackers, and plenty of clay to sculpt while chatting (or at least oohing and aahing, language barriers notwithstanding).

The “transhumance” festival of Aubrac, celebrating when the cows migrate to northern meadows, was very amusing. Some cows wore flowers (picture a small Christmas tree mounted on a cow’s forehead, you’ll get the idea), some wore a French flag. None of the costume options were very dignified for the cows. Add lots of booths to buy things at, costumed dancers, accordion music, and long speeches. . . and a good time was had by all.

The Les Stes. Maries de la Mer festival was colorful and interesting. This is a Roma / gypsy town, and the festival is to celebrate Saints Marie and Sarah who came from the sea to bring Christianity to France. So the festival starts at the church (except for those dancing and reveling outside), the saints are carried to the beach accompanied by horses and people in procession, carried into the water and then put on a boat out in the surf (whereupon they’re much less-ceremoniously returned to the church). Add a few sprinkles of yoga-performing tourists on the beach, wet clothing, gypsy bands, dancing, and perhaps some psychosis (or just extreme religious piety?). Once again, tho, better get your lunch by 1:30pm or it’s only sandwich shops for you (Neil had ice cream for lunch, I found a salad).

One of our last hurrahs was to visit and volunteer at an organic goat farm in Florac—La Ferme de la Borie. Jean-Christophe, a hard-working, goofy, grinning, optimistic French man who stirs his coffee with his butter knife and scratches his head with his fork, bought this farm 10 years ago (after neglect since WWII), rebuilt the buildings, and manages 150 goats, 2 cows, chickens, pigs, 2 dogs, many cats, numerous bee hives, several interns and staff, and guests. What a delightful place. I got to lead (??!!) the goats to the milking barn, milk them, then help with various stages of the cheese-making process (all stages are smelly, and they get progressively grosser—the longest-aged cheese back in the caves must be turned and checked for humidity and worms, never mind the gnats, moths, mouse terds—hey, it’s organic!!) Neil fixed fences, pruned trees, hoed the garden. And in the evenings we were rewarded by fresh food warmly shared around a large table—lots of opportunity to practice my French!! And the cheese “plate” each night, let’s just say it was a plank (two people required to bring it to the table) laden with all goat cheeses imaginable.

So how do I sum up my thoughts on the year? This is one thing I’ve been mildly worried about all year—would it be worth it? Would it be productive? What would I have to show for the year? What would I learn? I’m practicing letting all that go—except to the extent it helps me live more intentionally, spend my time more proactively, be proud at the end of each day. So here are some final thoughts in that spirit.

When we considered this year, I worried about how self-absorbed it seemed (many of you are familiar with Eat, Pray, Love—and some have assessed her experience as self-absorbed, too). A friend encouraged me to think of the year as contributing balance to the world, for those who couldn’t take the time to have an experience like this. During this year, I’ve tried to make friends, to build community, to become and remain connected with people in far off places (just yesterday I emailed back and forth with Bolivia x 2, Laos x 2, Syria, France—phew!) Studying language facilitated this both by the practical aspects of communication, and in the symbol of investing enough to try, of honoring the mode of communication in each country. In each country we were proud to set up housekeeping (however simple) and offer food and friendship (which meant, again, the practical things like buying a pot, cooking on a bad stove, borrowing dishes to serve a crowd, etc.) Building community around the globe has its own importance, I believe. Equally importantly, I’ve tried to share thoughts with friends back home, especially helping to increase understanding of the specific places we went (Laos, Syria, Bolivia, France)—countries and people groups which are slightly “suspect” to many Americans. Finally, I hope I’ve inspired people to look up from a busy life and consider stepping out of the norm for a bit to gain some different perspective.

So I know I’ve broadened my horizons, and I hope I’ve broadened horizons for other people, too. I resonated significantly with this poem I found in a Pablo Neruda book that Grover, one of my Spanish teachers in Bolivia, lent to me:

Poet’s Obligation

By Pablo Neruda

To whomever is not listening to the sea

This Friday morning, to whomever is cooped up

In house or office, factory or woman

Or street or mine or harsh prison cell:

To him I come, and, without speaking or looking,

I arrive and open the door of his prison,

And a vibration starts up, vague and insistent,

A great fragment of thunder sets in motion

The rumble of the planet and the foam,

The raucous rivers of the ocean flood,

The star vibrates swiftly in its corona,

And the sea is beating, dying and continuing.

So, drawn on by my destiny,

I endlessly must listen to and keep

The sea’s lamenting in my awareness,

I must feel the crash of the hard water

And gather it up in a perpetual cup

So that, wherever those in prison may be,

Wherever they suffer the autumn’s castigation,

I may be there with an errant wave,

I may move, passing through windows,

And hearing me, eyes will glance upward

Saying: how can I reach the sea?

And I shall broadcast, saying nothing,

The starry echoes of the wave,

A breaking up of foam and of quicksand,

A rustling of salt withdrawing,

The grey cry of sea-birds on the coast.

So, through me, freedom and the sea

Will make their answer to the shuttered heart.

(Essential Neruda: Selected Poems, Edited by Mark Eisner)

Often, up close, the days didn’t feel very profound. It’s easy for me to get stuck in the practical things, even beyond what’s necessary. Hard to carve out time to paint a picture when I’ve not painted before, or learn an art form when I can’t talk to the artist, or go to a dance class when I feel silly all day by my foreignness alone. Easier to deal with practical matters like buying a pot, or cleaning the bathroom, or looking up baking soda substitutions, or studying my verbs. Another piece of literature I like explains this side of the practical vs. expressive tension I felt this year:

One More

By Raymond Carver

He arose early, the morning tinged with excitement, eager to be at his desk. He had toast and eggs, cigarettes and coffee, musing all the while on the work ahead, the hard path through the forest. The wind blew clouds across the sky, rattling the leaves that remained on the branches outside his window. Another few days for them and they’d be gone, those leaves. There was a poem there, maybe; he’d have to give it some thought. He went to his desk, hesitated for a long moment, and then made what proved to be the most important decision he’d make all day, something his entire flawed life had prepared him for. He pushed aside the folder of poems—one poem in particular still held him in its grip after a restless night’s sleep. (But, really, what’s one more, or less? So what? The work would keep for a while yet, wouldn’t it?) He had the whole wide day opening before him. Better to clear his decks first. He’d deal with a few items of business, even some family matters he’d let go far too long. So he got cracking. He worked hard all day—love and hate getting into it, a little compassion (very little), some fellow-feeling, even despair and joy. There were occasional flashes of anger rising, then subsiding, as he wrote letters, saying “yes” or “no” or “it depends”—explaining why, or why not, to people out there at the margin of his life or people he’d never seen and never would see. Did they matter? Did they give a damn? Some did. He took some calls, and made some others, which in turn created the need to make a few more. So-and-so, being unable to talk now, promised to call back next day.

Toward evening, worn out and clearly (but mistakenly, of course) feeling he’d done something resembling an honest day’s work, he stopped to take inventory and note the couple of phone calls he’d have to make next morning if he wanted to stay abreast of things, if he didn’t want to write still more letters, which he didn’t. By now, it occurred to him, he was sick of all business, but he went on in this fashion, finishing one last letter that should have been answered weeks ago. Then he looked up. It was nearly ark outside. The wind had laid. And the trees—they were still now, nearly stripped of their leaves. But, finally, his desk was clear, if he didn’t count that folder of poems he was uneasy just to look at. He put the folder in a drawer, out of sight. That was a good place for it, it was safe there and he’d know just where to go to lay his hands on it when he felt like it. Tomorrow! He’d done everything he could do today. There were still those few calls he’d have to make, and he forgot who was supposed to call him, and there were a few notes he was required to send due to a few of the calls, but he had it made now, didn’t he? He was out of the woods. He could call today a day. He’d done what he had to do. What his duty told him he should do. He’d fulfilled the sense of obligation and hadn’t disappointed anybody.

But at that moment, sitting there in front of his tidy desk, he was vaguely nagged by the memory of a poem he’d wanted to write that morning, and there was that other poem he hadn’t gotten back to either.

So there it is. Nothing much else needs to be said, really. What can be said for a man who chooses to blab on the phone all day, or else write stupid letters while he lets his poems go unattended and uncared for, abandoned—or worse, unattempted. This man doesn’t deserve poems and they shouldn’t be given to him in any form.

His poems, should he ever produce any more, ought to be eaten by mice.

(A New Path to the Waterfall, by Raymond Carver)

So how does it feel to be home? Very comfortable. Of course I’m grumpy at a few aspects of my own culture as I re-enter it. I was grumpy at other cultures when I was in those too. But I re-enter home certain that American culture is firmly my own. Feels like an old glove, not even that exciting, just familiar and grounded somehow. I’m reminded anew to be grateful for the government in my country, not because it’s anywhere close to perfect, but because I truly can disagree without fear, my rights are clear and protected, and I get to vote. I feel so rich in my own home (scads of space, furniture, beauty, things), and our own self-installed plumbing / tile / wiring / utilities are palace-quality in relation to much of what we’ve seen, and English is just so easy after Arabic, Spanish, French. And, it’s been just great to re-join our long-time community here in Seattle.

To finally close out the year also means returning to work—something I hope to find in the coming months. Our next big adventure (not quite accomplished this year) is to start a family. Thanks to each of you for your interest in our trip, and thanks for traveling with us!!

Final Thoughts from the road (by Neil)

2010-06-09T08:24:00.000-07:00

It seems we are a bit travel weary – our attention spans shortened by over stimulation of cute villages, UNESCO World Heritage Sites, roman ruins, and gastronomic delights.

France is one of the least friendly countries to vegetarians… at least it feels that way in many restaurants as we ply the streets trying to find one with a vegetarian dish beyond salad and dessert. Pizza and pasta and Indian restaurants are pretty reliable, so we tend towards those. And the business hours are confounding. And the customer service lacking...

But, enough glumness about France. We have had some marvelous experiences: Staying and working for a few days on a goat cheese farm, walking around Avignon in the middle of the night trying to find our way back to our apartment (and seeing lots of vans with scantily glad ladies in them with a light hanging in the window), one truly amazing meal at Pasta Cozy in Aix en Provence – with pear stuffed pasta and creamy sauce with toasted black sesame seeds and a small ravioli with asparagus baked to perfection. We had fun at a circus where we loved the dog tricks and decided to stretch a bit more after watching the contortionist. We visited a gypsy/Roma festival in the Camargue and watched horses riding out into the sea and a Catholic processional following them. We sculpted clay and made friends in Toulouse. We enjoyed Pont du Gard and marveled at what the Romans were building in 19 B.C.

We are ready for home though. Counting down the days now for a return to our garden, kitchen, house, cat, city and wonderful friends in Seattle.

Because the airlines are stupid… or maybe it is me… I will take the train at 7 p.m. to London from Paris, take a bus to my hotel, sleep for 5 hours, take a shuttle to Heathrow at 4:30 a.m., board a plane for home, and promptly complete my first leg back to Paris… C’est la vie.

A vacation within our vacation

2010-04-08T08:18:00.000-07:00

Our last few weeks in Bolivia have been travel packed. We took a vacation within our vacation to be a bit more touristy and visit some sites and pay for some guided tours.

We started our trip within a trip with a visit to the Hacienda of Candelaria and the surrounding countryside to see the weavers of this region and were hosted by three generations of the owners of the hacienda that has been in their family for 6 generations. Great discussions of politics, land reform, poverty, traditions and history – and wonderful food cooked over a fire stove with 8 – 10 holes in it for pots of various sizes. The hacienda was similar to a feudal castle in that it was the residence of the land owner and the villages that sprung up around them were for their support and were people that worked the land but didn’t own it – and the amount of land that went with the haciendas was huge. Enough to support 10,000 people or more I would guess. Liz’s family went through land reform in 1952 when the campesinos (peasants/people from the countryside) had organized into militias and other changes were going on in the government. Her grandmother met a group at the door once with a double-barreled gun and explained that she thought she could kill 3 of them before they could kill her. Eventually the people supported the owner of the hacienda (Liz’s grandparents) and they were able to keep the main house and a small orchard as well as some land a distance away. We were both attracted to the candor and poise of our main host Liz who told stories from her youth and explained the culture that we were seeing.

One of the stories she told us was about a story found in one of the Tejidos (textiles). It was a story about a partridge and a fox. The partridge is going to go to heaven for a big feast and is gloating about it to the fox. “It is only for pretty creatures that can fly high.” “Take me with you please,” the fox begs and eventually the partridge acquiesces. The feast is huge and abundant, but the fox makes a pig of himself and is rude and greedy. The partridge tells the fox he is not going to take him back to earth, but the fox says, “Who cares!? I’ve already had my fill, and I’ll use a rope to descend from the sky.” On his way back to earth he meets two parrots and begins to taunt them. “I’ve just been in heaven. It is for pretty birds and creatures who can fly. It’s not for ugly birds like you. You just squawk and can’t fly high, and you weren’t invited. “ The parrots bit the rope that the fox was descending from heaven on and he fell to earth and died. His stomach split open and the contents that he had eaten in heaven spilt onto the ground, and this accounts for the bounty of things we have on earth today – good foods and drink and the abundance of things we find from the earth.

We then took in Tarabuco for the second time – this time for the festival of Pulljay with dancers and politicians and lots of other gringos dancing and picture taking. Miss Bolivia was there too – she was a candidate for governor of one of the departments (although on Easter Sunday the elections were held and she lost, but I read in the paper she is talking about election fraud now). The textiles of the region are amazing and worn by the small groups dancing and playing instruments: Colorful ponchos, intricately woven skirts, decorated leather hats, wooden shoes with 2 sets of spurs on them as a type of musical instrument… The beer and potable rubbing alcohol and chicha was also flowing freely at this celebration. Participants dance around a large tower loaded with things that Pacha Mama has given or things symbolizing the earth’s abundance. Traditionally everything on this goes to the family that will pay for next year’s even bigger tower… Once again we were treated to feast of stories and political insights. “That man behind us was the Mayor of Sucre when the constitutional referendum was held and they burned his just completed house down on the third day,” for example.

We were both sorry we hadn’t met Liz earlier, I would have enjoyed helping do some work on the hacienda, and she is such a class act that we wanted more of her company. We ended up coming back a day earlier than planned from our next trip to be able to have dinner with their family and spend the afternoon with Liz before she departed to lead a guided trip across the Salt Flats.

We left Tarabuco without having bought any textiles, but were now on the lookout for them. We flew the next morning to La Paz, ringed by stunning mountains, and sitting at around 2 miles high it made breathing a bit difficult. We flew on to the Amazon rainforest and spiraled upward in the plane to get over the mountain range where once on the other side the landscape plunges away to a level of 200 meters above sea level. We arrived in Rurrenabaque hot and humid, and were the next day on our way up one of the tributaries of the Amazon – Rio Beni to Madidi National Park (written about several times in National Geographic and notable in our memory for Joel Satore’s description of biting things and critters…) We saw a capybara family hanging out on the shore (picture 300 pound beavers who have been crossed with guinea pigs and you get the picture).

Then two hours into our 6 hour journey we saw an ocelot swimming across the river. It was about half way across and right next to our boat. We freaked it out and it turned to swim back to the nearer shore. We let the boat drift backward and were able to watch the wet cat – keeping his head and ears out of the water but nothing else – make his way back to shore, slip a bit on the rocks and blend into the vegetation.

Chalalan lodge is a special place. It is built in the heart of Madidi by a community who 15 years ago decided to try and become eco-friendly and earn money from tourists instead of forest products. The buildings are beautiful and the site is full of nature. Trails are well marked and we saw in our 5 days in the jungle 4 different types of monkeys, 2 snakes, lizards, frogs, caiman, tarantulas, a cicillian – one of the strangest animals I’ve ever seen – also called the “blind snake”, it is an amphibian that looks like an overgrown worm or a really slow snake, toucans, red and green macaws, and numerous other birds. One of the things that impressed me though is how empty the jungle is… some days we walked for hours without seeing a thing – and although the jungle supports extraordinary amount of diversity, it is not like the illustrations might lead one to believe full of a monkey and snake and birds in every tree.

Because the lake is pure and they use the water for drinking, people are asked to not wear insect repellent or sunscreen when they go swimming. One day I was heading down for a swim but decided instead to canoe around the lake and look for monkeys… Although I didn’t know it at the time, the no-see-ums had me for lunch, and they happen to be a vector for Leishmaniasis – also known as tropical ulcers or dry leprosy. The next day I could feel and see the bites and had more than 250 on my lower body. One of them developed blisters and bumps after 1o days or so and that is when we started getting more concerned and saw a few doctors. So far it is early and hasn’t erupted into an open wound, so the prevailing advice seems to be wait and see, and that it is probably not Leishmaniasis…. The last doctor we saw was before we were supposed to board our plane to exit the country and as a result of this and other things we missed our flight out and spent an extra 2 days in Bolivia.

After leaving the Amazon, we headed to Copacabana (not the Rio Beach) on Lake Titicaca to have a night on Isla del Sol (island of the Sun) where the Incas believed the sun was born, and which is often compared to the Greek Islands. It felt very pastoral and was fun and exhausting to climb the 1000 steps up to the ridge for the panoramic view.

We had pizza by candlelight that evening and explored a small Inca ruin the next morning where Yvette found a bit of peace at the end of the dock before we went back to the main land and watching the ramp up to the elections with a big political rally/party in the streets.

Copacabana is famous in Bolivia especially on Holy Friday of Semana Santa for cars and things being brought here to be blessed. One of the hills is called Little Calvary and has the stations of the cross on the ascent as well as a spectacular view from the top. People also ask Jesus and the Virgin for many things, I like the Spanish on this sign - "Welcome to the Sacred heart of Jesus where...[and here my Spanish becomes less literal] you can ask for objects you desire, cars, things, money, etc."

Pilgrims walk for 3 days from La Paz during Holy Week before Easter to this place, and we saw some of them on our early morning departure the next day.

... I am writing this now from the Lima Peru airport, and we are enroute to France!!(but the connection died and two weeks past and we are well into the soft life here in Toulouse)

Learning Spanish, and a week-end in the Cordillera de Los Andes mountains – by Yvette

2010-04-08T08:11:00.000-07:00

Before describing recent peregrinations, I wanted to share some thoughts I wrote awhile back about learning another language. . . .

Humanity of words

To know another language is to have another soul. (Charlemagne)

Language captures our sameness, with “doing” words, and words that wait to be done to. And time—things we did before, are doing, will do.

On learning a new way to speak, I am a toddler again, my reality is present and selfish. I want, I eat, I go, I am. No nuance, no sense of bad words, ‘cuz they don’t sound bad to me. A blank slate.

And on a grander scale, languages map how we relate—organic growth of trunk, branch, twig, some words shared and others not, some polite here and there not—fed by colonial power, political manipulation, economic struggle, media battles, and then tangled by desire, beauty, experience.

And, here’s what we did a few week-ends ago, hiking around Sucre . . .

Got to the bus around 7:45am Saturday morning, was supposed to leave at 9:30am according to our book, but they said get there early because it fills up. We wanted to go to either Potolo or Maragua, then walk to the other. No buses to Maragua cause the road was bad, so signed up to go to Potolo. They told us right away that instead of the normal 2.5 hours, it would take ~5 because we’d have to wait for road construction. Yep, about 35 mins out of Sucre we stopped, waited from 10-12am when, right on schedule, they opened the gate and let what was now about 20 vehicles thru the construction area. Some of the worst road we’ve been on (I think the vehicles act as caterpillars to flatten bumpy parts post-construction), but beautiful views and our driver (as has been my feeling on almost all the vehicles we’ve been on here, in Syria and in Laos) was careful on the narrow roads with steep drops. SO . . . . got to Potolo around 2:30pm. Neil was very eager to ask around if they had some textiles as there are very distinctive textiles. The textiles are showcased in the museum here in Sucre at up to $500 (yes, US) for some items, very fine double-sided weaving. So we spent an hour being led to a couple of houses by a little boy, to no success (saw some weaving in-progress but only smaller items were available for sale), then hit the trail. We’d heard reports as varied as 2 hours to 7 hours between the towns, so knew we were pushing daylight. Kept getting varied reports on the trail, too (2 hours! Only 1! 3!) Of course compounded by both the fact that the trail was VERY easily lost (lots of goat / sheep trails, little creekbeds, etc.), and most people speak very little Spanish, mostly local Quechua. Anyway, several helpful people (we thought) pointed out the path at times, they were generally out there herding there sheep or working their fields of wheat, quinoa, corn.

Anyway, we walked pretty quickly until just after 7pm. The altitude is high, around 3700m, so on the uphill portions we were having to slow in order to breathe. Somewhere around here we realized we’d forgotten our flashlight. We were trying thru the afternoon to remember when the moon’s been rising recently. Anyway, as night was falling around 7pm we asked at a house we passed how many hours to Maragua and she quite clearly said 2-2.5, and that we should wait there at her house while she got her husband. Shortly her son and husband showed up, offered that we could eat there and then sleep nearby for a small price. While I (Yvette) was a bit disappointed not to get to the supposed showers and tourist cabanas, I agreed with Neil that it was the better part of wisdom. Really a very good choice, as we otherwise likely would’ve spent the night out (two Italian guys we met did). So, a hot “Wheat Soup” (I think just wheat flour thickened into a white sauce, seasoned a bit not sure with what, and potatoes chopped up in it, but warm, hearty and relatively flavorful) accompanied our cookies and apples we’d snacked on a bit earlier. Then, off to a little building they’ve built nearby to house tourists such as ourselves, where there were two mattresses we unrolled onto a stone floor, and 3 wool blankets (seemed relatively clean tho I found a flea on me in the morning, and little nibbles later—hmm). Was grateful for the clean smartwool socks and longjohns I’d brought along. I used some precious drinking water to wash my hands and brush my teeth. Then early in the morning back to their house for a breakfast of hot tea and toasted plain wheat from their field—eaten much like roasted soybeans. Flavorful but probably not a breakfast I’ll seek out. The dad was quite comfy with tourists, even speaks a couple of English phrases in addition to fairly simple Spanish ( better than ours, but not by a lot). We filled out his tourist registry (monitoring and evaluation officers be proud!!). Apparently he’s the “responsible man/authority” somehow for the village, including having the key to the cabanas. The reason they’re there, I think, is because about 25 meters away is a rock face that includes some dinosaur footprints. Also some better-known ones about 1 km away. So in the morning he took us to see both of those, then walked with us to where the path on to Maragua was quite discernable, and sent us on our way—all for $6.50 (we gave him $10). The most disappointing moment was when he asked us which direction we’d come from, from Potolo (“this side or that side?”) Apparently there are two routes from Potolo—the long one and the short one. We’d taken the long one, darn it.

Anyway, walked the trail from 7:45am-9:30am, arrived in Maragua and asked around for textiles and a restaurant to have an early lunch. The sole “tienda house” (“They have beer!” we were told) in town agreed to whip up some rice, potatoes and eggs for us. Yummy, hit the spot and we also drank 1 liter each (yes, really) of Fanta. Asked around for textiles but again, not much luck. We’ll have to get it here at the Museum in Sucre, which is still good for the artesans tho not quite as direct. Also met the nurse in the town of Maragua, a lovely and very helpful women named Carmen, I told her I was a nurse too, and she immediately asked for my contact info. Will be interesting to see if I hear from her. We talked re: obstetric emergencies and what backup she has, what the major problems are (beyond that one, upper respiratory illness and diarrhea for the kids). Very nice and responsible-seeming lady. Anyway, took off again around 11:30am and reached the next town where we hoped to get public transport around 2pm. Had to ford a hip-high, fast river that nearly knocked me over! Fortunately didn’t. Sat by the road for a whole 5 minutes before a car came along, agreed we could hop in the back for a ride to Sucre. A 1984 Datsun that had definitely seen better days. The road was REALLY bad in parts. We had to get out for certain parts to make the car ride higher. When it stalled, the car was kick-started, usually by rolling it in reverse on the steep parts. Also stopped at a creek to drain and refill the radiator to keep it from overheating. Rather vintage, but it got us here! And the driver was very courteous (and safe), he zoomed in front of a bus here in town, went half a block and let us jump out to catch a bus that brought us directly home.

Back home in Bolivia, after Potosi, Carnival and the Salt Flats

2010-02-22T09:18:00.000-08:00

We’re now well-accustomed to life in Bolivia. Sliding into life here in Sucre has been very easy. It’s known as a small, rich city that is definitely not representative of Bolivia overall. So in choosing to live here, we’re consciously enjoying a more comfy and aesthetic life and remain intent on using our home as a base for trips to other parts of the country.

As for our apartment, we share the compound with our landlady’s brother, his wife, 5-year-old daughter and now, the 1-month old Rottweiler puppy named Luke (who recently lost his tail. . . pobrecita!) It’s very comfy, hard-wood floors throughout, arched windows and doorways, stark white with terra cotta roof tiles, nice furniture, a modest bathroom and more modest (but very functional) kitchen, and three bedrooms. We also have a nice outdoor patio which we share with a scruffy-looking, suspicious cat that I’m putting food out for whenever we’re here. Yes, I know, but I’m trying with all my pet-telepathy skills to communicate that he needs to maintain his other food sources, this is just a booster to help him get more healthy.

Sucre is a small city, the center is easily walkable, though we also use the minibuses a lot. A grid of UNESCO-protected, Spanish-colonial architecture, the biggest hazard of the streets is the ever-present dog doo-doo that is all over the sidewalks. I jog most mornings in the beautiful Parque Bolivar (worked up to it given the 2790m elevation). We buy most of our produce at the very bountiful Mercado Central (farmer’s market style in the maze of a big concrete building), and other staples at the SAS supermercado—pretty much like Safeway. We’ve found 4 vegetarian “set lunch” places that serve tasty and healthy fare—cheapest $1.40 each, most expensive $2.40. We’re taking two hours of Spanish week-days (and I’m happy to say that the Arabic hadn’t replaced all my Spanish), as well as drawing / painting classes twice a week.

Potosi – miner’s week-end
A few weeks ago, Neil and I spent the week-end in Potosi. At 4070m altitude, Potosi “enjoys” (about like Nigeria “enjoys” it’s oil) the presence of Cerra Rico, a mountain whose silver bankrolled the Spanish empire for centuries. Much of the wealth from Potosi helped to build Sucre (a city deemed more habitable by the colonialists due to its lower altitude). The cost in lives over time is estimated at 8 million—mostly indigenous or African slaves. Reportedly the slaves would be put in the mine 4 months at a time without emerging to sleep or eat. Many of the Africans died, unaccustomed to the altitude. Within the last few months, the miners have swelled from a normal 5,000 to 10,000 given the metal prices on the world market. Last year there were 20 deaths due to accidents in the mines, but the bigger casualty (usually after 15 years or so) is silicosis, lung cancer from the poor air quality in the mines. The work conditions are tough—reaching 50C (120+F) in the lower levels due to the earth’s core heat, and difficult to breath due to the dust. One would think this a ripe opportunity for automation, but the reality is that many miners work as they have for centuries, tap-tap-taping a chisel in to make a hole for dynamite. We met Don Miguel, a 38-year-old (same as Neil) miner who’s been working there for 14 years. He has daughters so no sons to help mine to support the family. Alone, he can make two holes per 9-hour day, then blast those and carry out best of the minerals he discovers. The youngest miner we met was 12, youngest of 4 brothers, and has been working there one month. He had a shy smile that reminded both Neil and I of As-uhl, the Laotian 16-year-old we got to be friends with. Most mining is done by cooperatives—groups of 10-50 miners who share the profits based on time worked. The minerals are sold to crude processing plants in town, which are generally owned by Bolivian or multi-national companies. While the prices are low and there’s understandable tension between the miners and the processing companies, most seem to feel that Evo Morales’ government has done a good job of ensuring that the benefits from the mines aren’t only enjoyed by the elite.

So . . . our mine tour started at 8:30am on a Saturday morning (a different kind of church, learning about our world) by suiting up in rubber boots, over-clothes, belt with battery pack, hard hat, head lamp and bandana to deal with the dust. Then a visit to the Miner’s Market where we were introduced to a colorful description of dynamite, ampho, fuses, alcohol, coca leaves (chewed by miners for the whole day to avoid hunger or discomfort), and soda—all suggested gifts for the miners whose day we’d slightly interrupt. Neil and I went for dynamite (useful, you know, for a miner!!) and gloves (seemed practical and we were told a very nice gift tho we saw no one using them in the mines). Then down into the mine, we walked as much as possible, got all the way down to level 4. Being a Saturday after the Thursday fiesta, many miners were still “buracho” (drunk) so we only encountered about 6 men working, who were cheerful, sweaty, happy to chat. There were air compression hoses along the passages, so someone is clearly set up to use jack hammers. And part of the time we walked along tracks that are used to carry the minerals out of the mine—by two guys pushing and two pulling. The air quality was much worse than I expected, my throat was hoarse and sore for the rest of the afternoon. And it was hotter than I thought. Above ground, you really wanted a light jacket, but in the mine we were dripping sweat. The altitude meant I had to stop just to BREATHE frequently. We visited the “Tio” of the mine—deity of the underground who is, therefore, in charge of all minerals and who must be kept appeased with lots of alcohol dousing (makes for potent air in such a space). Reportedly, Tio isn’t an old Inca god but was a manipulative creation of the Spaniards to intimidate the indigenous people who weren’t eager to continue mining. Tio must be appeased to prevent accidents, including that women aren’t to work as miners because Tio wouldn’t like it. He’s a seated, human-sized mud creature with horns and often marbles for eyes. Ours was dressed in ribbons due to the recent miner’s fiesta.

Our guide—a very competent, English-fluent, humorous ex-miner—wondered aloud whether the mountain would still be mined in 50-100 years, and I couldn’t help but think that the determining factor won’t be availability of minerals, but “next best gig” that any miner can get. The miner’s cooperatives mean the minders do “work for themselves”, of course better than outright slavery but still a pretty grim career with bloody lungs at the end. Above ground, the lucky non-miners (or those just coming to with a hangover) engaged in serious water-balloon or squirt gun fights in the month-long, increasingly dangerous and wet lead-up to Carnival. . . .

Carnival in Oruro
. . . which we decided to spend in Oruro. This tiny little (historically also mining) town has 250 years of practice in hosting the national festivities, and boy do they do it with flair. The main parade is Saturday, starting at 8am and lasting, literally, until 6-7am the next day. Then Sunday at 8am (yes, an hour later) they start again—this time without the large masks and with even more alcohol than the first day. Any given group takes about 4 hours to complete the parade route, 25 minutes to pass any specific spot on the route. Wow—what a show of effort!!! And the beauty and artistry of the costumes and dancing wasn’t sacrificed, despite the effort. The main dances seemed to be:

Morenada – the dance representing the African slaves that came to work in the mines. These included black-smeared skin, handcuffs and chains, exaggerated lips and noses, afro hair, and sometimes a foreman with a whip. One slave character even laid down and crawled a length of street with his elbows (ouch). They also carry noise-makers (“canchas,” I think), which, when the handle is turned make a sound meant to emulate the sound of chains.
La Diablada – the dance of the devils. These masks are amazing, including snakes, frogs, fire, fireworks, lights for after dark, etc. Often these devils are accompanied by one character with a gold, Spanish conquistador-come-angel helmet and big, feathery white wings. He represents Archangel Miguel (Michael) who singlehandedly defeats the hordes of diablos (devils).
Caporales – this includes numerous dancers, typically the chicos look like lavishly-dressed Spanish cowboys with lots of bells on their boots which makes for a nice sound as they dance. And the chicas have higher-than-knee-high boots (the heel of which is about 5 inches off the ground) and short, full skirts that get twirled all the way down the parade route. Classic Bolivian beauties, with all the cleavage and leg one can imagine.
Tinku – a very traditional dance from the Tinku people, sort of includes bending over and waving one’s behind in the air. The Tinku people engage in a fighting festival, where they must draw blood (or preferably take a life—apparently that’s rare these days) to appease Pancha Mama. A German friend-of-a-friend danced this one, after having practiced for nearly a year.
Amazonian – dancers with sparse costumes that have lots of animal skins, animal parts, birds, etc., more like stereo-typical American-Indian garb than others. Bolivia’s geography is very diverse, these folks represent the Western part of the country that shares the Amazon with Brazil.

What impressed me about the pageantry of carnival, is how art can be used to deal with even very painful histories of a society. The web of identities that makes up Bolivia (indigenous, Spanish, African, etc.) are all included. I asked around if there was a sense of “I won’t dance that dance because my heritage is this” and it seems that’s minimal—or if so, it doesn’t create tension. The dancers end by removing their hats as they enter the main cathedral, and going to the front where they kneel and are warmly received by the priest.

And then . . . there was the other side of carnival. I have never in my life seen so many drunk people. Wow. The dancers, the spectators, the vendors. I wondered the first day why there was so much water running in the gutters—then realized it was pee. Yep—some men didn’t even bother to get down from the stands but just went right down thru the benches. The beer cans were collected into large 2x2x2 sq meter bags, we saw many of those. And when you count that probably 5,000 were in the parade alone and an estimated 300,000 attend, well, all that liquid had to go somewhere. Then of course the water balloon fights—full-fledged wars that waged in between the dancers of the parade. It’s “off-limits” to hit the dancers or police (still happens), and bad form to hit babies or old people, but everyone else is fair game. Neil even hit a nun, in habit, square-on. The water balloons are augmented by up to 4-liter, 8-chambered squirt (rather soak) guns, hoses, buckets, water bottles, anything that will hold liquid. Inevitably, those balloons that miss the target square-on hit the street and instead spray muddy, well, you can imagine what it sprays up on your clothes. And then there are the foam cans – usually aimed right at the face and often within 12-inches. Fortunately, the foam doesn’t sting the eyes. Luckily for us, foreigners are a particular target. :-) Anytime you leave your seats, you can expect to walk a gauntlet. Despite one’s REI raincoat and plastic poncho purchased for the occasion, well, you just gotta expect to get wet and foamy. While Neil loved this all, I must admit it was at times difficult to “do in Rome as the Romans”—I don’t have to like the culture wherever I am, right? There’s definitely a predatory and exploitive aspect (including bands of teen-age boys regularly targeting teen-age girls, the whiter or skimpier the t-shirt the better). No sympathy for the family with small children trying desperately to get to their seats, or the shivering skinny girls who happen to be cute, or the blonde German who swears when hit, or whatever. Just brings it on all the more.

We celebrated Carnival with our Spanish teacher and good friend, Yeshira, and another British student and new friend, Vicky—the four of us staying at the home of a friend-of-a-friend, for $6/person/night. Juan Pablo (who danced for the 13th time this year) and his family took brilliant care of us. Accommodations were basic, including the challenge of a non-functioning shower and then no running water. Buckets were lined up by the bathroom door and we did the best we could to stay clean. Juan Pablo’s mom served us hot drinks in the morning before we went on our way to face the partying.

Salt flats and the high desert
Tuesday, as Oruro took down the stands and mopped up the streets, we hopped the train to the town of Uyuni, an even-smaller frontier town at the edge of some of the most desolate areas of Bolivia—the Southwest circuit. Now we were backpacker-types in earnest. The chaos of getting train seats (“get there at 5am” (we didn’t), then stand in line until we rush the counter as it opens (we did), then stand in another line (effectively reversing the first line) to get a number, then hope the seats don’t sell out before your number is called) reminded us that queues here are sort of just suggestions. Anyway, we happily got our seats, and started colluding with other backpackers to form a compatible group of six to buy a tour together. The next morning, after selecting our agency, we were off in a 1996 Land Cruiser that’s seen better days, under the careful and responsible hand of our driver Serapio. Georgie, Tim and Hanna from the UK and Sanna from Sweden completed our group. So for the next 3 days we shared cookies, water bottles, TP rolls, coca leaves, and cameras. Highlights of what we saw included:

Salar de Uyuni – a 12,000 sq km salt flats, visible from space. Yes, this is just salt, but it forms beautiful patterns—typically 1 meter wide irregular hexagons, with fluid-filled bubbles/blisters all across. A surreal, space-like place under a perfect blue sky. Of course it’s blindingly white. Occasional islands of rock and ancient cactus dot the salar.
Salt hotel – was very cool. Our beds, nightstand, tables, chairs, all were formed of salt, with big salt blocks and salt mortar to constitute the walls. In the lobby were two pillars made of 24”-wide, 6”-high squares of salt, staggered as they rose, with two brown stripes in each one (a volcano? Some mud?). The floor was crunchy salt, too.
Highest desert in the world – at 5,000m altitude one has to breathe deeply and move slowly. Truly desolate, no vegetation, would hate to be left behind there!
Vicunas – the wild cousins of the llamas, with finer-and-more-expensive hair, frequently dotted the landscape of the slightly-more-habitable parts of the journey. What fun! We also saw a desert fox who was amazingly bold, apparently sometimes they receive handouts from the tourists.
Lakes, volcanoes and flamingos – Some of the lakes have various minerals (borun, fine for the flamingos, or arsenic, not fine for the flamingos), making for various colors. Volcanoes are mostly dormant but impressive nonetheless. And oh, a large geothermally active area much like the mudpots of Yellowstone—despite that the distance for the earth’s core is oh-so-far at this altitude.

Arriving back in the frontier town of Uyuni, we were dust-worn, saddle-sore and Neil was getting sick. So we checked into a comfy/cushy hotel (private bath, hot showers 24x7, comfy bed), had a pizza dinner and took the 9-hour bus-ride back to Sucre, and to home-sweet home. Amazing how much more comfy it is to have your own space and food, especially when sick. He’s on the mend, I am fighting a cold, and all in all we’re in good shape, having seen a bit of Bolivia outside of our lovely little city of Sucre.

A Palestinian friend’s story, wishes for Syria, farewells to our Syrian friends, and transition to Bolivia

2010-01-13T13:20:00.000-08:00

(Written before and just posted now, since we now have easy internet access--yeah!! Sorry for the out-of-orderness)

Hello everyone and Happy New Year! We’re now in route to Bolivia, sitting in the transit lounge in Sao Paulo, Brazil.

Neil and I were amazingly lucky to have my parents and sister, Lavelle, join us for two weeks over the Christmas holidays. We spent four of our days together in Damascus, during which we were generously hosted for dinner by the family of my friend Fadwa. I met Fadwa last year, during a week spent considering “eHealth” amidst the beauty of Bellagio, Italy. Fadwa has been in charge of Syria’s “health information system”—putting computer systems in place country-wide to track birth, death, disease burden, etc. Fadwa is feisty, dedicated, purposeful, humorous, courageous, loyal, honest, collegial. I’m proud to be a colleague of hers in global health. I want to tell you the story of my friend Fadwa’s family, especially her father.

In 1948, when Israel became a state, Fadwa’s grandparents were told by the British authorities in Palestine that, for their safety they should leave—probably just for 2-3 weeks, during the war. Having 8 children, they complied, expecting to return very soon and thus not taking their valuables, significant money, or titles to property. They had been a wealthy family, but as the reality sunk in that they weren’t going back anytime soon, their father took a job pumping gas. This didn’t bring in enough money to care for the large family. So it was decided—of the 8 kids, the two girls wouldn’t go to school. And of the remaining six boys, only three could study. To be fair, Fadwa’s grandparents put their six sons’ names “into a hat” and drew three names. Fadwa’s father, it was decided, would not go to school. He became a barber, another brother a tailor. Of those who studied, two studied math and one economics. Fadwa’s father taught himself German on the side.

Fast forward, then, to when Fadwa’s brothers were in school. Living in Syria, they are allowed full access to government services (e.g., education, health, etc.) though they are not given Syrian passports (since this would conflict with Syria’s official stance that Palestinians must be re-established within a Palestinian state). As for feisty Fadwa, at about age 11, she fought with an unreasonable French teacher and so demanded of her parents that she go to a school that didn’t teach French. The nearest school meeting that requirement was a school specifically run for Palestinian refugees—so that’s where Fadwa went. Fadwa’s brothers occasionally came home with less-than-stellar report cards. And as happens, history mixed with family dynamics, and her father was angered by their lack of dedication—since he had not himself had the chance to study. Fast forward further, then, to the Iraq war—when Fadwa’s father, watching TV over dinner, dropped all the food off the table in his rage at seeing repeated what had so dramatically affected his own life.

When my family ate with Fadwa and her parents, we were given slippers for our feet, generously and delightfully served mounds and mounds of food that had been lovingly prepared by her mother. Humor and good will surmounted our partial language barriers, and we felt tremendously loved by all of them. They were honest about opinions on world issues, religion (on which Fadwa and her dad see differently), and careful to prepare medicinal tea for our sore throats. We got to see the family pictures, see their apartment that has been home for 35 years (Fadwa: “My parents asked when we were little if we wanted to move to a different house, but we couldn’t imagine not living here!!”), meet their fish, and taste the candied eggplant delicacy Fadwa’s mother makes (a very time-consuming process).

My family has long known people from the Middle East, are familiar with the injuries if not the politics of the region. And yet that day made an impression on me by putting a face—my friend Fadwa’s face, and her dad’s—into the “his-story” of Palestine. It doesn’t provide any solutions, only compassion and a reminder that the big stories of the news, are the big stories of people’s lives. And with that, comes a renewed accountability to engage, to share my thoughts, to help my own community be aware and be accountable, especially given America’s role in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. (More on this below.) Such as here, with this blog. Now you, reader, are anointed too, to be interested, engaged, educated and influential.

What impressions of Syria do I leave with? That the people are fabulous, the food is great, and the country is, well, getting there. There is a lot of optimism, increasing foreign investment. It’s easier to buy a car than before. Despite some economic downturn relative as throughout the world, in general, people are vibrant, have things to do and are productive. At the same time, there is still some fear—for example, that the police might think us spies and question our Syrian friends. (Beyond one straight-forward phone call, we never knew it if the police were following us.) Kurdish people living in Syria also feel marginalized. And there’s nervousness about getting too interested in US and European news, issues, politics. American policy does cause problems for Syria and Syrians, both directly and indirectly. One friend’s business is losing customers as it can no longer import small light-bulbs for cars from the Hungarian producer since US-based GE has bought that producer and thus the product is sanctioned. Another friend whose beautiful manufacturing facility produces dental anesthesia won’t even consider US markets partly because of US trade relations. US support for Israel is a constant thorn in the flesh for Syrians. Numerous times a day, we were engaged in conversations re: Bush or Obama and why the US policy is what it is.

As I described above, I do walk away with a renewed desire to take the risks (like this one) of sharing my perspective, of seeking to influence US policy in the Middle East toward greater alignment with fairness and human rights. However, I’d also like to venture a perspective for Syria, based admittedly on a brief stay. There is still deep, huge resentment toward Israel especially for the 1967 war where they took the Golan Heights from Syria. I would hope for Syria that they are able to negotiate a resolution internally if not internationally. As we traveled to Jordan, our Syrian friends told how wonderful Jordan was (there’s great malls, people are educated, the place is clean, the roads are good), and they were right. When we traveled to Turkey, it was the same (the bathrooms cleaner, the offices more professional, the shops more organized). Syria has different challenges (and a much larger population), but one of those challenges seems to be a willingness to bargain a piece of their future, for their past—to compromise how progressive they can be by holding out for something that may not come. I want the best for Syria, for all of our wonderful friends who enjoy the rich life but also struggle with the daily realities of living in a country where you’ve got to be a bit of a fighter to get ahead. So I hope that Syria will engage in the best solution regarding Israel and Palestine that it can, and then resolve to look more forward than backward. I sincerely hope that this perspective isn’t hurtful to any of my Syrian friends reading this blog, I offer it with all good will for them and for Syria.

So we’ve now packed up and moved on from Syria. I’ve decided that our plan of moving countries every three months was an invitation to have my heart somewhat broken every three months. It’s always hard for me to say good-bye to people who have, despite language barriers, the awkwardness of difference in culture or religion, and in some cases deep fear / suspicion, opened themselves to us with generosity, candor, humor, patience, and good will. I will remember so many wonderful people and their fond farewells, including:
• A last farewell dinner with friends (with kids coming in from karate)—delicious as ever with mujederra, fried potatoes, fried cauliflower, hummus, salad, boiled eggs, bread.
• Gifts from our neighbors—two coffee cups, two little jewelry boxes, a Kleenex box decorator, a bottle of baby powder from their 11-year-old’s work place (he fills these bottles to support the family, instead of going to school). And his willingness to take the injured bird from us (despite his mis-led efforts to bilk us out of $50 for two weeks of bird food), and care for it until it can be safely released.
• Fancy hot chocolate drinks, saying fond farewells to the “young hip crowd” we were generously included in.
• The carpenter and his kids with gifts of Arabesque geometric designs.
• Lunch with Ahmad and his sisters, and a coincidental “farewell on the bus” with Nour.
• Very fond text or voice messages from Judy, Bushra, Ahmad, Abdel, Mohammed, and others.
• Leaving Syria in convenience, comfort and style with a friend who took us to Turkey for a flight to Ankara

I now am excited about our next stop, Bolivia, with warmer climate, Spanish language (Roman characters—yeah!!), higher altitude, less concern re: modesty, and hopefully hot showers.

Bolivia - First Glimpses (by Neil)

2010-01-12T11:37:00.000-08:00

“There is another world, but is in this one.” - W. B. Yeats

Bolivia es bueno. The transition from Syria has brought us to a culture a world (well a half-world) away.

Woman here display hair and legs and belly-buttons and cleavage all of which can be seen from the vantage of my wi-fi connected park bench. Of course we have also changed hemispheres so we have jumped from the cold of winter to the sun-burning skies of Bolivia.
The weather here in Sucre has been sublime – hard to imagine better – as we have blue skies now with cotton candy clouds. Yvette and I have been here one week and stayed at a sweet little guest house with vibrant paint colors, a charming host family, a great little communal kitchen, a fascinated throughput of travelers, and a well stocked library of pirated movies (as far as I can tell there are no others available…) I really enjoyed Doubt and found it thought provoking.

Last week I did 5 hours of Spanish lessons a day – an hour of individual lessons at 7 a.m., and then a 4 hour group class from 8:30 – 12:30. This next week I’m planning to cut back a bit and do 3 hours a day of individual lessons. Yvette, whose Spanish is far superior to mine, is also doing 3 hours a day of individual lessons and so that adds structure to our mornings.
The only thing to complain about has been that my bed (our room has two singles) is rather cup shaped and morning finds my back urging me to move towards vertical – which is good in that it has moved me to explore the city early in the morning and be up around 5:30 a.m… This morning I had studied my Spanish, drawn a picture, read a novella, and explored the Mercado campesino before Yvette managed to rouse herself.

The village market here is amazing for its breadth of offerings and geographic coverage… block upon block of potatoes, onions, mountains of bananas and plantains, baskets of grapes from the vineyards lined and covered with grape leaves, piles of melons, rows upon rows of carcasses and meats and cuts and innards, flower stalls, bountiful juice stands, corn and maize…. I bought some bright pink and yellow colored potatoes and purple fingerlings to cook up for lunch with some green beans and onions.

Our big news of the week is that we have rented a house here for the next 3 months. We traipsed the streets yesterday and navigated the local phone system – pop into a stall at an internet or phone store and make your local call (dial 0 first if it is a cell phone number – starts with 7). Our initially halting Spanish monologue became quite polished by the end: “We saw your ad in the paper for an apartment? We are Americans? Is it still available? Is it furnished? Can we see it? When can we see it? Thanks! See you at 4:30 this afternoon.” We looked at 10 houses and found a cute furnished apartment of a lawyer (formerly a judge) who is moving to Santa Cruz to practice corporate law. She is fluent in English and was fair and helpful in answering all our questions. $250/month is hard to beat (although we looked at ones that were as little as $70/month) for a cute place in a UNESCO World Heritage city – 4 blocks from the city center.

For some reason this last paragraph is being written at 4:30 a.m. having just watched Million Dollar Baby… I think I like Clint Eastwood better with each new movie he is involved in. The epilogue to our day yesterday was a funeral service at the Sucre Cemetary with hundreds of people in attendance and a mariachi band (or at least that style of dress and instruments) playing and singing funeral dirges – as the procession made its way from the gates of the cemetery to the vaulted crypt. We watched as they slid the coffin into the cement cubicle – 10’ off the ground – and cemented a coverplate over the front and plastered and stenciled the deceased’s name and filled the niche to overflowing with flowers. We both cried a few tears contemplating the sting of mortality and the loss of love ones – and the fear, as Yvette eloquently said, not of death, but that we might not live well enough. Because we don’t say it enough – to those friends and family who read this – we love you and all the quirks, memories, awkward moments, foibles, laughter, and richness you have made with us. We aren’t great at keeping in touch, especially when we are separated geographically, but we are often reflective and few hours pass by that things in our exotic other place here in Bolivia don’t remind us of loved ones or memories. Just yesterday we thought of Brian K and his guitar, of TJ and Susan and the Costa Rican Beach, of Debbie and Carlos and their beautiful family, of Lisa and her organized vacations, of Alan and Jane and their experience at Berkeley, of Sydney and her embracing of Common Ground, of Linda and John and their thoughtful engagement through travel, of Becky, of backpackers, of January birthdays – sorry Wayne, of Mari and Aiden, of our parents, of so many others… I like the quote I began this entry with, that I lifted from the front of True Confessions of a Part-Time Indian, I think this world contains many worlds – and we are blessed to be here – talking politics, feeding pigeons, pondering llama fetuses, visiting lunar landscapes, buying flowers, eating chocolate, negotiating for humintas, renting a house, watching babies be swaddled with packing straps into a papoose… The similarities in our humanity and sadly our inhumanity are much greater than the differences. We look forward to seeing all of you and know that we don’t have to travel far to live, to love, to grow. Vida mis amigos simpaticos. Hasta pronto.

Olive Trees and Burls and a Bowl and a Spoon – Syrian Labors (Neil)

2010-01-04T05:27:00.000-08:00

My language ability keeps me from being able to communicate the ideas that I would like to, and thus I am assumed to be the maturity level of my language – namely a babbling toddler. It is the great frustration of being in a country where I am not fluent.

I voiced to someone that I wanted to work with a farmer for a day – I had visions of sheep and livestock, but ended up out at the olive orchard. The 10 workers shaking down the trees were all women, while the 3 men seemed set themselves to daily prayers, tea drinking and talking – interspersed with bouts of driving the pickup around. Actually for the men was reserved some difficult of removing burled and old root masses from the trees to allow new roots to grow and bring in water for the tree. The owner of the orchard, Abdul Rachman, had just had a surgery in Jordan, and the other man was lazy or tired and taking it easy by the time I reached there. So I had plenty of opportunity to swing the sledge and work my hands raw. Towards the end of my 2 hours there, we ate and my ride declared it was time to head back. I decided that I would go back the next day and take Yvette with me as there is something very connecting to a place about working in it. I took one of the burls with me to remember the experience and perhaps make into a bowl or sculpture.

The next day I did return and brought food for the crew – that was a fun shopping experience. I also developed an appreciation (through the lack of one) of a balanced sledge hammer with a straight and smooth handle that doesn’t twist in ones hands. I was a fine mess by the time the big burly worker arrived with calluses the thickness of my hands, but now 1 month on my hands have returned to their untoughened selves... while the connections formed by work remain strong and vivid.

The olive wood burl had grown over the last 150 years, and having hacked it out of the earth I saw the beauty in its twists and turns and gnarls. It takes time to appreciate this type of beauty – it is the beauty of working hands, of fisherman faces shaped by a life of facing into the saltwater and sun, it is found in the patina of Italian stones taking their knocks since antiquity.

As we neared the end of our Syrian sojourn, we finally met our neighbor - the artist who had painted our room and restored much of our house. His house was lovely with carved plaster work, paintings, calligraphy, a stalactite decoration commom since the Syrian Ayyubid era, a 16 meter deep well and well chosen artifacts, textiles and art pieces adorning the walls and niches … We had tried to look at this home before, but had no response from our phone calls, emails, and notes left on the door. It turned out he was in Spain with his Spanish wife, but by coincidence we ended up renting a house 3 doors down from his in the old city.

I wanted to turn the burl into a bowl and found a shop with a band saw to begin the project by flattening one side. It turns out our neighbor – Achmed #101 as we came to know him – has a brother who is a wood turner and a phone call or two later found me with the lump of burl riding through the city streets to a back alley shop with a 3” padlock and 4 lathes and wood shavings aplenty. In the end I think my language ability had pegged my competence level around 7 years old, and so I wasn’t entrusted with the gouges and chippers that pared down the burl to a 9” bowl.

And while my skill level on a lathe definitely couldn’t match his, my carefulness would have compensated his cavalier-ness… I spied some calipers on the wall, and had even gotten them down, but in the end they weren’t used and the bottom was thinned two much for the jam to have structurally integrity. The gouge caught some of the twisted grain and torque the center of the bowl out of the wood. A dime sized whole now present in the bottom as though to drain a plant. I hid my disappointment and I think he hid his as well and we agreed that we would call it a feature – make up a story to tell of its function rather than admit the carelessness and the flawed execution of the desired product.

The olive wood smells of Mediterranean cuisine and begs one to just add tomatoes and crushed salt and basil to its aromas. It burns wonderfully as well – a fate that most of this burl’s neighbors endured after a lifetime of giving water – an irony of all wood destined for the flames really. I saved a small chunk from the burl that had been band sawed off to make a spoon to accompany the bowl, and my last full day in Syria I got the chance.

Achmed #101 had also introduced us to a master carpenter who specializes in Arabesque. He is an artist with wood, a humble, diligent and knowledgeable craftsman. I asked if I might work with him for a day, and he welcomed me to his shop, and although my language skills continue to bring my competence into question, he eventually entrusted me with the saws and I spent 6 hours table sawing, band sawing, chop sawing, and shaping 120 Arabesque mahogany pieces for a panel they were working on. My day was interspersed with lessons on the crosscutting, food and drink, band saw blade sharpening, coiling and uncoiling the 12 foot blade, using compasses and dividers for layout, jigs for making repetitive angular cuts, tips for avoiding tear-out, antique woodwork show-and-tells of the deteriorating 200 year old door panel he was commissioned to reconstruct using the same joinery techniques. That day was capped by an evening at his house – joined by Yvette and her family – where we were served up khanoon music and singing and dancing and food. The source of the carpenter’s compassion and sparkle evident in his parents faces who joined us and laughed and danced and urged us on to eat and sing and communicate and photograph.

The carpenter gave me an open invitation to come back. I arranged my last day to skip out on the final walk-through and financial settling of accounts with our landlord of our house so that I could spend 3 more hours in his shop. I brought my wooden burl with me that I wanted to turn into a spoon, and this soon became the project of the morning. He helped and supervised me and it felt like shop class as he suggested ways for me to make the saw take only the wood… In the next phase of the project he pulled from a drawer an old gouge and after watching my technique, sharpened it and gave me a few pointers. By then he had started to make a giant spoon, showing me how he would rough it out of a 3” log and stopping at each step to check with me as to the shape it should be and if that was what I wanted (my language skills not good enough to say that I only wanted one spoon – a memory more than a utensil, but of course I was getting a lesson and a memory which was doubly valuable to me).

The spoon is with me now, the bowl having made its way with family back to the states to await reunion in June. The spoon is very rough. I still need to work the edges and gouge out some more, but time did not permit a finished product my last day… But the memory of work on the trees, and the wood, and the bowl, and my spoon – one of my few tangibly productive acts in Syria – reminds me that work is a gift that connects us and imbues us with meaning and gives an outlet for creativity and creates things of beauty and develops our character and our friendships, and that I have been blessed throughout my life to have it.

Our Ponytails -- by Yvette

2009-12-09T00:37:00.000-08:00

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.

Learnings and Jordan observations - by Yvette

2009-12-06T06:10:00.000-08:00

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.

Jordan (by Neil)

2009-11-29T14:28:00.000-08:00

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.

Lattakia (by Neil)

2009-11-22T10:59:00.000-08:00

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.

The Back (by Neil)

2009-11-16T06:25:00.000-08:00

Flowers, flirtations, jealousy
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

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

Krak de Chevaliers (by Neil)

2009-11-06T07:38:00.000-08:00

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.

Kafroon - Syria (by Neil)

2009-11-06T07:33:00.000-08:00

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.

Making a house a home in Aleppo (by Yvette)

2009-10-25T08:39:00.000-07:00

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.

Prayers in the Morning (by Neil)

2009-10-25T08:23:00.000-07:00

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

Syria - 24 hours in

2009-10-16T04:29:00.000-07:00

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).

Singapore - Stereotypes falling fast

2009-10-07T08:53:00.000-07:00

(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.

Gongs and Throngs and Visits to Farangs (westerners)

2009-10-01T07:19:00.000-07:00

(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.

Bladder Hell - Neil

2009-09-18T10:14:00.000-07:00

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

Quite a trek, now packing up to move along

2009-09-09T03:17:00.001-07:00

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

2009-09-09T03:05:00.000-07:00

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.”

Chickens Crossing, Playing Chicken and Pondering Why

2009-09-03T06:10:00.000-07:00

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

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

Home is where you hang your toothbrush holder . . .

2009-08-25T02:04:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

2009-08-25T00:46:00.001-07:00

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.

Picks and Pans: Bugs, Kids, Anniversary, Market

2009-08-22T02:20:00.000-07:00

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…

Amplification

2009-08-13T21:12:00.000-07:00

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.

At the Lao Border

2009-08-12T07:23:00.000-07:00

Yvette (Fan Girl) and I are getting ready to depart Bangkok via overnight train. We stayed in a swanky condo last night 25 floors up above bustle of the street. The AC and a shower do wonders to combat humidity. Fan Girl is now also Phone Girl as she has procured a Nokia with SIMM card for our use. She gave me a lesson in texting, and I keyed in almost successfully the message “I don’t text” Except that the “smart” language feature had me saying things like “I donut …”

One of my quirky highlights was watching the parking lot by the weekend market in Bangkok. It appears that everyone who doesn't get a diagonal pull in spot just double parks and leaves their car locked but in neutral. When someone wants to get out you see about 5 or 6 cars being rolled forwards or backwards to try and create a gap to exit.

I was quite delighted to find baby corn (on the cob). I knew it had to exist somewhere outside a can, and here in Chiang Mai I encountered it at the Buddhist Vegetarian Center where we were eating a very healthy vegan lunch.

8/12 Happy Mother’s day – Today was the queen’s birthday in Thailand and a national holiday that is celebrated as mother’s day.

This morning in Chiang Mai we enjoyed watching the monks asking for alms and giving blessings to those who offered them. We heard that on Mother’s day especially many people would be out giving. Vendors had ready little gift baskets and flower bundles that people would buy and then hand to the monks. Some of them were so heavily laden that I predicted they might be selective at where they stopped or what they kept. We saw one younger initiate fairly discreetly leave one of his flower bundles at a kiosk.

We’ve reached the Mekong. We are in Chiang Khong and Laos is a few 100 meters away. We are staying at a lovely guesthouse with good food and an airconditioned room. Tomorrow we push towards Muang Sing - though we may only get as far as Luang Nam Tha.

Angels, shots, visas, noodles, and a stolen wallet--summary of week one

2009-08-07T21:26:00.000-07:00

Well, we're "one week in". We left our house in a much more hurried / frenzied state than we imagined. Our last few hours / minutes at home included sealing the grout (thank you, Carlos!), Transferring the car (thank you for selling it, Steve!), Taking kitty to her new home (I'm sure she's already in love with. .. you, Evelyn!), throwing things into suitcases --- and overall realizing we were a little less invincible than we thought. Vivek ended up giving more than just a ride to the airport-rather, 45 minutes of frantic "carry this to storage" and "this goes in the trash" kinds of instructions.

So, our "80/20" system of packing resulted in three knives in Yvette's carry-on-two Victorinox paring knives and one lock-blade, and flint / matches in Neil's carry-on. All of this sailed nicely past the sleepy US security staff (our flight was at 2am). Taipei security staff picked up on the two paring knives. But we arrived in Bangkok with the third. And with most of the things that we intended to bring! Plus our compass, Neil's pillow, "Go Dog Go" (and other Dr. Seuss books which happened to be in our bag from babysitting a few of the Beacon Hillbillies a few nights before), plus a few orphan socks. . .

After connecting by Skype with our "Beacon Hillbilly Angels" (Kim and Kelly who have fixed a last few things on our house, managed the house cleaner we hired to clean it, and made sure we didn't look to our renters like the overly. ..-ambitious fools that we were!!) to ensure things with the house were moving along okay, we made it to our hotel in Bangkok. We had a bowl of street noodles (um, how do you say vegetarian noodles in Thai? Another customer came to our aid), an ice cream cone, and a shower, then crashed for about 12 hours.

Our first order of business was to go get our Japanese Encephalitis vaccines-and what a lovely experience it was-no, really, it was. We went to Bumrungrad Hospital, and we thought we'd been dumped at the Nordstrom's spa. Beautiful facility, efficient staff mostly dressed in dupioni silk, free juice and water while you wait, a whole bank of registration desks dedicated to Arabic, another dedicated to English. We were escorted to the various desks / locations, got our shots with our clear bandaids-and it all cost US $ 55 each, rather than the US $ 500 it would've cost in Seattle. Great!! Our attempts at getting a 60-day Laotian visa weren't so successful. Despite finally trekking out to the embassy ourselves, they were firm in only giving a 30-day visa, which can be extended but we'll have to make a "visa run" across the Thai border a couple of times if we want to stay. . . a full three months. Ah well (she says now, not having yet experienced the 10 hours of bus rides, one way, in Northern Laos that will be required for this endeavor).

A bit of play time in Bangkok included taking a cooking class at May Kaidee's Vegetarian cooking school-very well worth it so we know what we're looking at in the market! We learned about lemon grass, galangal (Thai ginger), Thai basil, kaffir limes, kaffir lime leaves, mushroom sauce (to replace oyster sauce), soy sauce (to replace fish sauce), and lots of yummy recipes, and what makes them. . . yummy. We've already made a yummy batch of tom kha soup!

We've also hooked up with good friends from PATH-had a lovely Moroccan dinner Monday night at Gopi's house, meeting Shilpa, China and Chantal, and also getting to see Michelle who Yvette had replaced in South Africa (yes, a small world). . . With Michelle and Gopi, we attended "Calypso Bangkok"-a humorous cabaret show put on by a group of stunningly beautiful and talented "lady men"-transgender men who possess more grace / beauty than one can imagine. Unfortunately, that evening I also somehow managed to part from my wallet. Darn. And a first time for me. So. . . the late evening meant several Skype calls with credit card companies in the US-who confirmed someone had used my Visa card to enrich themselves with ~ $ 1000 of merchandise. Fortunately, I don't have to pay that, so besides the ~ $ 100 of cash in my wallet and the hassle, I'm not much worse off. And between Gopi and Michelle offering me their addresses, or money up front - and the overall infrastructure in Bangkok (mail, telecomm, etc., Is very easy here), we weren't too stressed, just briefly frustrated.

We've also connected with Therese Caouette (good friend from Seattle and from Pangea who is also Yvette's former bosses, Chris', wife). Right now we're staying for a few days at Therese's farm, we're surrounded by rice fields, birds, frogs, and Therese's large extended family. Visiting with Therese and hearing her story of 20 + years in Thailand working on social justice issues was a highlight for me. I've known bits and pieces of her story, hearing the fuller version underlines for me the things I know Therese stands for-a deep value for human rights and justice, a desire to understand with depth and nuance (including becoming a rice farmer to. . better-understand the people she was working with), a love of play and whimsy, and a willingness to live a somewhat chaotic and creative life to do the kind of work she values. On the way to the farm with Therese, we stopped and visited Don, a family member who's serving as a monk for 3 months in honor of his father's passing. He's just finished his university degree in economics as well.

Here at the farm we've relaxed and read, learned how to ride the scooter (Neil), gone into town and explored the market and shops, gone to grandma's house (Therese's former mother-in-law) to eat and to cook. So far we've managed to avoid going on a frog-catching hunt, but Neil just might have that in his sights.

A few days on a rice farm

2009-08-06T18:45:00.000-07:00

We are in Panotnokomb (no idea really of how to spell that), Thailand - south of Bangkok an hour and a half.

My nose has taken up running – a new hobby for it as I have had no known allergies throughout the last 38 years. But perhaps the farm air has made it want to exercise.

I am surrounded by rice fields. The stalks are coming full and the white egrets work the fields, their cries dissonant with their visual grace.

A thrum of insects, cooing doves and other songbirds fill in the background, along with a farmers radio alternating pop music with sing-song commercials.

The horizon is set by lines of coconut trees, banana and coconut trees.

Yvette and I have ridden a motor scooter into town and walked down to the market. We've provisioned ourselves with Mushroom sauce (a vegetarian substitute for fish sauce), galangal, garlic, eggplant, basil, mushrooms, cauliflower, cabbage, lemon grass, tomatoes, carrots, peppers, baby corn - they are sooo cute, and a few other sundry items. We found a little air-conditioned bakery/internet cafe with smoothies and comfortable seats and have set up shop for the morning.

The wasp/bee in the photo is enjoying some Lukchub which we were encouraged to seek out as one of the traditional sweets of Thailand. Not only were the bees all taking little licks off the top, the seller had a bag of bees for sale presumably next to her (or maybe she let them out as advertising...)

2009-08-01T01:55:00.000-07:00

We’re at the gate, our bags are a DISASTER as we crammed and threw stuff in, we’ll have mysteries when we arrive in Bangkok! Projects are done, house is a disaster, we’ll hae to hire a cleaning person tomorrow by phone. NOT the peaceful exit we’d hoped for, but exhausted and excited nonetheless.

Our final Seattle week included multiple all-nighters and many more projects than we would have wished. We will decompress in Thailand

2009-06-22T07:15:00.000-07:00

Zesty information to come soon... wait for it.

Yvette and Neil plan to disembark from Seattle for Laos, Syria, Tuscanny and Bolivia at the end of July 2009. It is with trepidation and excitement.