The Girls! The Girls!
Visit with Miman May 28-30, 2013
I cleared my week to prepare for RahRah and 3 friends to sleep over and do the city, shopping mostly and eating out, a belated treat for her 14th birthday which I missed as I was in Rio de Janeiro for the Carnaval and traveling all over Brazil after that. But alas, my electronic devices failed to sync, and did not update the change of dates. So when their visit occurred the week after, I had a play booked at the Horizons Theater and the cleaning lady was arriving at the same time. I could move the cleaning, but I have 3 other ladies going to the theater with me, and I have the tickets. Fortunately Uncle Doobie could be with them in my absence which thankfully, was anticipated with excitement by the girls. And here they are, they have arrived!
This is Raleigh's 2nd city outing with friends. Apparently they had fun the first time so she invited 2 more. I know how to do this now. The first time I had prepared an itinerary of children's museums, the Fox Theater, a visit to Buford Farmer's market.The latter I included because I thought they'd be fascinated by its international character with exotic fruits and vegetables and edible marine species from all over the world. I also wanted to take them for a tour of Buford highway, with its many Asian, Latin, and ethnic stores and restaurants and have them experience a dim sum feast.Wrong! They wanted to only shop at Phipps and Lenox and eat at PF Chang and Flip Burger.
On arrival they are already giddy with expectations. Wasting no time they dropped their satchels and were ready to start shopping. The lunch suggestion at Antico-Pizza Napolitano went over well, 5*. then over the 17th St bridge and GA400 off we go to shop till we drop at Lenox. We arranged to meet at a certain rendezvous point and time and they went to their favorite stores and I went to the Apple Store to ask a question about syncing my iPhone. My defenses unarmed, I encountered Christian who charmed me into believing I needed an iPad , and there I was, the original sucker extraordinaire, and promptly swiped my AMEX for $ 939.34 including apps and cool lime green case. Siri comes with it but she has a heck of a time figuring out my accent. I have to spend time training her to my commands. So here goes, I'm on my way to figure everything out.Ive promptly signed up a for the Discover Your iPad Workshop. On the few minutes left until rendezvous I stopped at Bloomingdale's and couldn't resist the purchase of a Kate Spade platform espadrilles at 40% off. Why did I think the girls would love museums and the theater?
The show and tell started in the car, you can feel the dizzying excitement and almost orgasmic pleasure. This continued until dinner at JCT Kitchen where the new outfits were modeled to bring out approval from a larger audience after Pauline, Uncle Doobs, Bud and their girlfriends joined us. Uncle Doobs noticed all the fancy hairs and the jeweled headbands worn a la Gatsby. The eatery was also well- received, another 5*.
The night wasn't long enough so they were up until dawn was breaking, and it's early morning when they fell asleep. I was back from a 3-mile walk, the sun was high, and they were still in REM stage. Breakfast hour was over when they finally staggered out of bed, sleepy eyed and hungry. We had brunch at IKEA next door, they were curious after Rah told them they have a nice cafeteria.
I'm a fly on the wall. They are listening to country music, by Luke Bryan. They like Beyonce and thinks JLo is pretty and they like her music sometimes. The Jonas brothers are getting back in favor, Justin Bieber is a definite persona non grata, Taylor Swift so so, but Justin Timberlake is cool, and surprise! Tom Cruise in the same breath. I agree with Ryan Gosling. But enough of sitting around, they are ready to hit the shops again, at Atlantic Station.
I declared they need to balance this shopping frenzy with some education. On my morning walk in midtown I saw that the Federal Reserve Bank has a free museum and thought how appropriate for the girls to learn about money since they're spending it like there's no tomorrow. We took the free Atlantic Station shuttle to Arts Center and walked 3 blocks to 11th and Peachtree. To my delight, they had fun in the museum, awed by all the bundles of money being processed, and in disbelief that they are being shredded at all. Late lunch at the Tex-Mex next door, Mi Cocina, with Shirley Temples.
It's time for me to get ready for the theater and they're all breathless for Uncle Doobie to arrive and wondering if his girlfriend will come too. The report is that the dinner was superb. Doobs served made from scratch hand rolled sushi and chicken teriyaki. He didn't have to plan entertainment. Between them they compared notes on fashion, shopping, giggled, and shrieked, and talked. This continued well past in the night, while watching movies on demand TV. There were microwaved popcorn remains next morning.
All good things must come to an end. Another late morning awakening then packing, and home cooked breakfast, and oh no! A last minute run at Target before Hal arrives to take them back home.
The girls have departed, the house is mute.
Friday, May 31, 2013
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
Pacific Mysteries
April 18-May 6, 2013, Country Club Cruising with Oceania
Marlon Brando and his movie, Mutiny on the Bounty , and Paul Gauguin’s paintings of an island paradise populated by languid and sensuous women fires the imagination with exotic fantasies and builds a desire to see for oneself what this is all about. When a friend I met from a tour of Cuba last year expressed an interest to share a stateroom for a cruise anywhere of my choosing I quickly jumped on the opportunity and unbelievably found this cruise with all the destinations I wished to visit. I have just returned from a trip to Brazil, but if I didn’t book now, I would have to wait next year, for this is the last cruise scheduled for this itinerary before the ship repositions for the Caribbean. There is no question, that coming so close to making this happen that I will consider postponing it. I think it’s just as well that I didn’t have any time to do any research of cruises, for it might have given me some serious reservation to commit to this particular mode of travel. I have always traveled independently, doing my own research and booking, and often with an open ended itinerary, planning where and how and when as I go along. I’ve been looking into this destination for sometime and unless I wanted to spend a lot of money and hired a boat that it would require tremendous organization to coordinate, air, water and land transportation, and accommodations, and still cost will be high. It didn’t require much deliberation to realize that this cruise was very affordable.
We flew to Papeete to board our ship, a 2-year old medium sized luxury 5.5 stars cruise ship with less than 1200 passengers and 800 crew, the latter an international mix of Italians, Indians, Czechs, Polish, Ukrainians, Croatians, Filipinos, Malaysian, US Americans, South Americans, British, French, Greeks, etc. My excitement quickly nosedived however, when I saw that my fellow passengers are 99.9% geriatric. OMG! They’re not only very old but many are disabled, walking with canes, walkers, or rolling wheelchairs. Those unaided with devices walk with slow shuffling, wide based and flat footed gait suggesting Parkinson, and men and women have the bent postures of osteoporosis. There are easily recognized signs of chronic cardiac failure in many with chronic pedal edema and leathered elephant legs. When you get in a crowded elevator, there is the peculiar scent of the aged, reminding me of consultations I did in nursing homes. In Bora Bora a couple got off ship after the wife had a fall in the library, then flew to rejoin to the ship in Fakarava. In Huahine a man on coumadin misstepped while climbing the tour bus and cut his legs on the running board requiring 14 stitches which looked more ominous by copious bleeding. He is diabetic and has peripheral neuropathy. The tour director while not very old had medical issues and got off in Bora Bora together with her spouse who was also one of the entertainers, never to rejoin the ship. This required reshuffling of the ship’s staff, resulting in the assistant director being promoted and doubling as the alternate entertainer also. The ultimate catastrophe was a woman’s fall which broke her femur after Fakarava which caused the cancellation of the next port of call in Pitcairn Island, forcing us to be at sea for 4 days to get to Rapa Nui (Easter Island) where she can get medical attention. This left everyone disgruntled, and I was particularly unsympathetic, saying carelessly since I did not examine the patient, that it is not life threatening and if she can wait 3 days, another day would not make a difference, and a fracture, if not displaced and has no bleeding can be stabilized by splints. Later I learned that she has other complicating medical issues, and of course after my initial indiscretion, I acknowledged I was wrong and irresponsible. I booked the cruise for Pitcairn, as not too many ships stop there, so there goes my fantasy, still unlived.
But all these led me to contemplate the issue of aging and my reaction to it. I have faced my fear. It is not death, for I do not believe in an after life, and in judgment day. To me death is just the end of life, and my only wish is for it to be quick, and without suffering. Death is more a problem for the living who has to bury you, settle your estate taxes, and sort out your material possessions. I do not wish to impose this on my loved ones so I have simplified my affairs, divested myself of unnecessary objects, left instructions for my remains, and I’m spending my children’s inheritance so they won’t have to worry about estate taxes. My fear is aging into feebleness and dependency. Acknowledging this allowed me to see my geriatric fellow travelers in a different light. Cruise travel is like being cocooned. Everything is planned and organized for you, all your needs are attended to, you are reminded of important things to do, the service people attend to all reasonable requests, your bed is made, your meals cooked, you are entertained, and within all this structure there is room for personal pursuits and enrichment if one wishes. So feeble and disabled seniors can continue to be engaged in new experiences in a sheltered environment, travel the world and socialize, and continue to have fresh stories to tell.
Enlightenment achieved, I can now enjoy my fellow passengers and revel in the luxurious appointments of Oceania’s Marina and look forward to our ports of call. I found a small group of late nighters who hung out in Horizons, the dancing venue, presided over by Siglo, a talented Filipino band. Days at sea are crowded with a medley of activities but you can find me in my morning workout at the Spa and 3-mile walk on the sports deck, painting with Artist in Residence Graham Denison, in the Trivia Challenge with my team “Seize the Day”, in Obstacle Putting Contest, and in Jackpot Bingo, where I won the minor games 3 times for a total of $334 in prize money. I wasn’t too lucky in the casino slots and I lost in the finals of the Blackjack tournament. My roommate and I would go our separate ways during the day and come together in the evening for cocktails and music with Constantine at the piano or with the Orpheus String Quartet and dinner in the many fine specialty restaurants on board. I passed on some of the evening postprandial shows, for dancing or the casino. There was very little time left for reading or for just laying out in the sun poolside. Just as well since I couldn’t check emails and Facebook anyway. Internet is available but cost for connection is prohibitive. It is delivered not by high speed fiber optics but by a system of geosynchronized satellite signals, is painfully slow, and often down. I opted to spend on Martinis and wine, which were not included in the cruise price. When I needed solitude to recharge, I enjoyed sitting in our stateroom veranda at sunset, in awe of the vast Pacific Ocean, listening to soaring music from my iPhone and musing on the lives of the ancient Polynesians and what life would be like for their descendants if the Europeans never found them.
Polynesia is very much like the the southern islands of the Philippines, though its terrain, flora, and fauna is not as complex and diverse. Development and tourism is changing the idea of paradise. In Bora Bora where the obscenely expensive resorts of St Regis and Four Seasons are built on sandbars across the lagoon, where their overwater bungalows go for upwards of $1000 a night, paradise living is designed as an escapist fantasy of catered services and fine dining done in an island setting. They were built to cater to millionaires, but ordinary salaried men can book a bungalow and live like one for a day. In the mainland, some resorts are left abandoned after the last hurricane, and some unfinished projects lay in ruins to the elements when funds ran out after the world financial collapse. In Papeete, the capital, located in Tahiti, the biggest island, resides half of the 267,000 population. Its traffic will rival Atlanta any day. Huahini, still part of the Society Islands group, is still fairly unassuming, and offers a contrast to overdeveloped Moorea, Bora Bora and Tahiti. In Fakarava, one of the more remote attols of the Tuamotu group, its possible to enjoy an unspoiled island get away. Isolated small beaches surround its perimeter, and as the archipelago was formed from the coral reefs, diving is said to be spectacular. It’s pristine ecosystem has been designated a UNESCO Biosphere Reserve. There is only one hotel in the island, White Sand Beach Resort. Two attols in the Tuamotu have been used as nuclear test sites by the French government amid protests from 1966-1996, exploding 181 devices. During this period, the military provided significant local employment which of course disappeared after the testing was banned. Today unemployment is close to 12 %, and 25% of Polynesians live in poverty. Papeete is ringed with slums, almost exclusively occupied by indigenous Polynesians. On top of the heap accounting for 80% of incomes are French, in the middle are mixed races and the Chinese, the tradesmen class together with minor government employees, and in the lower rungs , the indigenous population.
In Bora Bora on Saturday, our tour guide noted that it’s election the following day, and on the ballot is independence vs status quo. Our guide is for independence. He envisions a return to community living, and living off the land and the fruits of the sea, a simple life. It may be too naive. French Polynesia is heavily subsidized by France, it’s possible France is losing money on it. However, another local guide have achieved the ideal within the present political system. After his government employment was terminated, he bought a small sandbar island where he constructed a thatched hut, and with a boat, he is self-employed providing lagoon tours and snorkeling. He took us to his little island, guarded by his 2 friendly mixed pit bull dogs. He has an electric generator so he can power his satellite TV, he receives cell phone signals, and there’s plenty of clams, oysters, and fish in the reef. He has a small vegetable garden in the sand. When he feels like it he takes his boat to the deep sea without tourists, and delights in catching a big tuna, or snapper, then he invites his whole family for a feast. He is friendly with his rich French neighbor, who owns the bigger and coconut blanketed island next to his, with it’s several guest cottages and large main house, who likes to join him on his fishing trips, and invites him to take down any number of coconuts anytime for his use, and lets his dogs swim across the channel and carouse on his property. After the last storm, not too long ago, his hut was inundated by the surf and floated away, but he built another one in a day. He seemed quite content, and happy, he takes life as it is.
What is it about living on an island?
Marlon Brando and his movie, Mutiny on the Bounty , and Paul Gauguin’s paintings of an island paradise populated by languid and sensuous women fires the imagination with exotic fantasies and builds a desire to see for oneself what this is all about. When a friend I met from a tour of Cuba last year expressed an interest to share a stateroom for a cruise anywhere of my choosing I quickly jumped on the opportunity and unbelievably found this cruise with all the destinations I wished to visit. I have just returned from a trip to Brazil, but if I didn’t book now, I would have to wait next year, for this is the last cruise scheduled for this itinerary before the ship repositions for the Caribbean. There is no question, that coming so close to making this happen that I will consider postponing it. I think it’s just as well that I didn’t have any time to do any research of cruises, for it might have given me some serious reservation to commit to this particular mode of travel. I have always traveled independently, doing my own research and booking, and often with an open ended itinerary, planning where and how and when as I go along. I’ve been looking into this destination for sometime and unless I wanted to spend a lot of money and hired a boat that it would require tremendous organization to coordinate, air, water and land transportation, and accommodations, and still cost will be high. It didn’t require much deliberation to realize that this cruise was very affordable.
We flew to Papeete to board our ship, a 2-year old medium sized luxury 5.5 stars cruise ship with less than 1200 passengers and 800 crew, the latter an international mix of Italians, Indians, Czechs, Polish, Ukrainians, Croatians, Filipinos, Malaysian, US Americans, South Americans, British, French, Greeks, etc. My excitement quickly nosedived however, when I saw that my fellow passengers are 99.9% geriatric. OMG! They’re not only very old but many are disabled, walking with canes, walkers, or rolling wheelchairs. Those unaided with devices walk with slow shuffling, wide based and flat footed gait suggesting Parkinson, and men and women have the bent postures of osteoporosis. There are easily recognized signs of chronic cardiac failure in many with chronic pedal edema and leathered elephant legs. When you get in a crowded elevator, there is the peculiar scent of the aged, reminding me of consultations I did in nursing homes. In Bora Bora a couple got off ship after the wife had a fall in the library, then flew to rejoin to the ship in Fakarava. In Huahine a man on coumadin misstepped while climbing the tour bus and cut his legs on the running board requiring 14 stitches which looked more ominous by copious bleeding. He is diabetic and has peripheral neuropathy. The tour director while not very old had medical issues and got off in Bora Bora together with her spouse who was also one of the entertainers, never to rejoin the ship. This required reshuffling of the ship’s staff, resulting in the assistant director being promoted and doubling as the alternate entertainer also. The ultimate catastrophe was a woman’s fall which broke her femur after Fakarava which caused the cancellation of the next port of call in Pitcairn Island, forcing us to be at sea for 4 days to get to Rapa Nui (Easter Island) where she can get medical attention. This left everyone disgruntled, and I was particularly unsympathetic, saying carelessly since I did not examine the patient, that it is not life threatening and if she can wait 3 days, another day would not make a difference, and a fracture, if not displaced and has no bleeding can be stabilized by splints. Later I learned that she has other complicating medical issues, and of course after my initial indiscretion, I acknowledged I was wrong and irresponsible. I booked the cruise for Pitcairn, as not too many ships stop there, so there goes my fantasy, still unlived.
But all these led me to contemplate the issue of aging and my reaction to it. I have faced my fear. It is not death, for I do not believe in an after life, and in judgment day. To me death is just the end of life, and my only wish is for it to be quick, and without suffering. Death is more a problem for the living who has to bury you, settle your estate taxes, and sort out your material possessions. I do not wish to impose this on my loved ones so I have simplified my affairs, divested myself of unnecessary objects, left instructions for my remains, and I’m spending my children’s inheritance so they won’t have to worry about estate taxes. My fear is aging into feebleness and dependency. Acknowledging this allowed me to see my geriatric fellow travelers in a different light. Cruise travel is like being cocooned. Everything is planned and organized for you, all your needs are attended to, you are reminded of important things to do, the service people attend to all reasonable requests, your bed is made, your meals cooked, you are entertained, and within all this structure there is room for personal pursuits and enrichment if one wishes. So feeble and disabled seniors can continue to be engaged in new experiences in a sheltered environment, travel the world and socialize, and continue to have fresh stories to tell.
Enlightenment achieved, I can now enjoy my fellow passengers and revel in the luxurious appointments of Oceania’s Marina and look forward to our ports of call. I found a small group of late nighters who hung out in Horizons, the dancing venue, presided over by Siglo, a talented Filipino band. Days at sea are crowded with a medley of activities but you can find me in my morning workout at the Spa and 3-mile walk on the sports deck, painting with Artist in Residence Graham Denison, in the Trivia Challenge with my team “Seize the Day”, in Obstacle Putting Contest, and in Jackpot Bingo, where I won the minor games 3 times for a total of $334 in prize money. I wasn’t too lucky in the casino slots and I lost in the finals of the Blackjack tournament. My roommate and I would go our separate ways during the day and come together in the evening for cocktails and music with Constantine at the piano or with the Orpheus String Quartet and dinner in the many fine specialty restaurants on board. I passed on some of the evening postprandial shows, for dancing or the casino. There was very little time left for reading or for just laying out in the sun poolside. Just as well since I couldn’t check emails and Facebook anyway. Internet is available but cost for connection is prohibitive. It is delivered not by high speed fiber optics but by a system of geosynchronized satellite signals, is painfully slow, and often down. I opted to spend on Martinis and wine, which were not included in the cruise price. When I needed solitude to recharge, I enjoyed sitting in our stateroom veranda at sunset, in awe of the vast Pacific Ocean, listening to soaring music from my iPhone and musing on the lives of the ancient Polynesians and what life would be like for their descendants if the Europeans never found them.
Polynesia is very much like the the southern islands of the Philippines, though its terrain, flora, and fauna is not as complex and diverse. Development and tourism is changing the idea of paradise. In Bora Bora where the obscenely expensive resorts of St Regis and Four Seasons are built on sandbars across the lagoon, where their overwater bungalows go for upwards of $1000 a night, paradise living is designed as an escapist fantasy of catered services and fine dining done in an island setting. They were built to cater to millionaires, but ordinary salaried men can book a bungalow and live like one for a day. In the mainland, some resorts are left abandoned after the last hurricane, and some unfinished projects lay in ruins to the elements when funds ran out after the world financial collapse. In Papeete, the capital, located in Tahiti, the biggest island, resides half of the 267,000 population. Its traffic will rival Atlanta any day. Huahini, still part of the Society Islands group, is still fairly unassuming, and offers a contrast to overdeveloped Moorea, Bora Bora and Tahiti. In Fakarava, one of the more remote attols of the Tuamotu group, its possible to enjoy an unspoiled island get away. Isolated small beaches surround its perimeter, and as the archipelago was formed from the coral reefs, diving is said to be spectacular. It’s pristine ecosystem has been designated a UNESCO Biosphere Reserve. There is only one hotel in the island, White Sand Beach Resort. Two attols in the Tuamotu have been used as nuclear test sites by the French government amid protests from 1966-1996, exploding 181 devices. During this period, the military provided significant local employment which of course disappeared after the testing was banned. Today unemployment is close to 12 %, and 25% of Polynesians live in poverty. Papeete is ringed with slums, almost exclusively occupied by indigenous Polynesians. On top of the heap accounting for 80% of incomes are French, in the middle are mixed races and the Chinese, the tradesmen class together with minor government employees, and in the lower rungs , the indigenous population.
In Bora Bora on Saturday, our tour guide noted that it’s election the following day, and on the ballot is independence vs status quo. Our guide is for independence. He envisions a return to community living, and living off the land and the fruits of the sea, a simple life. It may be too naive. French Polynesia is heavily subsidized by France, it’s possible France is losing money on it. However, another local guide have achieved the ideal within the present political system. After his government employment was terminated, he bought a small sandbar island where he constructed a thatched hut, and with a boat, he is self-employed providing lagoon tours and snorkeling. He took us to his little island, guarded by his 2 friendly mixed pit bull dogs. He has an electric generator so he can power his satellite TV, he receives cell phone signals, and there’s plenty of clams, oysters, and fish in the reef. He has a small vegetable garden in the sand. When he feels like it he takes his boat to the deep sea without tourists, and delights in catching a big tuna, or snapper, then he invites his whole family for a feast. He is friendly with his rich French neighbor, who owns the bigger and coconut blanketed island next to his, with it’s several guest cottages and large main house, who likes to join him on his fishing trips, and invites him to take down any number of coconuts anytime for his use, and lets his dogs swim across the channel and carouse on his property. After the last storm, not too long ago, his hut was inundated by the surf and floated away, but he built another one in a day. He seemed quite content, and happy, he takes life as it is.
What is it about living on an island?
Monday, March 04, 2013
The Nile and Jordan (2009)
(THE NILE)
On the shore of Lake Victoria, in Tanzania 4 years ago, I was overcome with an expansive feeling while contemplating the realization that here I am at the headwaters of the NIle, the longest river in the world, the source of life that gave birth to the glorious civilization of ancient Egypt. Someday I will visit and see for myself what this life source had created. We boarded our Nile cruiser, the Medea in Aswan after taking the overnight sleeper train from Cairo. The train ride offered a glimpse of how crowded Cairo is. The hoi polloi massed to overflowing in the coach section, while thankfully we had our private cabins . It was suddenly very hot when we arrived in Aswan. Cruising the Nile offers a vast landscape of golden wheat fields and goats grazing and graceful date palms, mud houses and children playing, a narrow swath of green, then the arid desert beyond. Along its shore also lie the tombs of kings and temples to gods that survived for over thousands of years, monuments that give awe and inspiration, that man through all times is capable of brilliant invention and creativity. The creations also testify to man’s folly and cruelty, and to his need for immortality and salvation.
(OF GODS AND MEN, TOMBS, THE CITY OF THE DEAD)
Egyptian archaeological treasure is immense. The Cairo Egyptian Museum, opened in 1909 houses thousands of artifacts, in an aging building that’s dusty and not air-conditioned, its wood and glass exhibit cases with notes typewritten in an old Corona typewriter are relics in themselves. The Tutankhamun treasures alone occupies one large wing and only a small sample is exhibited at a time. King Tut’s gleaming golden mummy mask is jaw-dropping awesome, and that’s just the beginning. Giza with the Sphinx and the Pyramids is just in the outskirts of Cairo. You can see it from the city, the juxtaposition of images is poetry. And the Valley of the Kings is so immense, over 60 tombs have been identified, it’s unimaginable how it was like in the ages. The pharaohs had the vision, but the peasants and slaves produced the artistry and know-how to erect these everlasting monuments that has lasted over 5000 years. (EGYPTIANS) Egyptians like to think of themselves as a distinct people from the Arabs. They want to be identified as Egyptian, not Arab. Many Arabs are Muslims, but not all Muslims are Arabs, Indonesians are mostly Muslims. Israelites are also a diverse group. They are mostly Jews but there are Arabs, the Bedouins, and Druze who were grandfathered as Israelite when Israel became a nation. Among Jews, there are the Hassidic, Ashkenazians, and Sephardic. In Jordan, 42% of the population are Palestinians. Then there are the tourists.
(PETRA, AMMAN/JORDAN)
Jordan is a country about to join the tourist trade, there is construction aimed for the tourists all over, but they have a long way to go. Aside from Petra and Moses mountain and the baptism site of Jesus by the Jordan river and the Dead sea which it shares with Israel, there's not much antiquities here after you've been to Egypt and Jerusalem. The bulk of Amman however is a new city with many shopping malls and a residential district for the rich and powerful with million dollar houses. There is a huge development in the middle of the city between the old district and the new that is a city within a city that is just like Atlantic station. The Middle East is not merely building skyscrapers they are building cities with projected population up to 2 million. Consider that Jordan has merely 5 M population with 1.5 M concentrated in Amman, UAE Abu Dhabi and Dubai and Saudi Arabia, even Qatar are building mega cities from the ground. The wage here averages 300 JD Jordanian dinar ( $1.30 to JD1) per month, so life here is tough for the middle class. Cars are expensive, the affordable car for the populace is made in Korea, There are Palestinian settlements in the old city and it creates friction, however 42% of Jordanians are from Palestine and many are related, Individuals weigh in on the Palestine/Israel conflict based on their personal relations. The newspapers have news about a journalist arrested for criticizing the parliament, Filipino female domestic workers are blacklisted here because some entrepreneur brought them in and have them work as prostitutes, why they did not arrest the entrepreneur is another story. My imbibing friends will not survive here, alcohol is served only in major tourist places. I had dinner in an Arabian restaurant and many arabs dine there with their covered wives. I can't help staring at how the women eat with their entire face except the eyes covered with black cloth, they slip the food under the veil, what a process.
On the shore of Lake Victoria, in Tanzania 4 years ago, I was overcome with an expansive feeling while contemplating the realization that here I am at the headwaters of the NIle, the longest river in the world, the source of life that gave birth to the glorious civilization of ancient Egypt. Someday I will visit and see for myself what this life source had created. We boarded our Nile cruiser, the Medea in Aswan after taking the overnight sleeper train from Cairo. The train ride offered a glimpse of how crowded Cairo is. The hoi polloi massed to overflowing in the coach section, while thankfully we had our private cabins . It was suddenly very hot when we arrived in Aswan. Cruising the Nile offers a vast landscape of golden wheat fields and goats grazing and graceful date palms, mud houses and children playing, a narrow swath of green, then the arid desert beyond. Along its shore also lie the tombs of kings and temples to gods that survived for over thousands of years, monuments that give awe and inspiration, that man through all times is capable of brilliant invention and creativity. The creations also testify to man’s folly and cruelty, and to his need for immortality and salvation.
(OF GODS AND MEN, TOMBS, THE CITY OF THE DEAD)
Egyptian archaeological treasure is immense. The Cairo Egyptian Museum, opened in 1909 houses thousands of artifacts, in an aging building that’s dusty and not air-conditioned, its wood and glass exhibit cases with notes typewritten in an old Corona typewriter are relics in themselves. The Tutankhamun treasures alone occupies one large wing and only a small sample is exhibited at a time. King Tut’s gleaming golden mummy mask is jaw-dropping awesome, and that’s just the beginning. Giza with the Sphinx and the Pyramids is just in the outskirts of Cairo. You can see it from the city, the juxtaposition of images is poetry. And the Valley of the Kings is so immense, over 60 tombs have been identified, it’s unimaginable how it was like in the ages. The pharaohs had the vision, but the peasants and slaves produced the artistry and know-how to erect these everlasting monuments that has lasted over 5000 years. (EGYPTIANS) Egyptians like to think of themselves as a distinct people from the Arabs. They want to be identified as Egyptian, not Arab. Many Arabs are Muslims, but not all Muslims are Arabs, Indonesians are mostly Muslims. Israelites are also a diverse group. They are mostly Jews but there are Arabs, the Bedouins, and Druze who were grandfathered as Israelite when Israel became a nation. Among Jews, there are the Hassidic, Ashkenazians, and Sephardic. In Jordan, 42% of the population are Palestinians. Then there are the tourists.
(PETRA, AMMAN/JORDAN)
Jordan is a country about to join the tourist trade, there is construction aimed for the tourists all over, but they have a long way to go. Aside from Petra and Moses mountain and the baptism site of Jesus by the Jordan river and the Dead sea which it shares with Israel, there's not much antiquities here after you've been to Egypt and Jerusalem. The bulk of Amman however is a new city with many shopping malls and a residential district for the rich and powerful with million dollar houses. There is a huge development in the middle of the city between the old district and the new that is a city within a city that is just like Atlantic station. The Middle East is not merely building skyscrapers they are building cities with projected population up to 2 million. Consider that Jordan has merely 5 M population with 1.5 M concentrated in Amman, UAE Abu Dhabi and Dubai and Saudi Arabia, even Qatar are building mega cities from the ground. The wage here averages 300 JD Jordanian dinar ( $1.30 to JD1) per month, so life here is tough for the middle class. Cars are expensive, the affordable car for the populace is made in Korea, There are Palestinian settlements in the old city and it creates friction, however 42% of Jordanians are from Palestine and many are related, Individuals weigh in on the Palestine/Israel conflict based on their personal relations. The newspapers have news about a journalist arrested for criticizing the parliament, Filipino female domestic workers are blacklisted here because some entrepreneur brought them in and have them work as prostitutes, why they did not arrest the entrepreneur is another story. My imbibing friends will not survive here, alcohol is served only in major tourist places. I had dinner in an Arabian restaurant and many arabs dine there with their covered wives. I can't help staring at how the women eat with their entire face except the eyes covered with black cloth, they slip the food under the veil, what a process.
Kibbutz-Kissufim
I’ve had Jewish professional colleagues who talked about volunteering in a kibbutz for a summer or for a year in the 70’s, before launching their careers. They extolled its transforming experience of personal enrichment and connecting with their roots. I happened to schedule my Israeli trip on Passover so I was very excited when my friend invited me to have Seder with her in her kibbutz, Kissufim. It is 1.5 kilometers from the Gaza strip, south of Tel Aviv, northwest of the Negev desert, which raised anxious concerns among my family and friends. But my friend’s father still live there (she now lives in Tel Aviv) and she’s going so I figure, I’ll be just as safe there as anywhere else. There were signs of the danger though, in the ongoing construction of bomb shelters in each residence.
I rented a car and drove the 116 kilometers on sleek highways. I had no trouble as the driving is on the right as in the US and I had a GPS I named Golda. I was intrigued to learn more about the kibbutzim movement when my friend remarked that people in Israel can tell when they meet her, that she was raised in a kibbutz. I couldn’t, but I’m sure the telling characteristics are positive.
The kibbutz movement is communal living based on socialist principles of sharing with all and each provided by all with what he needs. Together with the Zionist movement it became a powerful force in establishing the state of Israel. The Zionist international organization provided the funds to buy lands in Palestine for settlement. The kibbutzim are generally in the periphery of the state as they were intended to define and secure the borders of the state. The first kibbutz was founded in 1909 by Russian youths in the southern shores of Galilee, in Degania. Kissufim was founded in the 50’s by immigrants from South America and the US. My friend’s father is one of the founders. Early life in the kibbutz was harsh. Palestine, after the demise of the Ottoman Empire was barren and ridden with malaria. The resident Arabs were poor and lived in miserable conditions. The Jewish settlers, drained marshes, irrigated the desert and planted the land and developed a thriving agriculture economy then later expanded into manufacturing, services, electronics and other industry. With the creation of the state of Israel in 1948, kibbutzim grew rapidly, until it began its decline in the 80’s, due to various factors such as economic recession worldwide, decline of agriculture revenues, ideological shift in the younger generation towards individualistic principles, income gap, media exposure to outside influences, abuse of the system, etc. Today there are about 260 kibbutzim ranging in size from less than 100 members to over a thousand. The idealogy is changing towards various degrees of privatization, and there are some who prophesizes its demise but others who maintain optimism that it can incorporate change to adapt to reality but retain its core principle of egalitarianism. Today many kibbutzim are moving towards eco-agriculture, and tourism to maintain its vitality. Kissufim now has dwindled to about 100 members, many are aging. It’s economy is fueled by agriculture, and dairy production, and it employs outside labor ( Arabs and Vietnamese) to provide its workforce. The dining room is no longer the hub of the commune, my friend’s father has a caregiver and eats at home, but his needs are taken care of by the commune. Some are moving back with young children by choice. The kibbutzim no longer raise children in separate quarters from their parents since the 70’s, like how my friend was raised, so families find the commune ideal to shield children from the onslaught of external influences. And some young couples move back to escape the stress of urban living.
Maybe, it is not a lost world.
I rented a car and drove the 116 kilometers on sleek highways. I had no trouble as the driving is on the right as in the US and I had a GPS I named Golda. I was intrigued to learn more about the kibbutzim movement when my friend remarked that people in Israel can tell when they meet her, that she was raised in a kibbutz. I couldn’t, but I’m sure the telling characteristics are positive.
The kibbutz movement is communal living based on socialist principles of sharing with all and each provided by all with what he needs. Together with the Zionist movement it became a powerful force in establishing the state of Israel. The Zionist international organization provided the funds to buy lands in Palestine for settlement. The kibbutzim are generally in the periphery of the state as they were intended to define and secure the borders of the state. The first kibbutz was founded in 1909 by Russian youths in the southern shores of Galilee, in Degania. Kissufim was founded in the 50’s by immigrants from South America and the US. My friend’s father is one of the founders. Early life in the kibbutz was harsh. Palestine, after the demise of the Ottoman Empire was barren and ridden with malaria. The resident Arabs were poor and lived in miserable conditions. The Jewish settlers, drained marshes, irrigated the desert and planted the land and developed a thriving agriculture economy then later expanded into manufacturing, services, electronics and other industry. With the creation of the state of Israel in 1948, kibbutzim grew rapidly, until it began its decline in the 80’s, due to various factors such as economic recession worldwide, decline of agriculture revenues, ideological shift in the younger generation towards individualistic principles, income gap, media exposure to outside influences, abuse of the system, etc. Today there are about 260 kibbutzim ranging in size from less than 100 members to over a thousand. The idealogy is changing towards various degrees of privatization, and there are some who prophesizes its demise but others who maintain optimism that it can incorporate change to adapt to reality but retain its core principle of egalitarianism. Today many kibbutzim are moving towards eco-agriculture, and tourism to maintain its vitality. Kissufim now has dwindled to about 100 members, many are aging. It’s economy is fueled by agriculture, and dairy production, and it employs outside labor ( Arabs and Vietnamese) to provide its workforce. The dining room is no longer the hub of the commune, my friend’s father has a caregiver and eats at home, but his needs are taken care of by the commune. Some are moving back with young children by choice. The kibbutzim no longer raise children in separate quarters from their parents since the 70’s, like how my friend was raised, so families find the commune ideal to shield children from the onslaught of external influences. And some young couples move back to escape the stress of urban living.
Maybe, it is not a lost world.
The Lost World, The Romance of Travel-April, 2009
I remember my first yearning of seeing the world, in World History class in high school. Epochs and kingdoms and exotic names and distant peoples and places came alive in my imagination, and a deep longing took hold within me to walk the earth and breathe the air of these magical lands. The Pharaohs, Antony and Cleopatra, Mesopotamia, Babylon, Baghdad, Damascus, Constantinople, Nebuchadnezzar, KIng David, Solomon, the Ottoman Empire, Richard the Lion Hearted, Saladin; their stories conjured images in my head more thrilling than what Hollywood ever created. So it is with great anticipation that I planned this trip to Israel, Egypt and Jordan.
Last year I signed up as a volunteer in a weeklong English immersion program for Spaniards, Pueblo Ingles, in La Alberca, and met Talila, from Israel who assured me that visiting Israel is not as scary as what the US media portrays it to be. I’ve wanted to go for the last 15 years, but was daunted by the perennial State Department travel advisory to this region. But I feared that these lands as I’ve imagined them might be lost forever considering the wars and terrorism that are going on in the region. Baghdad, Damascus, Persia (Iran), Lebanon, have been defiled by violence, and the Arab lands of Saudi Arabia, Dubai and Abu Dhabi, Qatar, have been altered beyond recognition by glitzy development of skyscrapers, megacities, megamalls and golf courses. So I’ve decided it’s now or never, I will go!
I must admit, I had some trepidation, and the fearful concern of friends didn’t help, so I purchased an expensive travel insurance that included terrorism coverage. Therefore, consider me lucky, because my trip was uneventful except for the medical challenge of subduing a virulent staphylococcus colony that grew from a yellow jacket sting on my right calf, acquired while playing golf before I left.
I flew into Tel Aviv’s Ben Gurion airport from JFK in New York, a 12-hour flight, arriving the next day since Israel is ahead 6 hours of EST. A friend prepared me that I will be questioned in JFK about my purpose for traveling to Israel and other details of my itinerary, but none happened on both departure and arrival. Ben Gurion immigration check was a breeze, the airport is sleek and modern, everything was easy to negotiate, and there were no uniformed soldiers in sight. I arrived on the eve of Passover, so the flight was full of Jewish families going home for the holidays. I had this strange “otherness” feeling. Firstly, I’m the only one looking different, then the passengers behaved differently. The men wore their skullcaps or yarmulkas and their tallits, prayer shawls. Men and women were reading from the Torah throughout the trip and every so often the men would stand on the aisle and pray from the Torah. I sat next to a young man, Ariel, who imports mid-priced fashion from China and the US into Israel. He’s orthodox Jew. He pitched the wonders of the homeland and the self-affirmation of living in Israel, and expressed regret that his lifestyle as an entrepreneur prevents him from dedicating his life to the study of the Torah full time. As I was invited to a Seder in my friend’s kibbutz he educated me about the holiday and gave me pointers about etiquette and customs. I purchased a Kosher gift basket from the duty free shops on arrival.
The “otherness” experience marked this trip throughout. Kosher is observed in all places, including major hotels, pork, mollusk, and shellfish are not served. As it was the Passover there was no bread during our meals, and beer can’t be served, though wine is permitted, and on the Shabbat, there was no hot meal, and the elevator was on automatic pilot, stopping on every floor. Business closed at 2 PM on Friday and didn’t reopen until sundown on Saturday, buses did not run. I wanted to fly out to Cairo from Tel Aviv on Friday. I had to take a 12:40 AM departure as there was no flight scheduled until Sunday. I inadvertently paid attention to treating my leg past 2 PM on Friday, and I couldn’t get my antibiotic prescription filled except in the Christian Arab section of Old Jerusalem. In Old Jerusalem, Orthodox, Hasidic, Ashkenazian, and Sephardic Jewish men wear their traditional clothing, it felt like you’re in a time warp. I contemplated in silence in front of the Western (Wailing) Wall, the Jewish holiest site, being cognizant of the separate men and women’s section, and according to tradition, inserted a small slip of paper in the stone crack where I wrote down my fervent wishes. The devout are very emotional in the wall, kissing and stroking the stone, crying, murmuring or transfixed in reverence. In August 2003 a Palestinian suicide bomber detonated in a bus carrying worshippers from the wall killing 20 and injuring many including children. There is a checkpoint and metal detector to go through before entering the Wall plaza. In Egypt and Jordan, Muslim countries, the hijab, modest dressing for men and women, is most striking among the women, who wear long loose-fitting clothing and scarves that cover everything except the face and hands. It’s extreme practice is exemplified by women from Iran and Saudi Arabia, which observe Sharia law, they wear the burqa, black costume with complete body and face cover, leaving only small slits for the eyes. The men wear turbans and distinctive head gears and the loose fitting galabiyya. I was at an Arab restaurant and I can’t help staring at one of these burqa-clad women, to see how they will eat. To me, with great difficulty, as they pass the food under the veil. How will they ever eat a finger- licking- good Col. Sander’s fried chicken and enjoy it? Well, McDonald’s (with humus spread on the bread), Kentucky Fried Chicken, Burger King, Pizza Hut, and Starbuck’s are all over the place. The Muslims are not allowed to drink, so I was not able to enjoy my meals with wine.
I was enthralled by the idea of following the biblical events in these 3 countries, beginning with the exodus, where Moses led the Israelites from slavery in Egypt to the promised land, through the desert and mountains and the Red Sea. The Passover Seder with my friend in her kibbutz was particularly moving with its ceremony and symbolism. In Jordan you can actually step on the same ground Moses travelled in Mt. Nebo, where he received the 10 commandments, and from this perch, viewed the promised land and the Garden of Eden. I filled a plastic bottle of water from the Jordan River, where St. John the baptist baptized Jesus Christ. In Jerusalem on Good Friday, I meditated in the Garden of Getshemane, in the Mount of Olives, where the Church of All Nations (Basilica of the Agony), Mary Magdalene’s Church, and the Dominus Flevit Church stand. In the afternoon I followed Jesus’ journey of the cross in the Via Dolorosa , the first 9 stations winding through the narrow and bustling alleys of the Arab bazaars in Old Jerusalem, and the last 5 in Golgotha. On the hill of calvary sits the Basilica of the Holy Sepulchre, a complex of several churches joined together and controlled by various religious communities, the 3 major ones being the Franciscan order of the Roman Catholics, the Greek Orthodox and the Armenian Apostolic Churches. The 11th station site, where Jesus was nailed to the cross, is guarded by Roman Catholics, whereas on the spot where Jesus’ cross and the crosses of the 2 criminals were raised on Mt. Calvary is now a Greek Orthodox altar. The tomb is in the main rotunda, below the magnificent central dome of the basilica, within a small chapel, the tomb was carved out of the rock and now encased in marble. There is always a long line to enter the chapel to view the tomb. The various religious communities owning parts of the basilica are far from models of tolerance and peace. For centuries, they have squabbled over property rights to the point of violence and have never found a resolution beyond the status quo agreement forged centuries ago. A wooden ladder had stood on the front window ledge since the 19th century and remains to this day and since the area is common ground, nobody dares to touch the ladder for fear of retribution from the others.
On Easter Sunday, we braved crossing the security checkpoints to visit Bethlehem in the Palestinian territory. We learned that there are 3 levels of political authority in these areas, Israeli, Palestinian, and combinations. It is relatively safe for tourists to go to Bethlehem, they need the tourist currency, but it is dangerous for Israelis because of kidnapping potential. Attacks from terrorists have declined since the building of the border wall and instituting checkpoints, nevertheless our tour guide took precautions with some cloak and dagger maneuvers. At the Israeli checkpoint, she sat in the back of the bus and instructed us that she is a fellow tourist if questioned, and at the Palestinian checkpoint she got picked up by Palestinian Arab conspirators while we went through passport checks. We were taken in another vehicle after the border check and our tour guide joined us later. This was an exciting adventure in as much as the outcome was uneventful, except for some hard questioning by the Israeli police because I was transporting a big box, which contained the finely carved olive wood nativity set by Zacharia Bros. that I purchased to add to my collection.
The Basilica of the Nativity is one of the oldest continuously used churches in the world. It is 2 churches joined together, the bigger one is Greek Orthodox and the other, St. Catherine’s is Catholic. It is built over the grotto, where Jesus was believed to have been born. I queued to view the underground cave, where tourists jostled for entrance, and the guards did not impose order but took requests from some tour guides to let their clients in with priority and I later learned that money changed hands to get this privilege, Again, as in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, the various religious communities guarding this holy site, has a status quo arrangement that had been defined centuries ago. On the way to Ein Gev, a kibbutz resort on the eastern shore of the Sea of Galilee, we passed Tiberias and Meggido, the latter the site where Armageddon was prophesied to take place. I strolled on the banks of the Sea of Galilee, in reality a lake fed by the Jordan river and underwater springs,the lowest freshwater lake in the world, 2nd only to the salinated Dead Sea. It was the Passover holiday, and families were gathered for swimming , a picnic, fishing, and boating. A couple of fishermen were casting their nets in the distance away from the holiday crowd. This is where Jesus recruited his disciples among the fishermen, performed the miracle of walking on water and of feeding the multitude from 5 loaves of bread and 2 fishes. I watched the sun set and the moon rise from the shore. We stopped at Capernaum, the old town of Jesus where he preached in the synagogue and performed miracles, viewed the excavation of St. Peter’s mother in law’s dwelling and paid respects in the modern church built over St. Peter’s house. In Nazareth we visited the Basilica of the Annunciation, a contemporary church built over a Byzantine and Crusader church and the grotto where the angel Gabriel announced to Mary that she’ll give birth to Jesus. The interior of the church is decorated with mosaics of the annunciation donated by various countries. I located the US, Mexico and Japan inside the church and outside the church, in the patio, I located the Philippines. This and other holy sites are in earnest preparation for the Pope’s visit in May. In Caesarea, the Roman city built by Herod the Great, Pontius Pilate governed from this site in Jesus’ time.
I realize after this trip that I know little of these countries, and that my feeling of “otherness” stem from my ignorance of their history, culture, language, religion, and people. The Arabs, Muslims, Jews, Egyptians and various Christian sects who people these lands are strange to me and I do not understand their wars and religious beliefs and traditions. They have a completely different alphabet, language, and calendar. These are truly foreign lands and foreign people, but the conversations I had with hotel porters, taxi drivers, tour guides, and a couple of friends have a familiar theme that boils down to cultivating close family bonds, a good job, security from harm, a bright future for the children, and belief in a divine power that will ensure a state of blissfulness after one confronts his mortality.The stranger becomes oneself in the end.
I flew into Tel Aviv’s Ben Gurion airport from JFK in New York, a 12-hour flight, arriving the next day since Israel is ahead 6 hours of EST. A friend prepared me that I will be questioned in JFK about my purpose for traveling to Israel and other details of my itinerary, but none happened on both departure and arrival. Ben Gurion immigration check was a breeze, the airport is sleek and modern, everything was easy to negotiate, and there were no uniformed soldiers in sight. I arrived on the eve of Passover, so the flight was full of Jewish families going home for the holidays. I had this strange “otherness” feeling. Firstly, I’m the only one looking different, then the passengers behaved differently. The men wore their skullcaps or yarmulkas and their tallits, prayer shawls. Men and women were reading from the Torah throughout the trip and every so often the men would stand on the aisle and pray from the Torah. I sat next to a young man, Ariel, who imports mid-priced fashion from China and the US into Israel. He’s orthodox Jew. He pitched the wonders of the homeland and the self-affirmation of living in Israel, and expressed regret that his lifestyle as an entrepreneur prevents him from dedicating his life to the study of the Torah full time. As I was invited to a Seder in my friend’s kibbutz he educated me about the holiday and gave me pointers about etiquette and customs. I purchased a Kosher gift basket from the duty free shops on arrival.
The “otherness” experience marked this trip throughout. Kosher is observed in all places, including major hotels, pork, mollusk, and shellfish are not served. As it was the Passover there was no bread during our meals, and beer can’t be served, though wine is permitted, and on the Shabbat, there was no hot meal, and the elevator was on automatic pilot, stopping on every floor. Business closed at 2 PM on Friday and didn’t reopen until sundown on Saturday, buses did not run. I wanted to fly out to Cairo from Tel Aviv on Friday. I had to take a 12:40 AM departure as there was no flight scheduled until Sunday. I inadvertently paid attention to treating my leg past 2 PM on Friday, and I couldn’t get my antibiotic prescription filled except in the Christian Arab section of Old Jerusalem. In Old Jerusalem, Orthodox, Hasidic, Ashkenazian, and Sephardic Jewish men wear their traditional clothing, it felt like you’re in a time warp. I contemplated in silence in front of the Western (Wailing) Wall, the Jewish holiest site, being cognizant of the separate men and women’s section, and according to tradition, inserted a small slip of paper in the stone crack where I wrote down my fervent wishes. The devout are very emotional in the wall, kissing and stroking the stone, crying, murmuring or transfixed in reverence. In August 2003 a Palestinian suicide bomber detonated in a bus carrying worshippers from the wall killing 20 and injuring many including children. There is a checkpoint and metal detector to go through before entering the Wall plaza. In Egypt and Jordan, Muslim countries, the hijab, modest dressing for men and women, is most striking among the women, who wear long loose-fitting clothing and scarves that cover everything except the face and hands. It’s extreme practice is exemplified by women from Iran and Saudi Arabia, which observe Sharia law, they wear the burqa, black costume with complete body and face cover, leaving only small slits for the eyes. The men wear turbans and distinctive head gears and the loose fitting galabiyya. I was at an Arab restaurant and I can’t help staring at one of these burqa-clad women, to see how they will eat. To me, with great difficulty, as they pass the food under the veil. How will they ever eat a finger- licking- good Col. Sander’s fried chicken and enjoy it? Well, McDonald’s (with humus spread on the bread), Kentucky Fried Chicken, Burger King, Pizza Hut, and Starbuck’s are all over the place. The Muslims are not allowed to drink, so I was not able to enjoy my meals with wine.
I was enthralled by the idea of following the biblical events in these 3 countries, beginning with the exodus, where Moses led the Israelites from slavery in Egypt to the promised land, through the desert and mountains and the Red Sea. The Passover Seder with my friend in her kibbutz was particularly moving with its ceremony and symbolism. In Jordan you can actually step on the same ground Moses travelled in Mt. Nebo, where he received the 10 commandments, and from this perch, viewed the promised land and the Garden of Eden. I filled a plastic bottle of water from the Jordan River, where St. John the baptist baptized Jesus Christ. In Jerusalem on Good Friday, I meditated in the Garden of Getshemane, in the Mount of Olives, where the Church of All Nations (Basilica of the Agony), Mary Magdalene’s Church, and the Dominus Flevit Church stand. In the afternoon I followed Jesus’ journey of the cross in the Via Dolorosa , the first 9 stations winding through the narrow and bustling alleys of the Arab bazaars in Old Jerusalem, and the last 5 in Golgotha. On the hill of calvary sits the Basilica of the Holy Sepulchre, a complex of several churches joined together and controlled by various religious communities, the 3 major ones being the Franciscan order of the Roman Catholics, the Greek Orthodox and the Armenian Apostolic Churches. The 11th station site, where Jesus was nailed to the cross, is guarded by Roman Catholics, whereas on the spot where Jesus’ cross and the crosses of the 2 criminals were raised on Mt. Calvary is now a Greek Orthodox altar. The tomb is in the main rotunda, below the magnificent central dome of the basilica, within a small chapel, the tomb was carved out of the rock and now encased in marble. There is always a long line to enter the chapel to view the tomb. The various religious communities owning parts of the basilica are far from models of tolerance and peace. For centuries, they have squabbled over property rights to the point of violence and have never found a resolution beyond the status quo agreement forged centuries ago. A wooden ladder had stood on the front window ledge since the 19th century and remains to this day and since the area is common ground, nobody dares to touch the ladder for fear of retribution from the others.
On Easter Sunday, we braved crossing the security checkpoints to visit Bethlehem in the Palestinian territory. We learned that there are 3 levels of political authority in these areas, Israeli, Palestinian, and combinations. It is relatively safe for tourists to go to Bethlehem, they need the tourist currency, but it is dangerous for Israelis because of kidnapping potential. Attacks from terrorists have declined since the building of the border wall and instituting checkpoints, nevertheless our tour guide took precautions with some cloak and dagger maneuvers. At the Israeli checkpoint, she sat in the back of the bus and instructed us that she is a fellow tourist if questioned, and at the Palestinian checkpoint she got picked up by Palestinian Arab conspirators while we went through passport checks. We were taken in another vehicle after the border check and our tour guide joined us later. This was an exciting adventure in as much as the outcome was uneventful, except for some hard questioning by the Israeli police because I was transporting a big box, which contained the finely carved olive wood nativity set by Zacharia Bros. that I purchased to add to my collection.
The Basilica of the Nativity is one of the oldest continuously used churches in the world. It is 2 churches joined together, the bigger one is Greek Orthodox and the other, St. Catherine’s is Catholic. It is built over the grotto, where Jesus was believed to have been born. I queued to view the underground cave, where tourists jostled for entrance, and the guards did not impose order but took requests from some tour guides to let their clients in with priority and I later learned that money changed hands to get this privilege, Again, as in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, the various religious communities guarding this holy site, has a status quo arrangement that had been defined centuries ago. On the way to Ein Gev, a kibbutz resort on the eastern shore of the Sea of Galilee, we passed Tiberias and Meggido, the latter the site where Armageddon was prophesied to take place. I strolled on the banks of the Sea of Galilee, in reality a lake fed by the Jordan river and underwater springs,the lowest freshwater lake in the world, 2nd only to the salinated Dead Sea. It was the Passover holiday, and families were gathered for swimming , a picnic, fishing, and boating. A couple of fishermen were casting their nets in the distance away from the holiday crowd. This is where Jesus recruited his disciples among the fishermen, performed the miracle of walking on water and of feeding the multitude from 5 loaves of bread and 2 fishes. I watched the sun set and the moon rise from the shore. We stopped at Capernaum, the old town of Jesus where he preached in the synagogue and performed miracles, viewed the excavation of St. Peter’s mother in law’s dwelling and paid respects in the modern church built over St. Peter’s house. In Nazareth we visited the Basilica of the Annunciation, a contemporary church built over a Byzantine and Crusader church and the grotto where the angel Gabriel announced to Mary that she’ll give birth to Jesus. The interior of the church is decorated with mosaics of the annunciation donated by various countries. I located the US, Mexico and Japan inside the church and outside the church, in the patio, I located the Philippines. This and other holy sites are in earnest preparation for the Pope’s visit in May. In Caesarea, the Roman city built by Herod the Great, Pontius Pilate governed from this site in Jesus’ time.
I realize after this trip that I know little of these countries, and that my feeling of “otherness” stem from my ignorance of their history, culture, language, religion, and people. The Arabs, Muslims, Jews, Egyptians and various Christian sects who people these lands are strange to me and I do not understand their wars and religious beliefs and traditions. They have a completely different alphabet, language, and calendar. These are truly foreign lands and foreign people, but the conversations I had with hotel porters, taxi drivers, tour guides, and a couple of friends have a familiar theme that boils down to cultivating close family bonds, a good job, security from harm, a bright future for the children, and belief in a divine power that will ensure a state of blissfulness after one confronts his mortality.The stranger becomes oneself in the end.
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
Carnaval in Rio, February 7-13, 2013
Carnaval is not what it seems. True, at its most obvious, it is the biggest party and parade in the world. The samba school competition and parade over 5 days during the week before Lent, begs superlatives to describe it. One has to see it to believe the magnitude, the gigantic proportion and the over-the-top costumes and floats of the event. Each night 6 samba schools will be announced with fireworks, and will parade down the half mile 72,000 capacity Oscar Niemeyer-designed Sambodromo grandstand, a behemoth spectacle organized around a theme, accompanied by a specially composed samba music, performed by a huge percussion and brass band, with a drum queen, selected after a fierce competition, with more than 3000 marchers in elaborate and themed costumes, about 7 giant floats, with movable parts, and smoke, boom, thunder and water show on some, and a group of lively crowd rousers. The huge ensemble completes the half mile with strict time schedule, and a night’s show lasts until dawn, from 9 PM-7 AM! We were comatose with sensory overload after the 3rd school, and had to get back to the hotel dazed and dripping in sweat and beer. Around 900,000 foreign tourists came to Rio and spent $42.7M on the parade and generated $628M for the city, and $3.2B for the whole country. Each Samba school spent $3-4M each to put on their show. Financing these gigantic productions had been a challenge for the Samba schools, especially for the lesser known, and drug and crime money had found its way in this arrangement of public grants, business sponsorships, community contributions and fund-raising, and thousands of volunteer manpower. The purist decry the commercialization, and the high price of participating. The ordinary carioca will have a hard time coming up with the cost of a Sambodromo ticket, and to march in the parade require buying the approved theme costume, and paying for the privilege. So it appears, the Sambodromo carnaval has left the people and gone corporate to serve the tourist industry. Still there were 5-6 million people who came to Rio to party in one of the 500 blocos, street parades approved by the city, scheduled throughout the different neighborhoods, where anyone can participate for free. These consist of thousands of sweaty bodies, with a can of beer in one hand, in various states of undress or in outlandish costumes, dancing to samba music from a loudspeaker on a truck, all in good spirits and determined to uphold Rio’s famed party culture intact. We managed to parade with the multibloco group in Lapa.That Sunday 19,000 tourists went offshore from 9 cruise ships, and the temperature reached 102 degrees F. Need I say more?
Carnaval week is a holiday. Most stores along parade routes are boarded up, for crowd control and protection. Police are visible, and porta-Johns are in strategic locations. There is a fine for urinating in the street, but you can still smell urine everywhere, and the following day, the accumulation of trash is too much for street sweepers to keep up with. In Cinelandia only restaurants and souvenir shops are open. Banks are closed, and since most ATM’s accepting foreign cards are in banks, we couldn’t withdraw $R. We wanted to visit Petropolis, the Imperial summer capital, but it was closed. In Copacabana, we caught some of the street percussion bands, and the crowds were not as thick as in downtown Rio, and there’s the nice boardwalk and the beach to cool off. We got the full flavor of the Carnaval by staying in Copacabana Palace no less, where to get a standing room ticket to their ball cost $R1750, which we couldn’t afford, and in downtown Rio in Cinelandia, the venue for the biggest bloco, O Cordao da Bola Preta, where 1.8M sambaed for free, and listened to free live bands and got drunk that Saturday until dawn.
We took the Metro from Cinelandia to Praca Onze, to the Sambodromo on Sunday for $R6.40 RT, to protest the $R140 price for the hotel shuttle. We were with hundreds of costumed passengers, and I still managed to get requests for pictures with my gigantic plumed orange Can-Can hat, purchased in a Lapa 2nd hand shop. It was so huge I couldn’t pack it, so I left it in my hotel room. We loved the visit to the hillside neighborhood of Santa Teresa, with its colonial houses, cobbled street, and boutique hotels and fine restaurants. One of the attractions for visiting is riding the tram where it will take you to the hilltop to get a spectacular view of Rio including Sugarloaf mountain and the Cristo Redentor on Corcovado. However, it was in rehab due to an accident last year, and it won’t be back in service until 2014. So in the summer sun we hiked up to the top but indeed was rewarded with the vista, and discovered an upscale watering hole on the way down in the Hotel Santa Teresa, where we made a Caipirinha rest stop, then finished the visit with seafood lunch at Sobrenatural. We had to squeeze into bikinis to be part of the Ipanema beach scene, and learned the ritual of ordering a mate com limao and biscoito globo from an orange-uniformed beach vendor. We did the obligatory pilgrimage to Corcovado to pay our respects to Cristo Redentor and to marvel at the 360 degree panorama of Rio. From afar, without the close-up view of the favelas.
Rio is very dramatic and picture perfect, with buildings marching down on its mountainside and spilling into the sea, and greenery and stone outcroppings and the golden beaches surrounding its shores and islands and the sierras silhouetted in the horizon. Ah, the favelas. We were advised not to say it loud, for it is a disrespect to the people living in the sprawling slums of Rio and the rest of the urban centers of Brazil. The politically correct reference is the communidad. The politically correct propaganda also is that Brazil is racially democratic, meaning that Brazilians do not harbor racial prejudice towards one another, that if social mobility is impeded, it is due to socio-economic class, rather than racial factors. Nobody discusses race openly in Brazil. Unlike in the US where it is open and institutionalized, it is veiled and shamefaced in Brazil. Blacks comprise 51% of the population, but the overwhelming majority in the slums is Black, in the richer district, they’re only 7%. White income is more than double that of Blacks, in universities only 6.3 % are Black, and professors 1%. Brazil was the biggest importer of slaves until its abolition in 1888, 4.9M compared to less than 400,000 in the US. After abolition, freed slaves were not hired in the work force and not offered citizenship. Communities founded by runaway slaves, the quilombos, are only recently being recognized by the government and given access to services. Instead, there was a policy of “whitening” adopted. The government subsidized European immigration to replace the slave work force, with free passage and employment, in the hope that intermarriage would cancel out the Black race. The experiment failed obviously, and was abandoned to be replaced by the racial democracy concept. It passed anti-discrimination legislation in the 1950‘s and its 1988 constitution made racism a crime, however enforcement is rare. There is only one Black judge. In Dilma Roussef’s cabinet there is only one Black member among 38. Air travel is dominated by White ridership, magazine covers feature White models, TV and film stars, business executives and professionals have White faces, and upscale shopping venues and restaurants have White clientele and Black service workers. And the hardest thing to change of course is the attitude, just like in the US. The ruling White class just assumes that Blacks belong to the bottom rung of the ladder, and the lighter the skin color becomes, the higher one goes up the ladder. Slaves had regularly mounted rebellions during colonial times, and many escaped into the jungles and founded communities, so it is a puzzle why there is only a rudimentary movement in raising consciousness and activism among Blacks. The culture, music, and art being showcased in Brazil and identifies Brazil is the Black culture. It generates the multibillion dollar tourist industry, yet Blacks do not participate in its profits. This is compellingly stark in Salvador. When the city decided to refurbish Pelourinho to be a tourist destination, it evacuated the long-time residents of this decaying city who were mostly Black, and resettled them in the periphery, and isolated them from participating in the city’s renaissance. Pelourinho virtually has no local residents. It is populated by tourists, and it’s animation are created by business and restaurant owners and tourism officials who schedule events and programs to entertain tourists. It is Disneyland. Ironically, Pelourinho is named after the pillory that used to be in the town center, where slaves who transgressed were shackled and lashed publicly to instill fear and compliance from the others.
Having said that, the people are very friendly and helpful, and indeed fun-loving and exuberant. We loved the food, and developed a taste for acaraje, feijoada, coxinha, and moqueca, among many, including churrascos. Muito bom. We got to know Carlinhos Brown, Ivete Sangalo, and more than samba, got to listen to trio eletrico, axe, and discovered Bel Borba and Jorge Amado.
Carnaval is not what it seems. True, at its most obvious, it is the biggest party and parade in the world. The samba school competition and parade over 5 days during the week before Lent, begs superlatives to describe it. One has to see it to believe the magnitude, the gigantic proportion and the over-the-top costumes and floats of the event. Each night 6 samba schools will be announced with fireworks, and will parade down the half mile 72,000 capacity Oscar Niemeyer-designed Sambodromo grandstand, a behemoth spectacle organized around a theme, accompanied by a specially composed samba music, performed by a huge percussion and brass band, with a drum queen, selected after a fierce competition, with more than 3000 marchers in elaborate and themed costumes, about 7 giant floats, with movable parts, and smoke, boom, thunder and water show on some, and a group of lively crowd rousers. The huge ensemble completes the half mile with strict time schedule, and a night’s show lasts until dawn, from 9 PM-7 AM! We were comatose with sensory overload after the 3rd school, and had to get back to the hotel dazed and dripping in sweat and beer. Around 900,000 foreign tourists came to Rio and spent $42.7M on the parade and generated $628M for the city, and $3.2B for the whole country. Each Samba school spent $3-4M each to put on their show. Financing these gigantic productions had been a challenge for the Samba schools, especially for the lesser known, and drug and crime money had found its way in this arrangement of public grants, business sponsorships, community contributions and fund-raising, and thousands of volunteer manpower. The purist decry the commercialization, and the high price of participating. The ordinary carioca will have a hard time coming up with the cost of a Sambodromo ticket, and to march in the parade require buying the approved theme costume, and paying for the privilege. So it appears, the Sambodromo carnaval has left the people and gone corporate to serve the tourist industry. Still there were 5-6 million people who came to Rio to party in one of the 500 blocos, street parades approved by the city, scheduled throughout the different neighborhoods, where anyone can participate for free. These consist of thousands of sweaty bodies, with a can of beer in one hand, in various states of undress or in outlandish costumes, dancing to samba music from a loudspeaker on a truck, all in good spirits and determined to uphold Rio’s famed party culture intact. We managed to parade with the multibloco group in Lapa.That Sunday 19,000 tourists went offshore from 9 cruise ships, and the temperature reached 102 degrees F. Need I say more?
Carnaval week is a holiday. Most stores along parade routes are boarded up, for crowd control and protection. Police are visible, and porta-Johns are in strategic locations. There is a fine for urinating in the street, but you can still smell urine everywhere, and the following day, the accumulation of trash is too much for street sweepers to keep up with. In Cinelandia only restaurants and souvenir shops are open. Banks are closed, and since most ATM’s accepting foreign cards are in banks, we couldn’t withdraw $R. We wanted to visit Petropolis, the Imperial summer capital, but it was closed. In Copacabana, we caught some of the street percussion bands, and the crowds were not as thick as in downtown Rio, and there’s the nice boardwalk and the beach to cool off. We got the full flavor of the Carnaval by staying in Copacabana Palace no less, where to get a standing room ticket to their ball cost $R1750, which we couldn’t afford, and in downtown Rio in Cinelandia, the venue for the biggest bloco, O Cordao da Bola Preta, where 1.8M sambaed for free, and listened to free live bands and got drunk that Saturday until dawn.
We took the Metro from Cinelandia to Praca Onze, to the Sambodromo on Sunday for $R6.40 RT, to protest the $R140 price for the hotel shuttle. We were with hundreds of costumed passengers, and I still managed to get requests for pictures with my gigantic plumed orange Can-Can hat, purchased in a Lapa 2nd hand shop. It was so huge I couldn’t pack it, so I left it in my hotel room. We loved the visit to the hillside neighborhood of Santa Teresa, with its colonial houses, cobbled street, and boutique hotels and fine restaurants. One of the attractions for visiting is riding the tram where it will take you to the hilltop to get a spectacular view of Rio including Sugarloaf mountain and the Cristo Redentor on Corcovado. However, it was in rehab due to an accident last year, and it won’t be back in service until 2014. So in the summer sun we hiked up to the top but indeed was rewarded with the vista, and discovered an upscale watering hole on the way down in the Hotel Santa Teresa, where we made a Caipirinha rest stop, then finished the visit with seafood lunch at Sobrenatural. We had to squeeze into bikinis to be part of the Ipanema beach scene, and learned the ritual of ordering a mate com limao and biscoito globo from an orange-uniformed beach vendor. We did the obligatory pilgrimage to Corcovado to pay our respects to Cristo Redentor and to marvel at the 360 degree panorama of Rio. From afar, without the close-up view of the favelas.
Rio is very dramatic and picture perfect, with buildings marching down on its mountainside and spilling into the sea, and greenery and stone outcroppings and the golden beaches surrounding its shores and islands and the sierras silhouetted in the horizon. Ah, the favelas. We were advised not to say it loud, for it is a disrespect to the people living in the sprawling slums of Rio and the rest of the urban centers of Brazil. The politically correct reference is the communidad. The politically correct propaganda also is that Brazil is racially democratic, meaning that Brazilians do not harbor racial prejudice towards one another, that if social mobility is impeded, it is due to socio-economic class, rather than racial factors. Nobody discusses race openly in Brazil. Unlike in the US where it is open and institutionalized, it is veiled and shamefaced in Brazil. Blacks comprise 51% of the population, but the overwhelming majority in the slums is Black, in the richer district, they’re only 7%. White income is more than double that of Blacks, in universities only 6.3 % are Black, and professors 1%. Brazil was the biggest importer of slaves until its abolition in 1888, 4.9M compared to less than 400,000 in the US. After abolition, freed slaves were not hired in the work force and not offered citizenship. Communities founded by runaway slaves, the quilombos, are only recently being recognized by the government and given access to services. Instead, there was a policy of “whitening” adopted. The government subsidized European immigration to replace the slave work force, with free passage and employment, in the hope that intermarriage would cancel out the Black race. The experiment failed obviously, and was abandoned to be replaced by the racial democracy concept. It passed anti-discrimination legislation in the 1950‘s and its 1988 constitution made racism a crime, however enforcement is rare. There is only one Black judge. In Dilma Roussef’s cabinet there is only one Black member among 38. Air travel is dominated by White ridership, magazine covers feature White models, TV and film stars, business executives and professionals have White faces, and upscale shopping venues and restaurants have White clientele and Black service workers. And the hardest thing to change of course is the attitude, just like in the US. The ruling White class just assumes that Blacks belong to the bottom rung of the ladder, and the lighter the skin color becomes, the higher one goes up the ladder. Slaves had regularly mounted rebellions during colonial times, and many escaped into the jungles and founded communities, so it is a puzzle why there is only a rudimentary movement in raising consciousness and activism among Blacks. The culture, music, and art being showcased in Brazil and identifies Brazil is the Black culture. It generates the multibillion dollar tourist industry, yet Blacks do not participate in its profits. This is compellingly stark in Salvador. When the city decided to refurbish Pelourinho to be a tourist destination, it evacuated the long-time residents of this decaying city who were mostly Black, and resettled them in the periphery, and isolated them from participating in the city’s renaissance. Pelourinho virtually has no local residents. It is populated by tourists, and it’s animation are created by business and restaurant owners and tourism officials who schedule events and programs to entertain tourists. It is Disneyland. Ironically, Pelourinho is named after the pillory that used to be in the town center, where slaves who transgressed were shackled and lashed publicly to instill fear and compliance from the others.
Having said that, the people are very friendly and helpful, and indeed fun-loving and exuberant. We loved the food, and developed a taste for acaraje, feijoada, coxinha, and moqueca, among many, including churrascos. Muito bom. We got to know Carlinhos Brown, Ivete Sangalo, and more than samba, got to listen to trio eletrico, axe, and discovered Bel Borba and Jorge Amado.
Thursday, January 17, 2013
On Gun Control
It is amazing how the rhetoric of the NRA President in a recent TV interview can pass the reasonable test for most Americans. The 2nd amendment is being prostituted by the NRA by using it as a reason to continue their anarchic attitudes towards regulation. The 2nd amendment was formulated during the country's revolutionary days. We have evolved since then into a working democracy and a civilized society where differences and dissent are settled through laws and process that is applied to all, a society where we can move about with freedom and safety, and pursue our own happiness. We have laws that govern use of violence in the service of self-defense, why would people need military assault weapons to protect themselves? And this laying of the blame on the mentally ill and tasking the mental health system to somehow solve the problem is totally prejudicial, emphasizes the age-old stigma, and maintains the ignorance of the politicians and the public about mental illness.
Truth be told, we have no mental health system to blame for failure. What we have is a disorganized, disjointed conglomeration of programs. These programs have no coherence and continuity and are underfunded. They have no universal access due to lack of parity of mental health insurance coverage and treatment philosophies that fail to understand the nature of mental illness. They are instead driven by political rhetoric and goody two-shoes social philosophies.
Mental illness is a chronic disease, and its treatment is medical. It still has no cure and, just like most chronic diseases such as diabetes and hypertension, it has acute exacerbations, and can deteriorate over time with deficits in function. Any chronic disease requires lifelong management, functional rehabilitation and supportive treatments; but the "mental health system" does not recognize this. It has de-medicalized mental illness while paradoxically relying unrealistically on drugs, which has low efficacy and many side effects. It had relegated psychiatrists to prescription writing roles, with some sectors even implying that many non-MD's can write these prescriptions as well, since writing the drugs just requires what drug companies dictate in their brochures.
The human mind is difficult to read, and human action is difficult to predict, and this is true for mentally ill individuals as well. The best predictor to prevent violence is to know each other well, and to take responsibility and act when there are signs that someone may be a danger to self or others. We have the laws and the process to do this now. The politicians and the public need to be educated about how to use this
We don't need new mandates, or new rules. And the most effective way to prevent death and minimize casualties when violence erupts is to remove highly lethal weapons. I support guns for civilians for traditional sporting purposes, for protection in high crime or isolated and wilderness areas; but possession must be regulated with background checks, gun safety education, and registration. We have tougher laws regarding registration of automobiles than we do on possession of mass-killing weapons. There is simply no place in American society for assault-like weapons.
The 2nd amendment was necessary in the survival of the USA after the revolution, during the ratification of the constitution, to ensure support of the Union by the slave-owning Southern states. The Federal government had to give assurance to these states that they can maintain and arm a militia, supposedly to be on call to serve the Union if invaded or threatened, but actually used by the Southern states to police slaves, and to demonstrate military power should the slaves rebel. It is irrelevant today, and should be repealed. Also, it referred to muskets, not rapid-firing assault weapons. Our forefathers never imagined this kind of killing machines.
Wednesday, November 07, 2012
Revenge of the Colonies
Revenge of the Colonies
November 7, 2012
Results of the US presidential election showed that the changing demographics of America had catapulted Obama to his second term despite seemingly insurmountable odds of unemployment above 7.9%, numbing budget deficits, ongoing wars, terrorism threat, the Chinese, not to mention views of his impotence as a leader in failing to break legislature gridlock, and the alleged scandal and cover up about Benghazi. The coalition his team stitched together are the Latinos and Blacks and ethnic minorities, women and youth. The White majority, the descendants of the original English colonists, and descendants of the first wave of European immigrants, are shrinking in numbers. The peoples from the New World has come of age.
In the century of exploration and maritime adventures into the unknown world, in the time of Amerigo Vespucci, Columbus, Magellan, Vasco da Gama, the world was once divided between Portugal and Spain. Later, the Dutch, the French and the English caught up and began competing for new territories and divided among themselves, Africa, the Middle East, South America, the Caribbean, the Far East. They ruled these colonies with an iron hand and pillaged their natural resources, and enslaved the native populations, and created a society of unequals which eventually became unsustainable and fomented revolutions. It took about 300 years before the boiling point was reached. The colonies have sequentially achieved self rule in various forms, from dictatorships, military governments, democracy, communism, beginning in the 19th century. The English colony in North America had a different experience. It had its revolution in its infancy as a colony, and became a nation ahead of all the other colonies of other European powers. However it was a revolt of the colonizers against their own people who ruled from the mother country. It did not include the native inhabitants, the Indians and the African slaves. The colony became the United States by conquering the Indian nation and continuing the enslavement of Africans and foraging into war with Spain and claiming its territories. That’s how the Philippines became a US possession after the Spanish-American War. The United States had become a colonizer, and ruled its subjects like it was ruled in the beginning, unequally. Like the other New World colonies, these subjugated peoples did not achieve equality legally until the 19th century. Inequality is still practiced, and prejudice is alive, but the protection of the law exists, and in the polls, is the reckoning.
Results of the US presidential election showed that the changing demographics of America had catapulted Obama to his second term despite seemingly insurmountable odds of unemployment above 7.9%, numbing budget deficits, ongoing wars, terrorism threat, the Chinese, not to mention views of his impotence as a leader in failing to break legislature gridlock, and the alleged scandal and cover up about Benghazi. The coalition his team stitched together are the Latinos and Blacks and ethnic minorities, women and youth. The White majority, the descendants of the original English colonists, and descendants of the first wave of European immigrants, are shrinking in numbers. The peoples from the New World has come of age.
In the century of exploration and maritime adventures into the unknown world, in the time of Amerigo Vespucci, Columbus, Magellan, Vasco da Gama, the world was once divided between Portugal and Spain. Later, the Dutch, the French and the English caught up and began competing for new territories and divided among themselves, Africa, the Middle East, South America, the Caribbean, the Far East. They ruled these colonies with an iron hand and pillaged their natural resources, and enslaved the native populations, and created a society of unequals which eventually became unsustainable and fomented revolutions. It took about 300 years before the boiling point was reached. The colonies have sequentially achieved self rule in various forms, from dictatorships, military governments, democracy, communism, beginning in the 19th century. The English colony in North America had a different experience. It had its revolution in its infancy as a colony, and became a nation ahead of all the other colonies of other European powers. However it was a revolt of the colonizers against their own people who ruled from the mother country. It did not include the native inhabitants, the Indians and the African slaves. The colony became the United States by conquering the Indian nation and continuing the enslavement of Africans and foraging into war with Spain and claiming its territories. That’s how the Philippines became a US possession after the Spanish-American War. The United States had become a colonizer, and ruled its subjects like it was ruled in the beginning, unequally. Like the other New World colonies, these subjugated peoples did not achieve equality legally until the 19th century. Inequality is still practiced, and prejudice is alive, but the protection of the law exists, and in the polls, is the reckoning.
Monday, September 17, 2012
My Way
My Way
Walking the Camino Santiago de Compostela (8/2-8/23, 2012)
I’m afraid I didn’t achieve the spiritual awakening that I was supposed to experience doing the Camino Santiago de Compostela, of The Way fame in the USA, after the Emilio Estevez movie with Martin Sheen. I’d been planning this since I learned about the pilgrimage from my Spanish colleagues in the immersion Spanish program I volunteered for as an English speaker, Pueblo Ingles, in Alberca, in 2008.This and a 2-month exploration of Spain's and Italy's Mediterrenean coast kicked off my retirement celebration and traveling spree . However, my traveling schedule prevented me from making this trip, bypassing 2 opportunities to join friends in the endeavor. I then made it top scheduling priority when I hit upon the idea of celebrating my 70th birthday in a different way. I planned to do the entire Camino Frances, the 800 km ancient pilgrimage route from St Jean Pied de Port in France, to Santiago in Galicia and arrive in Santiago on my birthday August 25.
With other travel dates already booked, I didn’t have enough time to reach Santiago on August 25 so I said it doesn’t matter where I am in the camino on my birthday so long as I’m on it. I set my date with 10 days allowance for sightseeing and rest days, from the recommended 33 days. After googling blogs and forums and websites about the camino I decided to do the entire French route alone, rather than what my friends did, which was to walk with a group and do only the last 100 km from Sarria, the minimum distance required to earn a certificate of completion or compostela. http://www.santiago-compostela.net/
After 3 days in Paris, I took the TGV from Montparnasse to Bayonne then a local train to St Jean Pied de Port in the French Basque, and registered on August 2 for my credential, the passport which will be stamped officially along the route to document my pilgrimage and qualify me to be awarded a compostela when I reach Santiago. The local train was filled by peregrinos and there was excitement and spontaneous camaraderie. There were many languages spoken but somehow we understood one another with body language and varying skill level with English. On this train were young people from Turin, Barcelona, Seville, Salamanca, Murcia, England, Germany, a father-son duo from South Korea, and a young lady from Austria with whom I kind of bonded immediately. She just graduated from college, and had never been away from home and she wanted to do the Camino to challenge herself. She was doing the whole French route solo and I encountered her again on the road then got texts from her along the way. I stayed in a B&B that first night, recommended by my registrant, and it was here when I sensed that things will not always be the high minded and uplifting experience that many said walking the camino will be.
My landlady was from hell! The other pilgrims( regardless of your purpose, everyone is a pilgrim in the camino) in her house were closer to my age than the kids I met on the train, but she treated us like we were juveniles. We had to do exactly as she says, conveying this with excited gestures and commanding tone which we hardly understood because she spoke French basque and didn’t understand any English. We had to take off our shoes at the landing, pay her, and told us we had to return by 10 pm because the doors will be locked after that. As she announced that breakfast will be be at 6:30 am and that we had to be out by 8, I was up at 6 Am to get ready. I was at the dining room at 6:30 but the whole house was dark. I flipped the light switches on and looked for her to see what’s up. She came out of her bedroom all growling and eyes flashing at me for creating what I interpreted as a racket and waking her up. She postponed breakfast to 7 AM but didn’t allow me to eat until I got all my gear down and have them ready by the landing. She wanted all of us to be on our way after our coffee and toast and forbade us to return to our bedrooms. And all throughout breakfast she was gesturing to the others about my transgressions. I reminded myself I was a pilgrim and just signaled I was sorry and said goodbye and thanked her.
I got lost in the Pyrenees. After Orisson, the halfway rest stop for lunch, I was falling behind and found myself walking alone. From Orisson, I estimated I had 14 km to Roncesvalles, and I had walked almost 10 km and no one had appeared to overtake me on the road. My back pack was getting heavy and it was late in the afternoon. I knew then I was off course but I concluded I must be on the main road to Roncesvalles instead of the walking path, so I continued hoping to get a road or directional sign or to ask someone. But no one came along and I got from the open road with farms alongside into a hilly beech woodland, then emerged into an open landscape of smooth white boulders, where I hoped Roncesvalles would be. I then found a Camino directional sign pointing in the opposite direction to where I came from and I couldn’t bear the fact that I may have to walk back 14 km to Orisson. I had walked 8 hours in mountain terrain with a backpack and I was exhausted. I remember having a phone number for the tourist information in Roncesvalles and thankfully there was a cellular signal so I called and what a relief when someone live answered and could speak a little English. She was so helpful and was able to figure out where I was when I described the landscape. She got so concerned and said she’ll send the red truck to pick me up, meaning the fire truck. I was horrified and told her just to send a taxi. It took over an hour for the taxi to arrive and the sun was setting and it was getting chilly, but I had everything in my backpack including a sleeping bag, and I had half a sandwich left over from lunch and plenty of water, and there was no one around so I made the open landscape my comfort room and waited.
All’s well that ends well. Stage 2 was arduous, mostly downhill, with some segments very steep and the path was uneven with sharp edged rock outcrops and paving of loose irregular sized stones than can get slippery. My backpack was almost 20 lbs after packing water, 10 lbs over the recommended weight, and I have bruises on my arms from improper hoisting technique, and my left foot is blistering from the forward push on the toes of the downhill slope. I had to stop numerous times to rest my knees, and nurse my blister and I’m telling myself there’s no way I can walk all the 27.4 km to Larrasoana in this state. AlI I could think of at that time was putting one foot in front of the other and avoiding pain. I was going to have a rendezvous with Aritz in Pamplona for the weekend, and he already booked 2 nights in a hotel for me as I wanted to explore Pamplona and the extra rest day will give my blister time to heal. As soon as I completed the steep descent into Zubiri, a small village on the banks of Rio Arga, I called him to pick me up there instead of Larrasoana, still 5.5 km away.
Aritz was an exchange student who stayed with us 20 years ago when Doobie was in high school. He lives in Bilbao, and we’re both excited to see each other. He brought along his delightful 9-year-old daughter to meet me. Pamplona is on the literary map because of Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises, and made Sanfermines, the weeklong fiesta celebrated on July 6-14 with the running of the bulls, popular among foreigners. He is big here with a Paseo Hemingway and a statue in the Plaza de Toros. Aritz is Basque, and it was special to have a knowledgable guide. We took a 42 km side trip south of Pamplona to the preserved medieval town of Olite, a national monument. Gastronomy starts in this region rich in fresh products and shares wine production with the neighboring La Rioja. We indulged in tapas in the medieval square and a superb lunch in the Parador, the renovated old palace, and in the evening we did dinner the Spanish way, very late and preceded by bar hopping for tapas and wine. Grilled chuleta de ternera, braised white asparagus, Navarre potatoes, and a salad of mixed garden vegetables were all from the region and full of natural flavors.
After this indulgence I was back on the road. My blister has healed, and I relented and engaged a mochila (rucksack) transport service. A good decision since the path to Puente La Reina climbs steeply on a ridge up to the wind turbines then to the summit of Alto del Perdon, where there is a bronze memorial to pilgrims, before descending on rough loose stone path to cross the Romanesque bridge over the Rio Arga, the Puente La Reina. Stage 5 to Estella is peaceful, walking over natural paths on gently rolling farmlands and vineyards. And when we arrived in the town, they were on the 4th day of a weeklong fiesta. Everyone is costumed in white with red kerchief, and the squares were spilling over with partying locals, eating,drinking, singing and dancing on the streets. In the main square there was a stage and a live band performing, in another children’s games are organized, a parade would burst out every so often, there was a wall of chicken being roasted on stacked rotisseries, that can only be purchased as whole chicken, but the tables are communal and was a perfect opportunity to join the locals. The revelry went on all night and my hotel was right on the square, so I couldn’t sleep. When at last sleep was possible after the music stopped at 4 am I was awakened at 5 am by the rumble of garbage trucks. So I started later than usual, which was lucky because they were running the bulls that morning. After missing this spectacle in Pamplona I got a feel for what it would have been like here. We were all excited to set out for Los Arcos from Estella today because we’ve heard about the fountains of wine along the way. And it’s true, the wine was free flowing from the spigots of Bodega Irache side by side with the water fountains. The Way after this was over open farmlands, spread out on gently rolling hills, but with very little shade, and it was hot.
I wanted to experience communal accommodations, and to see for myself what the community of pilgrims was like kicking their boots off at the end of a long day. The albergues or refugios can be booked only by those holding a credential or pilgrim passport and this is stamped with an official seal at every stop. For EU 8-12 you can get a bed space in dormitories for 4-10 individuals with shared segregated bathrooms. Some allows you to reserve a private room, which I did, but its a nuisance to get dressed just to go to the bathroom. The kids have more energy and they socialize in the common areas, playing cards, checking their hand held devices, watching sports, doing laundry, or chitchatting, which none of these interests me. Some are reading or updating their journals. I’m tired and like me, the other older pilgrims just eat dinner and crash. After this experiment I decided I will book the most desirable accommodations in the area, and whenever there is a Parador I used it especially after I learned that pilgrims can get as much as 40% discount.
Stage 7 from Los Arcos to Logronio is long , 28.8 km and over open farmlands with very little shade, and when I found out there’s a bus leaving for Logronio that afternoon I decided to be on it. I spent the day sitting in outdoor cafes watching locals come and go, and watching children play, I explored the narrow cobbled streets, and sat in the shade in the park occupied mostly by town elders socializing, playing cards, reading the paper, I visited the church, where old women were occupied with chores helping the parish, cleaning, straightening the altar, preparing pamphlets. The small towns on the camino, there was one with a population of 50, are surviving because of the pilgrims business, and those not in its path are dying, and the population in these places is old, and stooped from osteoporosis, men and women alike. But its amazing that their medieval villages are intact and they’re still living in dwellings that their ancestors occupied. One thing one can’t miss is the presence of the church, the most impressive structure in any locality, and how religious rituals still govern the fabric of life.
I left Navarre after Los Arcos for Logronio, the capital of La Rioja, the province whose name is the wine itself. Aritz joined me again to take me on a tour of its spectacular bodegas. Marques de Riscal’s bodega was designed by Frank Gehry, of Bilbao’s Guggenheim, and Bodegas Ysios, by Calatrava, sits low on the plain, with undulating roof line that traces the silhouette of the Cantabrian mountains behind it. Alas Bodegas Antion, architecturally impressive with subterranean spaces, golden hued, and blending into the landscape, was caught in the clutches of the economic collapse, abandoned with 30M Euro debt. In Haro, the wine capital, there are hundreds of bodegas and its old town square is lined with tapas bars and wine cellars, offering wine tasting. In the area, Aritz’s great grandfather had a winery and his grandmother inherited part of it, but at that time wine production was not the industry it is now, so she did not hold on to her share. Now Solabal, that winery is a thriving award winning business run by his uncles. We stopped by for Aritz to collect his father’s month’s supply and some for his own and had a private tour and wine tasting with his uncle. I had the most memorable food and wine experience in Logronio. In the narrow streets of Calle Laurel and Calle San Juan, just steps away from my hotel, are wall to wall tapas bars and every evening especially on weekends, the street is packed with the whole world going bar hopping for the most imaginative, unique and delicious pinchos (tapas) and special wine pairings. It was obvious to me quickly that this activity is best enjoyed with a group, so more tapas can be shared and tasted, just like a dimsum outing. Still, I hopped until I dropped. La Rioja breathes food and wine in its pores. It is designated Spain’s Gastronomy Capital for 2012. The tapas chef near my hotel recommended this young chef’s restaurant, Marinee, and Idor, the chef came out to describe personally what’s in this sauce that’s so intriguing and I can’t quite place. I had pork loin with sauce and topping of techno mixed coffee grounds, candied apple, mushroom, almonds. Wow, it just popped my taste buds. He only serves the chef tasting menu, and it changes daily, but you can’t go wrong, and the price is right.
After arriving in Logronio on a bus, I embraced the idea that I can skip walking some stages, and that way I can make it to Santiago on my birthday as I originally planned. Now this pilgrimage is really shaping up to be My Way. Instead of proceeding to Najera, Stage 8, I took a detour and asked Aritz to drop me off at San Millan de la Cogolla, to visit the monasteries of Suso and Yuso, a World Heritage site, believed to be dating back to the 6th century, the oldest monastic community in Europe. In Suso, with Visigothic, Mozarabe, and Romanesque characteristics, an anonymous monk first wrote down the Spanish language, Castellano, and later embellished by the poet monk Gonzalo Berceo. I thought this was profound. After Mandarin and Hindi, Spanish is the 3rd widely spoken language in the world in terms of native speakers, and English is 4th though it has the most global influence. I am determined more than ever after this to be serious in learning to speak Spanish. I stayed for the night in the luxurious Hospederia de San Millan, the converted monastery, and next day googled the detour route along the main road to join the camino again in Santo Domingo de la Calzada. On a picturesque stretch of sweeping and gently rolling checkered landscape of vineyards, sunflowers, and golden wheat, an old man walking to the next village stopped to chat asking me where I was from, and telling me stories about the camino, and assuring me I was in the right direction. Saint Dominic of the Road is important for the camino because he dedicated himself to mapping out the routes and building the roads and bridges of the pilgrimage that we walk today. The medieval town is home to his Miracle of the Cock, its souvenir shops hawks various renderings of this rooster and in the cathedral there is a stone chicken coop with a live chicken and rooster in it! “Santo Domingo de la Calzada, where the chicken sang after it had been roasted.”
I skipped Stage 10-11 as the route to Belorado, in Castilla Y Leon follows the main road and offered little shade and although it’s befitting to arrive in Burgos on a horse, it is after all the land of El Cid, I took the bus instead. This medieval World Heritage city is filled with architectural jewels starting with its breathtaking Gothic Catedral de Santa Maria, the 2nd largest in Spain after Seville, and houses a wealth of art treasures and artifacts. I stayed 2 nights so I can take a side trip to Atapuerca, the excavation site of the Homo Antecessor, believed to be the oldest human species found in Europe. There is ongoing archaeological research in the area. From Burgos the camino enters the Meseta, the long stretch of the Spanish heartland, high plains rimmed by mountains, passing through the provinces of Burgos, Palencia and Leon in Castilla-León, and includes Castilla-La Mancha, Extremadura, and chunks of Aragón and La Rioja.The people of the Meseta are said to be ascetic and courageous, with a touch of the visionary or mystical or madness which inspired Cervantes in Don Quixote, and shaped the likes of El Cid, and the Saints and Mystics from the realm. Stage 15, from Castrojeriz in Burgos to Fromista, the camino entered Palencia, called Tierra de Campos (Land of Fields). Climbing out of Castrojeriz we traveled on an old Roman road and crossed the boundary at Rio Pisuerga, on the medieval arched bridge, Puente de Itero. There is a delightful rest stop just before crossing the bridge, in the 15th century Ermita de San Nicolas, converted into a hostel, and run by an Italian confraternity without electricity and phones, but with modern bath and toilets in a rear building. There are only 12 bed spaces, with breakfast and dinner served in candlelight.
The Meseta in summer is a dune-like golden landscape of crew cut shaved wheat fields meeting the horizon, under a clear shimmering blue sky, sublime but feels like eternity to cross on foot. It offers no shade, its tiny villages are scattered far in between, it is silent with only the chirping birds and the buzz of the heat for company. Being Filipino, I know about using umbrellas in the sun. Seeing me inspired some peregrinos to buy one in the next town. It takes 10 days to cover the distance from Burgos to Astorga. After Fromista, I walked away from the sublime and jumped into a bus to Leon, bypassing Stages 16-20.
It takes some skill and asking around to travel on regional buses in Spain, between these tiny and remote villages. No single bus line offers service and you have to know which bus companies stops at your destination and some villages have no direct service , so you have to know the connecting bus lines. To Leon you have to take a connecting bus from Fromista to Carrion de los Condes, which only has one weekly service. How lucky can I be that the bus was scheduled to run that day? Otherwise it is a days walk, 20.5 km. So I am in Carrion waiting for the afternoon bus to Leon and have time to kill. I was wandering around the meandering narrow cobbled streets of this medieval village when I came upon a plaque marking the birth home of Miguel de Benavides y Añoza (c. 1552 – July 26, 1605) a Spanish clergyman and sinologist, the first Bishop of the Diocese of Nueva Segovia, the third Archbishop of the Archdiocese of Manila, and founder of the University of Santo Tomas in Manila.[1] Serendipity indeed! I am to find these connections in other places as well, especially in Galicia, and in the Basque country, where many Spanish sailors and adventurers and clergy sailed for Islas Filipinas in search of fortunes , souls to save and fame during the colonial years.
Leon is a bustling metropolis that combines the old city with the modern seamlessly. It is not wanting in possessing all the magnificent artistic and architectural legacy of its long storied past with the Visigoths, the Romans, the Moors, and finally the Reconquista. Gaudi built a neo-Gothic palace here, Casa de Botines, which was a turning point in architectural practice, the first monumental edifice constructed with secular, private funds, rather than with religious or aristocratic patronage. The city’s museum of contemporary art, MUSAC is housed in an avant garde building and was holding an exposition on Spanish Femenismo when I visited. I stayed in the luxurious Parador San Marcos*****, a former monastery and cloisters, a Renaissance masterpiece with a sumptuous Plateresque facade. The Rio Bernesga spanned by its 16th century stone bridge can be viewed from its windows. The river is a center for recreation among the Leonese, with picnickers along its banks, strollers on the promenade along its length, anglers and colorful kayaks in the water. I have decided to be in Santiago for my birthday so I fast-forwarded to Astorga on a bus and skipped Stage 21-22.
Astorga is still rimmed by a medieval wall and sitting on a ridge, it has spectacular views of the surrounding countryside. That weekend is pre-fiesta preparation for the weeklong celebration of Festividad de Santa Marta, held on the last week of August, and there were many events scheduled. Alas, Peter Blanchette, who was to appear at the Museo Romana de la Ergastula, was a no show for his baroque concert. Over 30 people were disappointed. However, Astorga is the chocolate capital, they even have a Museo de Chocolate, so it was easy to get over the disappointment. I stayed in the Hotel Gaudi, in the shadow of the spectacular Gaudi Bishop Palace, which does not house any bishop, but the fascinating Museo de los Caminos. Dinner was the local specialty, Cocido Maragato . The Maragato tribe’s numbers are dwindling but this dish will live forever, a hearty thick soup of garbanzos, cabbage, potatoes and 7 kinds of meats to include chorizo, Iberian pig’s snout and ears, shoulder, chicken, smoked meat, beef meat or chops, served separately, starting with the meats, and finishing with soup.
After Astorga, the camino begins to climb the mountains through the pass of Irago to its highest point at Cruz de Ferro, 4934 ft above sea level. I regret bypassing this segment because I had wanted to place stones at the foot of this ancient iron cross, to participate in the symbolic pilgrim ritual of the camino. However the route is described as arduous and demands your full concentration and the descent steep and dangerous with many pilgrim injuries reported. Moreover the way marks are said to be inconsistent and the weather unpredictable. And heading into Galicia into O’Cebreiro the climb is even steeper and arduous, the small villages in the mountains are just being reawakened to life by the resurgence of the camino, so facilities for pilgrims are still sparse. I learned you can get to Sarria by train, so I made my decision. Remembering that I got lost in the Pyrenees, I’m inclined not to test my luck so soon. To be awarded a compostela it is compulsory to walk the last 100 km from Sarria to Santiago on the French route. It doesn’t count if you have walked over 100 km before. I have walked 165.7 km at this point. I figured if I start on August 19 in Sarria, I will have plenty of time with allowance for flexibility, to walk the 5 stages of this segment and reach Santiago by August 25. I missed the first train to Sarria, the direct run, due to language handicap on both myself and the train master, but not a problem. The next and last train out of the station would be 3 hours later which will give me time for a leisurely lunch, but there’s a transfer in Monforte de Lemos. The train master, was very clear this time and even endorsed me to the train conductor, instructing him about walking me through the process to be sure I transfer on the right train. I had further guidance from the crowd, which transferred en masse for the same journey.
The Sarria segment is a very different camino from the one that I started in St Jean Pied de Port. The town is terribly crowded with tourists and pilgrims, and backpackers. Some locals may have exhausted their hospitality with the nonstop daily arrival of pilgrims, that’s maybe why I got a rude waving of the hands away when I tried to ask for directions to the Pilgrim Office. Some estimates that around 2000 pilgrims arrive in Santiago daily during the peak months of summer, and many of these start in Sarria, to satisfy the requisite 100 km for a compostela. There were 183,366 pilgrims last year and during a Holy Year, when Saint James’ feast on July 25 falls on a Sunday, the last was in 2010, the number doubles. The next Holy Years are 2021, 2027. There are big groups doing the camino from Sarria, something I never saw from St Jean. These are tourist groups, church groups, charity fundraising groups, youth groups, family reunions, organization groups, and a mass of young backpacker types walking alone or with a group of friends. The organized groups wear matching T-shirts, or hats, and carry very light day packs as many have transportation supports which ferry their luggage. They are non-stop talking and socializing among themselves, and at times crowd you off the path or laugh loud that I felt intruded upon. Gone is the camaraderie and fellowship between strangers who connect while engaged in mutual pursuits. The groups give a feeling of excluding those who are not members. Meanwhile, the young backpackers seem to be in a hot race to Santiago. And in the rest stops, these big groups occupy the place and inundate service staff, displacing the lone walker. But it appears everyone is having a good time and I decided to take the initiative and get to know what they are about. So maybe the camino did something for me despite my aloofness to its deeper tradition. My initial disapproval quickly dissipated, I did not get pissed off as I would normally respond and did not give others what I think they deserve. I was Ok with the idea that the camino is for everyone, for whatever reason one decides, and for whatever purpose one chooses, the camino is a unique and amazing experience. The Sarria segment maybe a different camino, but it doesn’t make it the wrong camino. But make no mistake, the physical aspect of this segment is a romp in the park as compared to St Jean.
The walk is easy and the Galician countryside is a refreshing green landscape of rolling hills, farms and pastures and the mostly natural paths are in shaded woodland, tree-lined roads or under stands of eucalyptus. I reached Santiago on the 23rd in the early afternoon. Most started in the dark, trying to reach the cathedral by 12 noon for the pilgrim mass and walked at a furious pace. They come up from behind you with the sound of pounding boots as if a stampede is approaching. Five km to Santiago we climbed the hilltop at Monte de Gozo, where pilgrims since medieval times first had a glimpse of the spires of the Cathedral in the distance, and exulted with gratitude and joy. The excitement was palpable. I held the view in silence to contemplate the enormity of this. But there is still distance to cover to reach the cathedral square, and it seemed forever slogging through the outskirts of the city on concrete pavement, and cris-crossing with busy traffic until I reached Puerta do Camino, the gateway to the medieval city. I was really excited to see the cathedral at this point, but it was elusive. As enormous as it is you can’t see it on approach until you run right smack into it. But there are signs that I’m getting closer. The crowd on squares start to swell, entertained by street performers.There’s a string quartet playing Mozart, a couple doing a tumbling and juggling act, a bag pipe player, costumed living statues. Then after descending a narrow and deep staircase tunnel, it opened into an expansive square and there it is, the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela! Parador de los Reyes Catolicos, where I will be staying for the next 3 days, is right next to the Cathedral. On the square, Plaza Obradoiro, is the whole world. There is a procession and chanting of saffron clad Hare Khrishnas, there are souvenir stands, pilgrims sprawled on the cobbled floor, tourists taking pictures, costumed medieval pilgrim pretenders, a long line at the cathedral steps. I decided to check in first at my hotel and freshen up. Before I could unpack a dozen red roses arrived, from my sister Nancy, for my 70th birthday. How special!
Rested and showered, I set about to execute the pilgrim rituals. The Portico de Gloria and the Tree of Jesse is encased in scaffolding for restoration work, so I entered from a side door, but I could peek to see the kneeling figure of Maestro Mateo in the back of the column but I couldn’t touch my brow to his, and could only take a picture. I went to the High Altar to ascend to the statue of St James and touched his back and thanked him for my safe arrival and to bless all my loved ones. I went down to his crypt and paid my respects. I stayed for the 4 PM Pilgrim mass to complete the ceremonial acts. One of the unique experience here is to witness the Botafumeiro, the swinging of the giant incense burner. It is no longer done regularly during the pilgrim mass because it requires at least 8 attendants or tiraboleiros to control the path of the burner as it is swung across the aisle of the transept and it is expensive costing at least 250 EU. It is now only done on important holidays or when there is a request accompanied by a donation. Before I took my leave of Santiago, I returned to the Cathedral for the 12 noon Pilgrim mass hoping to see the Botafumeiro lighted, and I was not disappointed. To complete my camino ritual, I went to Finisterre on my birthday and returned unscathed from the edge of the earth. Meanwhile in a distant cosmos, far, far away, Voyager 1 is nearing the edge of the solar system after 35 years of space travel.
I may return to walk the the segments I skipped, doing them in several stages, then when I’ve done all, repeat the last 100 km for another Compostela, maybe on my 80th birthday!
I’m afraid I didn’t achieve the spiritual awakening that I was supposed to experience doing the Camino Santiago de Compostela, of The Way fame in the USA, after the Emilio Estevez movie with Martin Sheen. I’d been planning this since I learned about the pilgrimage from my Spanish colleagues in the immersion Spanish program I volunteered for as an English speaker, Pueblo Ingles, in Alberca, in 2008.This and a 2-month exploration of Spain's and Italy's Mediterrenean coast kicked off my retirement celebration and traveling spree . However, my traveling schedule prevented me from making this trip, bypassing 2 opportunities to join friends in the endeavor. I then made it top scheduling priority when I hit upon the idea of celebrating my 70th birthday in a different way. I planned to do the entire Camino Frances, the 800 km ancient pilgrimage route from St Jean Pied de Port in France, to Santiago in Galicia and arrive in Santiago on my birthday August 25.
With other travel dates already booked, I didn’t have enough time to reach Santiago on August 25 so I said it doesn’t matter where I am in the camino on my birthday so long as I’m on it. I set my date with 10 days allowance for sightseeing and rest days, from the recommended 33 days. After googling blogs and forums and websites about the camino I decided to do the entire French route alone, rather than what my friends did, which was to walk with a group and do only the last 100 km from Sarria, the minimum distance required to earn a certificate of completion or compostela. http://www.santiago-compostela.net/
After 3 days in Paris, I took the TGV from Montparnasse to Bayonne then a local train to St Jean Pied de Port in the French Basque, and registered on August 2 for my credential, the passport which will be stamped officially along the route to document my pilgrimage and qualify me to be awarded a compostela when I reach Santiago. The local train was filled by peregrinos and there was excitement and spontaneous camaraderie. There were many languages spoken but somehow we understood one another with body language and varying skill level with English. On this train were young people from Turin, Barcelona, Seville, Salamanca, Murcia, England, Germany, a father-son duo from South Korea, and a young lady from Austria with whom I kind of bonded immediately. She just graduated from college, and had never been away from home and she wanted to do the Camino to challenge herself. She was doing the whole French route solo and I encountered her again on the road then got texts from her along the way. I stayed in a B&B that first night, recommended by my registrant, and it was here when I sensed that things will not always be the high minded and uplifting experience that many said walking the camino will be.
My landlady was from hell! The other pilgrims( regardless of your purpose, everyone is a pilgrim in the camino) in her house were closer to my age than the kids I met on the train, but she treated us like we were juveniles. We had to do exactly as she says, conveying this with excited gestures and commanding tone which we hardly understood because she spoke French basque and didn’t understand any English. We had to take off our shoes at the landing, pay her, and told us we had to return by 10 pm because the doors will be locked after that. As she announced that breakfast will be be at 6:30 am and that we had to be out by 8, I was up at 6 Am to get ready. I was at the dining room at 6:30 but the whole house was dark. I flipped the light switches on and looked for her to see what’s up. She came out of her bedroom all growling and eyes flashing at me for creating what I interpreted as a racket and waking her up. She postponed breakfast to 7 AM but didn’t allow me to eat until I got all my gear down and have them ready by the landing. She wanted all of us to be on our way after our coffee and toast and forbade us to return to our bedrooms. And all throughout breakfast she was gesturing to the others about my transgressions. I reminded myself I was a pilgrim and just signaled I was sorry and said goodbye and thanked her.
I got lost in the Pyrenees. After Orisson, the halfway rest stop for lunch, I was falling behind and found myself walking alone. From Orisson, I estimated I had 14 km to Roncesvalles, and I had walked almost 10 km and no one had appeared to overtake me on the road. My back pack was getting heavy and it was late in the afternoon. I knew then I was off course but I concluded I must be on the main road to Roncesvalles instead of the walking path, so I continued hoping to get a road or directional sign or to ask someone. But no one came along and I got from the open road with farms alongside into a hilly beech woodland, then emerged into an open landscape of smooth white boulders, where I hoped Roncesvalles would be. I then found a Camino directional sign pointing in the opposite direction to where I came from and I couldn’t bear the fact that I may have to walk back 14 km to Orisson. I had walked 8 hours in mountain terrain with a backpack and I was exhausted. I remember having a phone number for the tourist information in Roncesvalles and thankfully there was a cellular signal so I called and what a relief when someone live answered and could speak a little English. She was so helpful and was able to figure out where I was when I described the landscape. She got so concerned and said she’ll send the red truck to pick me up, meaning the fire truck. I was horrified and told her just to send a taxi. It took over an hour for the taxi to arrive and the sun was setting and it was getting chilly, but I had everything in my backpack including a sleeping bag, and I had half a sandwich left over from lunch and plenty of water, and there was no one around so I made the open landscape my comfort room and waited.
All’s well that ends well. Stage 2 was arduous, mostly downhill, with some segments very steep and the path was uneven with sharp edged rock outcrops and paving of loose irregular sized stones than can get slippery. My backpack was almost 20 lbs after packing water, 10 lbs over the recommended weight, and I have bruises on my arms from improper hoisting technique, and my left foot is blistering from the forward push on the toes of the downhill slope. I had to stop numerous times to rest my knees, and nurse my blister and I’m telling myself there’s no way I can walk all the 27.4 km to Larrasoana in this state. AlI I could think of at that time was putting one foot in front of the other and avoiding pain. I was going to have a rendezvous with Aritz in Pamplona for the weekend, and he already booked 2 nights in a hotel for me as I wanted to explore Pamplona and the extra rest day will give my blister time to heal. As soon as I completed the steep descent into Zubiri, a small village on the banks of Rio Arga, I called him to pick me up there instead of Larrasoana, still 5.5 km away.
Aritz was an exchange student who stayed with us 20 years ago when Doobie was in high school. He lives in Bilbao, and we’re both excited to see each other. He brought along his delightful 9-year-old daughter to meet me. Pamplona is on the literary map because of Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises, and made Sanfermines, the weeklong fiesta celebrated on July 6-14 with the running of the bulls, popular among foreigners. He is big here with a Paseo Hemingway and a statue in the Plaza de Toros. Aritz is Basque, and it was special to have a knowledgable guide. We took a 42 km side trip south of Pamplona to the preserved medieval town of Olite, a national monument. Gastronomy starts in this region rich in fresh products and shares wine production with the neighboring La Rioja. We indulged in tapas in the medieval square and a superb lunch in the Parador, the renovated old palace, and in the evening we did dinner the Spanish way, very late and preceded by bar hopping for tapas and wine. Grilled chuleta de ternera, braised white asparagus, Navarre potatoes, and a salad of mixed garden vegetables were all from the region and full of natural flavors.
After this indulgence I was back on the road. My blister has healed, and I relented and engaged a mochila (rucksack) transport service. A good decision since the path to Puente La Reina climbs steeply on a ridge up to the wind turbines then to the summit of Alto del Perdon, where there is a bronze memorial to pilgrims, before descending on rough loose stone path to cross the Romanesque bridge over the Rio Arga, the Puente La Reina. Stage 5 to Estella is peaceful, walking over natural paths on gently rolling farmlands and vineyards. And when we arrived in the town, they were on the 4th day of a weeklong fiesta. Everyone is costumed in white with red kerchief, and the squares were spilling over with partying locals, eating,drinking, singing and dancing on the streets. In the main square there was a stage and a live band performing, in another children’s games are organized, a parade would burst out every so often, there was a wall of chicken being roasted on stacked rotisseries, that can only be purchased as whole chicken, but the tables are communal and was a perfect opportunity to join the locals. The revelry went on all night and my hotel was right on the square, so I couldn’t sleep. When at last sleep was possible after the music stopped at 4 am I was awakened at 5 am by the rumble of garbage trucks. So I started later than usual, which was lucky because they were running the bulls that morning. After missing this spectacle in Pamplona I got a feel for what it would have been like here. We were all excited to set out for Los Arcos from Estella today because we’ve heard about the fountains of wine along the way. And it’s true, the wine was free flowing from the spigots of Bodega Irache side by side with the water fountains. The Way after this was over open farmlands, spread out on gently rolling hills, but with very little shade, and it was hot.
I wanted to experience communal accommodations, and to see for myself what the community of pilgrims was like kicking their boots off at the end of a long day. The albergues or refugios can be booked only by those holding a credential or pilgrim passport and this is stamped with an official seal at every stop. For EU 8-12 you can get a bed space in dormitories for 4-10 individuals with shared segregated bathrooms. Some allows you to reserve a private room, which I did, but its a nuisance to get dressed just to go to the bathroom. The kids have more energy and they socialize in the common areas, playing cards, checking their hand held devices, watching sports, doing laundry, or chitchatting, which none of these interests me. Some are reading or updating their journals. I’m tired and like me, the other older pilgrims just eat dinner and crash. After this experiment I decided I will book the most desirable accommodations in the area, and whenever there is a Parador I used it especially after I learned that pilgrims can get as much as 40% discount.
Stage 7 from Los Arcos to Logronio is long , 28.8 km and over open farmlands with very little shade, and when I found out there’s a bus leaving for Logronio that afternoon I decided to be on it. I spent the day sitting in outdoor cafes watching locals come and go, and watching children play, I explored the narrow cobbled streets, and sat in the shade in the park occupied mostly by town elders socializing, playing cards, reading the paper, I visited the church, where old women were occupied with chores helping the parish, cleaning, straightening the altar, preparing pamphlets. The small towns on the camino, there was one with a population of 50, are surviving because of the pilgrims business, and those not in its path are dying, and the population in these places is old, and stooped from osteoporosis, men and women alike. But its amazing that their medieval villages are intact and they’re still living in dwellings that their ancestors occupied. One thing one can’t miss is the presence of the church, the most impressive structure in any locality, and how religious rituals still govern the fabric of life.
I left Navarre after Los Arcos for Logronio, the capital of La Rioja, the province whose name is the wine itself. Aritz joined me again to take me on a tour of its spectacular bodegas. Marques de Riscal’s bodega was designed by Frank Gehry, of Bilbao’s Guggenheim, and Bodegas Ysios, by Calatrava, sits low on the plain, with undulating roof line that traces the silhouette of the Cantabrian mountains behind it. Alas Bodegas Antion, architecturally impressive with subterranean spaces, golden hued, and blending into the landscape, was caught in the clutches of the economic collapse, abandoned with 30M Euro debt. In Haro, the wine capital, there are hundreds of bodegas and its old town square is lined with tapas bars and wine cellars, offering wine tasting. In the area, Aritz’s great grandfather had a winery and his grandmother inherited part of it, but at that time wine production was not the industry it is now, so she did not hold on to her share. Now Solabal, that winery is a thriving award winning business run by his uncles. We stopped by for Aritz to collect his father’s month’s supply and some for his own and had a private tour and wine tasting with his uncle. I had the most memorable food and wine experience in Logronio. In the narrow streets of Calle Laurel and Calle San Juan, just steps away from my hotel, are wall to wall tapas bars and every evening especially on weekends, the street is packed with the whole world going bar hopping for the most imaginative, unique and delicious pinchos (tapas) and special wine pairings. It was obvious to me quickly that this activity is best enjoyed with a group, so more tapas can be shared and tasted, just like a dimsum outing. Still, I hopped until I dropped. La Rioja breathes food and wine in its pores. It is designated Spain’s Gastronomy Capital for 2012. The tapas chef near my hotel recommended this young chef’s restaurant, Marinee, and Idor, the chef came out to describe personally what’s in this sauce that’s so intriguing and I can’t quite place. I had pork loin with sauce and topping of techno mixed coffee grounds, candied apple, mushroom, almonds. Wow, it just popped my taste buds. He only serves the chef tasting menu, and it changes daily, but you can’t go wrong, and the price is right.
After arriving in Logronio on a bus, I embraced the idea that I can skip walking some stages, and that way I can make it to Santiago on my birthday as I originally planned. Now this pilgrimage is really shaping up to be My Way. Instead of proceeding to Najera, Stage 8, I took a detour and asked Aritz to drop me off at San Millan de la Cogolla, to visit the monasteries of Suso and Yuso, a World Heritage site, believed to be dating back to the 6th century, the oldest monastic community in Europe. In Suso, with Visigothic, Mozarabe, and Romanesque characteristics, an anonymous monk first wrote down the Spanish language, Castellano, and later embellished by the poet monk Gonzalo Berceo. I thought this was profound. After Mandarin and Hindi, Spanish is the 3rd widely spoken language in the world in terms of native speakers, and English is 4th though it has the most global influence. I am determined more than ever after this to be serious in learning to speak Spanish. I stayed for the night in the luxurious Hospederia de San Millan, the converted monastery, and next day googled the detour route along the main road to join the camino again in Santo Domingo de la Calzada. On a picturesque stretch of sweeping and gently rolling checkered landscape of vineyards, sunflowers, and golden wheat, an old man walking to the next village stopped to chat asking me where I was from, and telling me stories about the camino, and assuring me I was in the right direction. Saint Dominic of the Road is important for the camino because he dedicated himself to mapping out the routes and building the roads and bridges of the pilgrimage that we walk today. The medieval town is home to his Miracle of the Cock, its souvenir shops hawks various renderings of this rooster and in the cathedral there is a stone chicken coop with a live chicken and rooster in it! “Santo Domingo de la Calzada, where the chicken sang after it had been roasted.”
I skipped Stage 10-11 as the route to Belorado, in Castilla Y Leon follows the main road and offered little shade and although it’s befitting to arrive in Burgos on a horse, it is after all the land of El Cid, I took the bus instead. This medieval World Heritage city is filled with architectural jewels starting with its breathtaking Gothic Catedral de Santa Maria, the 2nd largest in Spain after Seville, and houses a wealth of art treasures and artifacts. I stayed 2 nights so I can take a side trip to Atapuerca, the excavation site of the Homo Antecessor, believed to be the oldest human species found in Europe. There is ongoing archaeological research in the area. From Burgos the camino enters the Meseta, the long stretch of the Spanish heartland, high plains rimmed by mountains, passing through the provinces of Burgos, Palencia and Leon in Castilla-León, and includes Castilla-La Mancha, Extremadura, and chunks of Aragón and La Rioja.The people of the Meseta are said to be ascetic and courageous, with a touch of the visionary or mystical or madness which inspired Cervantes in Don Quixote, and shaped the likes of El Cid, and the Saints and Mystics from the realm. Stage 15, from Castrojeriz in Burgos to Fromista, the camino entered Palencia, called Tierra de Campos (Land of Fields). Climbing out of Castrojeriz we traveled on an old Roman road and crossed the boundary at Rio Pisuerga, on the medieval arched bridge, Puente de Itero. There is a delightful rest stop just before crossing the bridge, in the 15th century Ermita de San Nicolas, converted into a hostel, and run by an Italian confraternity without electricity and phones, but with modern bath and toilets in a rear building. There are only 12 bed spaces, with breakfast and dinner served in candlelight.
The Meseta in summer is a dune-like golden landscape of crew cut shaved wheat fields meeting the horizon, under a clear shimmering blue sky, sublime but feels like eternity to cross on foot. It offers no shade, its tiny villages are scattered far in between, it is silent with only the chirping birds and the buzz of the heat for company. Being Filipino, I know about using umbrellas in the sun. Seeing me inspired some peregrinos to buy one in the next town. It takes 10 days to cover the distance from Burgos to Astorga. After Fromista, I walked away from the sublime and jumped into a bus to Leon, bypassing Stages 16-20.
It takes some skill and asking around to travel on regional buses in Spain, between these tiny and remote villages. No single bus line offers service and you have to know which bus companies stops at your destination and some villages have no direct service , so you have to know the connecting bus lines. To Leon you have to take a connecting bus from Fromista to Carrion de los Condes, which only has one weekly service. How lucky can I be that the bus was scheduled to run that day? Otherwise it is a days walk, 20.5 km. So I am in Carrion waiting for the afternoon bus to Leon and have time to kill. I was wandering around the meandering narrow cobbled streets of this medieval village when I came upon a plaque marking the birth home of Miguel de Benavides y Añoza (c. 1552 – July 26, 1605) a Spanish clergyman and sinologist, the first Bishop of the Diocese of Nueva Segovia, the third Archbishop of the Archdiocese of Manila, and founder of the University of Santo Tomas in Manila.[1] Serendipity indeed! I am to find these connections in other places as well, especially in Galicia, and in the Basque country, where many Spanish sailors and adventurers and clergy sailed for Islas Filipinas in search of fortunes , souls to save and fame during the colonial years.
Leon is a bustling metropolis that combines the old city with the modern seamlessly. It is not wanting in possessing all the magnificent artistic and architectural legacy of its long storied past with the Visigoths, the Romans, the Moors, and finally the Reconquista. Gaudi built a neo-Gothic palace here, Casa de Botines, which was a turning point in architectural practice, the first monumental edifice constructed with secular, private funds, rather than with religious or aristocratic patronage. The city’s museum of contemporary art, MUSAC is housed in an avant garde building and was holding an exposition on Spanish Femenismo when I visited. I stayed in the luxurious Parador San Marcos*****, a former monastery and cloisters, a Renaissance masterpiece with a sumptuous Plateresque facade. The Rio Bernesga spanned by its 16th century stone bridge can be viewed from its windows. The river is a center for recreation among the Leonese, with picnickers along its banks, strollers on the promenade along its length, anglers and colorful kayaks in the water. I have decided to be in Santiago for my birthday so I fast-forwarded to Astorga on a bus and skipped Stage 21-22.
Astorga is still rimmed by a medieval wall and sitting on a ridge, it has spectacular views of the surrounding countryside. That weekend is pre-fiesta preparation for the weeklong celebration of Festividad de Santa Marta, held on the last week of August, and there were many events scheduled. Alas, Peter Blanchette, who was to appear at the Museo Romana de la Ergastula, was a no show for his baroque concert. Over 30 people were disappointed. However, Astorga is the chocolate capital, they even have a Museo de Chocolate, so it was easy to get over the disappointment. I stayed in the Hotel Gaudi, in the shadow of the spectacular Gaudi Bishop Palace, which does not house any bishop, but the fascinating Museo de los Caminos. Dinner was the local specialty, Cocido Maragato . The Maragato tribe’s numbers are dwindling but this dish will live forever, a hearty thick soup of garbanzos, cabbage, potatoes and 7 kinds of meats to include chorizo, Iberian pig’s snout and ears, shoulder, chicken, smoked meat, beef meat or chops, served separately, starting with the meats, and finishing with soup.
After Astorga, the camino begins to climb the mountains through the pass of Irago to its highest point at Cruz de Ferro, 4934 ft above sea level. I regret bypassing this segment because I had wanted to place stones at the foot of this ancient iron cross, to participate in the symbolic pilgrim ritual of the camino. However the route is described as arduous and demands your full concentration and the descent steep and dangerous with many pilgrim injuries reported. Moreover the way marks are said to be inconsistent and the weather unpredictable. And heading into Galicia into O’Cebreiro the climb is even steeper and arduous, the small villages in the mountains are just being reawakened to life by the resurgence of the camino, so facilities for pilgrims are still sparse. I learned you can get to Sarria by train, so I made my decision. Remembering that I got lost in the Pyrenees, I’m inclined not to test my luck so soon. To be awarded a compostela it is compulsory to walk the last 100 km from Sarria to Santiago on the French route. It doesn’t count if you have walked over 100 km before. I have walked 165.7 km at this point. I figured if I start on August 19 in Sarria, I will have plenty of time with allowance for flexibility, to walk the 5 stages of this segment and reach Santiago by August 25. I missed the first train to Sarria, the direct run, due to language handicap on both myself and the train master, but not a problem. The next and last train out of the station would be 3 hours later which will give me time for a leisurely lunch, but there’s a transfer in Monforte de Lemos. The train master, was very clear this time and even endorsed me to the train conductor, instructing him about walking me through the process to be sure I transfer on the right train. I had further guidance from the crowd, which transferred en masse for the same journey.
The Sarria segment is a very different camino from the one that I started in St Jean Pied de Port. The town is terribly crowded with tourists and pilgrims, and backpackers. Some locals may have exhausted their hospitality with the nonstop daily arrival of pilgrims, that’s maybe why I got a rude waving of the hands away when I tried to ask for directions to the Pilgrim Office. Some estimates that around 2000 pilgrims arrive in Santiago daily during the peak months of summer, and many of these start in Sarria, to satisfy the requisite 100 km for a compostela. There were 183,366 pilgrims last year and during a Holy Year, when Saint James’ feast on July 25 falls on a Sunday, the last was in 2010, the number doubles. The next Holy Years are 2021, 2027. There are big groups doing the camino from Sarria, something I never saw from St Jean. These are tourist groups, church groups, charity fundraising groups, youth groups, family reunions, organization groups, and a mass of young backpacker types walking alone or with a group of friends. The organized groups wear matching T-shirts, or hats, and carry very light day packs as many have transportation supports which ferry their luggage. They are non-stop talking and socializing among themselves, and at times crowd you off the path or laugh loud that I felt intruded upon. Gone is the camaraderie and fellowship between strangers who connect while engaged in mutual pursuits. The groups give a feeling of excluding those who are not members. Meanwhile, the young backpackers seem to be in a hot race to Santiago. And in the rest stops, these big groups occupy the place and inundate service staff, displacing the lone walker. But it appears everyone is having a good time and I decided to take the initiative and get to know what they are about. So maybe the camino did something for me despite my aloofness to its deeper tradition. My initial disapproval quickly dissipated, I did not get pissed off as I would normally respond and did not give others what I think they deserve. I was Ok with the idea that the camino is for everyone, for whatever reason one decides, and for whatever purpose one chooses, the camino is a unique and amazing experience. The Sarria segment maybe a different camino, but it doesn’t make it the wrong camino. But make no mistake, the physical aspect of this segment is a romp in the park as compared to St Jean.
The walk is easy and the Galician countryside is a refreshing green landscape of rolling hills, farms and pastures and the mostly natural paths are in shaded woodland, tree-lined roads or under stands of eucalyptus. I reached Santiago on the 23rd in the early afternoon. Most started in the dark, trying to reach the cathedral by 12 noon for the pilgrim mass and walked at a furious pace. They come up from behind you with the sound of pounding boots as if a stampede is approaching. Five km to Santiago we climbed the hilltop at Monte de Gozo, where pilgrims since medieval times first had a glimpse of the spires of the Cathedral in the distance, and exulted with gratitude and joy. The excitement was palpable. I held the view in silence to contemplate the enormity of this. But there is still distance to cover to reach the cathedral square, and it seemed forever slogging through the outskirts of the city on concrete pavement, and cris-crossing with busy traffic until I reached Puerta do Camino, the gateway to the medieval city. I was really excited to see the cathedral at this point, but it was elusive. As enormous as it is you can’t see it on approach until you run right smack into it. But there are signs that I’m getting closer. The crowd on squares start to swell, entertained by street performers.There’s a string quartet playing Mozart, a couple doing a tumbling and juggling act, a bag pipe player, costumed living statues. Then after descending a narrow and deep staircase tunnel, it opened into an expansive square and there it is, the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela! Parador de los Reyes Catolicos, where I will be staying for the next 3 days, is right next to the Cathedral. On the square, Plaza Obradoiro, is the whole world. There is a procession and chanting of saffron clad Hare Khrishnas, there are souvenir stands, pilgrims sprawled on the cobbled floor, tourists taking pictures, costumed medieval pilgrim pretenders, a long line at the cathedral steps. I decided to check in first at my hotel and freshen up. Before I could unpack a dozen red roses arrived, from my sister Nancy, for my 70th birthday. How special!
Rested and showered, I set about to execute the pilgrim rituals. The Portico de Gloria and the Tree of Jesse is encased in scaffolding for restoration work, so I entered from a side door, but I could peek to see the kneeling figure of Maestro Mateo in the back of the column but I couldn’t touch my brow to his, and could only take a picture. I went to the High Altar to ascend to the statue of St James and touched his back and thanked him for my safe arrival and to bless all my loved ones. I went down to his crypt and paid my respects. I stayed for the 4 PM Pilgrim mass to complete the ceremonial acts. One of the unique experience here is to witness the Botafumeiro, the swinging of the giant incense burner. It is no longer done regularly during the pilgrim mass because it requires at least 8 attendants or tiraboleiros to control the path of the burner as it is swung across the aisle of the transept and it is expensive costing at least 250 EU. It is now only done on important holidays or when there is a request accompanied by a donation. Before I took my leave of Santiago, I returned to the Cathedral for the 12 noon Pilgrim mass hoping to see the Botafumeiro lighted, and I was not disappointed. To complete my camino ritual, I went to Finisterre on my birthday and returned unscathed from the edge of the earth. Meanwhile in a distant cosmos, far, far away, Voyager 1 is nearing the edge of the solar system after 35 years of space travel.
I may return to walk the the segments I skipped, doing them in several stages, then when I’ve done all, repeat the last 100 km for another Compostela, maybe on my 80th birthday!
Sunday, April 08, 2012
Getting to Myanmar
Had delay in getting my visa on arrival in Yangon, in spite of having all my papers in order, we couldn't communicate why my cash money is not acceptable to pay for the $30 fee, had to get my tour guide to interpret. The problem is my money had a fold in it in spite of the bill not having any blemish or tears at all, and still very crisp and new, just the previous fold, apparently it has to be minted fresh from the press, I got away with a near perfect bill that the visa officer reluctantly accepted. Then later when I tried to exchange for their currency, the Myanmar Kyat, all my bills were refused because the serial number did not start with AB. My tour guide said, not to worry, he can get my $ converted in the black market but of course I get a lower exchange rate. I cannot use my credit cards and my ATM. How can tourists spend money if they can't convert them. But people just shrug it off, there's the black market of course that deal with it, and life goes on, why sweat the details. Aung San Suu Kyi is beloved and popular, people are holding their breath and preparing for the worst in anticipation of elections next month. News a few hours ago says she has fallen ill with vomiting, had to get IV drip, and she had suspended her campaigning. MOTORBIKES ARE BANNED IN YANGON! Nada, not a single one on the streets. Apparently a general's offspring in jest made a shooting gesture at an officer while on a motorbike, and the military was not amused. There are high rise luxury condos that are unfinished because the investors halted financing the project because the powers keep on changing the rules. And facebook and many websites are blocked,but the people knows how to go around that, in fact I was able to check in to facebook at The Strand Hotel. However there are very few with computers, and internet cafes are sparse, and the country is not hooked up throughout, just the major tourist cities. New cars are unaffordable, in the hundred thousand dollar range, so many cars are gasping along that go way back into the 50's, but Myanmar was never a Havana so they don't have those colorful vintage beauties on the road, just clunkers. Having said those, the antiquities are breathtaking, spectacular,magical, stunning, priceless, really treasures. The 2500-year-old Shwedagon Pagoda complex easily tops all the pagodas I've visited on this trip. The people still wear traditional dress for everyday, the women wear no modern make-up but the pasty cream made from a certain plant, yellow-ochre in color that they paint on their faces and arms, also serves as a sunscreen. Next stop, Bagan, where there are yet more pagodas and buddha statues.
http://gallery.me.com/mimanmetty#100064
http://gallery.me.com/mimanmetty#100064
Thursday, April 05, 2012
The Road to Mandalay
The mismash of uninspired 70‘s buildings and bamboo and thatched huts and vendors crowding and littering the avenues, food stands cooking and washing pots and dishes right on the street and patrons scattered on low plastic stools and tables, appearing unwashed, ungroomed, and sweaty in the scorching 104 degree F, killed all the romantic nostalgia I have about this land I’ve read and dreamed about. The Irrawaddy, that great river that sprung from the Himalayas and cuts through the length of the country to empty into the Andaman Sea is wrapped in noise from motorboats and unable to claim back it’s tranquility. It’s banks are strewn with plastic bags and aluminum cans, and dolphins that played in its waters will soon be just a memory.
The road to Mandalay is a swirl of dust and careening Toyota pick-up trucks converted to buses groaning in the heap of passengers, produce, swine and fowl. Where the dawn burst out like thunder in the east now is a mellow red ball muted by the haze and smog of slash and burn agriculture and motorbike exhaust. But on Mandalay Hill you can still see the golden magnificence of the Mahamuni and the grandeur of the Kuthodaw. And a sweet Burmese lass, her cheeks painted with thanaka, still awaits her soldier to claim her and take her away to a land of milk and honey.
http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.277108189033168.63170.100002019670806&type=1&l=3d2b72f0b2
The road to Mandalay is a swirl of dust and careening Toyota pick-up trucks converted to buses groaning in the heap of passengers, produce, swine and fowl. Where the dawn burst out like thunder in the east now is a mellow red ball muted by the haze and smog of slash and burn agriculture and motorbike exhaust. But on Mandalay Hill you can still see the golden magnificence of the Mahamuni and the grandeur of the Kuthodaw. And a sweet Burmese lass, her cheeks painted with thanaka, still awaits her soldier to claim her and take her away to a land of milk and honey.
http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.277108189033168.63170.100002019670806&type=1&l=3d2b72f0b2
Monday, February 06, 2012
Cuba
Why Go to Cuba?
Havana, Cienfuegos, Trinidad, Sancti Spiritu, Santa Clara, Pinar del Rio
January 29- February 5, 2012
Havana in low light, especially at dawn, beguiles like a beautiful apparition, with her silhouette framed by a pink and orange sky and her face reflected in the shimmer of the breaking surf of the Malecon. But alas, the sun rises, and she’s exposed in broad daylight. Her bones are broken, her sinews anemic, her skin is peeling and scarred with deep cuts and discolored blemishes, and her body is draped in the plebeian fashion of the hoi polloi. She tries hard to please. Some parts of her have been restored and there you can imagine that she was once elegant and beautiful. She moved with the infectious rhythms of the salsa and bolero. She was desired by the mighty and the powerful, and the unscrupulous. Yes, she had an ignominious past, and it still informs her behavior today.
On my second day I was tapping my feet to a rumba and this young man asked me to dance. Soon he was hustling me, said he’s 26 years old and how old am I? So I told him I’m 36 years old and he nodded his approval, and intensified his lobbying for my company. These jineteros and jineteras are everywhere. They offer to take you in their taxi, to the best restaurants, to the shows, to your hotel bed and to have sex with you. But there’s no prostitution in Cuba, that’s the official line. If you hit it off, they’ll ask you to buy them presents, tell you their grandmother or child is sick and ask you for money, and then if you have lots of money, they’ll marry you.
Life in Cuba, as they say, es no facil. The minimum wage is around $20/month, and though they get food ration coupons, it’s not enough and they have to buy other necessities from the CUC (convertible Cuban peso) stores. I CUC is $0.87. The local peso is worthless (1 Peso=$0. 24) and Cubans only use it to pay their water and electric bills. The black market thrives but can only serve you if you have CUC currency. Goods are smuggled from Ecuador, Haiti, the Dominican Republic. There are spies to report these illegal activities, but life is hard for everyone, so this is not enforced rigorously, but of course with some favors exchanged. In the past 3 months, there were monumental changes. Whereas Cubans cannot buy and sell property in the past, can only swap them, now they can with limitations, like they can only own 2 houses, one in the city and the other in the coast or the mountain. They can also now borrow money from the bank. How Cubans with $20 monthly wages can do this is mind boggling, but there’s money coming from somewhere. Obama had eased money remittances to relatives in Cuba and also opened unlimited travel for US relatives. As limited family entrepreneurship is now allowed, mostly to serve the tourist industry, Paladars (restaurants) and Casa Particulares ( B & B) are opening up. At first they were extremely regulated, because they should not compete with government run establishments. They were limited in the number of tables, limited menu, and can only employ family members. But things are changing at dizzying speed for Cubans though at a snail’s pace from our perspective.
Tourism is now a major industry since the Soviet collapse in the early 90’s, and Cuba was thrown in economic hardship. The revolution must keep it’s paternalistic promise and was forced to adopt capitalistic practices to feed the people. Tips are expected everywhere, you quickly get the impression that the economy runs on tips. You can’t use the toilets without dropping your spare change in the collection plate, or you won’t have toilet paper and soap, and you must straddle it, because they are without seats or lids. As much as excellent universal health care is touted, water is unsafe unless boiled, so you must buy bottled water. Food safety can be suspect, as 6 of us went down with GI upsets, including me, and one had required IV infusion. One soon becomes wary of people’s friendliness, as a tip is expected for every small helpful gesture. I was chatting with a young mother admiring her 2 small children, and she wasted no time in asking me for my hotel toiletries after I check out. I was asked to pony up 5 CUC (!) to get my photo in a vintage car. Disembarking from the steam train in the touristy former sugar plantation of Iznaca, we were overwhelmed by swarms of women importuning us for soaps, lotions, and other gifts. Tourists who don’t understand poverty are guilty of shaping this behavior, they make beggars of poor people, and rob them of their dignity.
As much as I fell in love with the dashing rebel Che Guevarra, and Fidel in his own way has charm, their revolution had gone on for too long, and though it might be hard for Cuba to have an Arab spring, as they are very limited in their cyber connectedness, it won’t be long before an upheaval takes place. The revolution ironically, made education a priority benefit for the people, and now these educated young men and women are looking to test their wings in the big world, and Cuba is too small and narrow now. There are underground bloggers taking root and spreading their message in cyberspace.They are finding a way, despite crackdowns and being roughed up by government goons. What do you do with doctors and lawyers, multi-linguists, historians and artists and engineers forced to work in tourism as guides, bartenders, waiters, as it is the sector where one can earn serious money through tips? Soon they will get ideas and will want to test them. Just you wait.
It’s dusk and the the gentle breeze is soothing, the musicians (for tips) are playing a bolero. I’ll light up my Cohiba and sip and savor my 15-year old Santiago in the gardens of my legendary hotel overlooking the crashing surf and the Malecon, now filling up with Cubans strolling after a day of labor in perhaps a dead end occupation. Would I return? Nah!
http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.246362232107764.57342.100002019670806&type=1&l=3925cb6178
http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.246369838773670.57344.100002019670806&type=1&l=9202d12605
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Havana, Cienfuegos, Trinidad, Sancti Spiritu, Santa Clara, Pinar del Rio
January 29- February 5, 2012
Havana in low light, especially at dawn, beguiles like a beautiful apparition, with her silhouette framed by a pink and orange sky and her face reflected in the shimmer of the breaking surf of the Malecon. But alas, the sun rises, and she’s exposed in broad daylight. Her bones are broken, her sinews anemic, her skin is peeling and scarred with deep cuts and discolored blemishes, and her body is draped in the plebeian fashion of the hoi polloi. She tries hard to please. Some parts of her have been restored and there you can imagine that she was once elegant and beautiful. She moved with the infectious rhythms of the salsa and bolero. She was desired by the mighty and the powerful, and the unscrupulous. Yes, she had an ignominious past, and it still informs her behavior today.
On my second day I was tapping my feet to a rumba and this young man asked me to dance. Soon he was hustling me, said he’s 26 years old and how old am I? So I told him I’m 36 years old and he nodded his approval, and intensified his lobbying for my company. These jineteros and jineteras are everywhere. They offer to take you in their taxi, to the best restaurants, to the shows, to your hotel bed and to have sex with you. But there’s no prostitution in Cuba, that’s the official line. If you hit it off, they’ll ask you to buy them presents, tell you their grandmother or child is sick and ask you for money, and then if you have lots of money, they’ll marry you.
Life in Cuba, as they say, es no facil. The minimum wage is around $20/month, and though they get food ration coupons, it’s not enough and they have to buy other necessities from the CUC (convertible Cuban peso) stores. I CUC is $0.87. The local peso is worthless (1 Peso=$0. 24) and Cubans only use it to pay their water and electric bills. The black market thrives but can only serve you if you have CUC currency. Goods are smuggled from Ecuador, Haiti, the Dominican Republic. There are spies to report these illegal activities, but life is hard for everyone, so this is not enforced rigorously, but of course with some favors exchanged. In the past 3 months, there were monumental changes. Whereas Cubans cannot buy and sell property in the past, can only swap them, now they can with limitations, like they can only own 2 houses, one in the city and the other in the coast or the mountain. They can also now borrow money from the bank. How Cubans with $20 monthly wages can do this is mind boggling, but there’s money coming from somewhere. Obama had eased money remittances to relatives in Cuba and also opened unlimited travel for US relatives. As limited family entrepreneurship is now allowed, mostly to serve the tourist industry, Paladars (restaurants) and Casa Particulares ( B & B) are opening up. At first they were extremely regulated, because they should not compete with government run establishments. They were limited in the number of tables, limited menu, and can only employ family members. But things are changing at dizzying speed for Cubans though at a snail’s pace from our perspective.
Tourism is now a major industry since the Soviet collapse in the early 90’s, and Cuba was thrown in economic hardship. The revolution must keep it’s paternalistic promise and was forced to adopt capitalistic practices to feed the people. Tips are expected everywhere, you quickly get the impression that the economy runs on tips. You can’t use the toilets without dropping your spare change in the collection plate, or you won’t have toilet paper and soap, and you must straddle it, because they are without seats or lids. As much as excellent universal health care is touted, water is unsafe unless boiled, so you must buy bottled water. Food safety can be suspect, as 6 of us went down with GI upsets, including me, and one had required IV infusion. One soon becomes wary of people’s friendliness, as a tip is expected for every small helpful gesture. I was chatting with a young mother admiring her 2 small children, and she wasted no time in asking me for my hotel toiletries after I check out. I was asked to pony up 5 CUC (!) to get my photo in a vintage car. Disembarking from the steam train in the touristy former sugar plantation of Iznaca, we were overwhelmed by swarms of women importuning us for soaps, lotions, and other gifts. Tourists who don’t understand poverty are guilty of shaping this behavior, they make beggars of poor people, and rob them of their dignity.
As much as I fell in love with the dashing rebel Che Guevarra, and Fidel in his own way has charm, their revolution had gone on for too long, and though it might be hard for Cuba to have an Arab spring, as they are very limited in their cyber connectedness, it won’t be long before an upheaval takes place. The revolution ironically, made education a priority benefit for the people, and now these educated young men and women are looking to test their wings in the big world, and Cuba is too small and narrow now. There are underground bloggers taking root and spreading their message in cyberspace.They are finding a way, despite crackdowns and being roughed up by government goons. What do you do with doctors and lawyers, multi-linguists, historians and artists and engineers forced to work in tourism as guides, bartenders, waiters, as it is the sector where one can earn serious money through tips? Soon they will get ideas and will want to test them. Just you wait.
It’s dusk and the the gentle breeze is soothing, the musicians (for tips) are playing a bolero. I’ll light up my Cohiba and sip and savor my 15-year old Santiago in the gardens of my legendary hotel overlooking the crashing surf and the Malecon, now filling up with Cubans strolling after a day of labor in perhaps a dead end occupation. Would I return? Nah!
http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.246362232107764.57342.100002019670806&type=1&l=3925cb6178
http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.246369838773670.57344.100002019670806&type=1&l=9202d12605
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Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Ireland
Ireland, Sept 17-October 10, 2011
We’ve been here in Meath, Ireland just 48 hours but it feels like we’ve done a lot already. We arrived to witness Dublin winning the all Ireland football championship against Kerry, something that have eluded them for 16 years, so the city was wild in celebration. We were warned not to make the 40 minute trip to Dublin from our hotel in Meath, because the city would be crazy. We’ll, we want crazy so we went anyway and we had a grand time with the locals. We did the pub crawl and the Guinness was flowing. I had to hold on to my red Kangol beret, it was snatched from my head a few times, I don’t know why since the winning color was Dublin blue.
Yesterday, we were in Drogheda and entered Ollie’s Pub around 3 PM to fortify ourselves for the 56- step climb to the Millmount Tower. There were only men inside and all eyes were on us, then this guy sided up to us and very friendly like introduced himself and claimed that he is the bravest man in the room to approach us. We’ll, we were the toast of the pub for the time it took to finish a pint of Guinness.
The Irish are story tellers as everyone knows, and we were held captive by Owens, the guy at the Tourist Bureau who had us enthralled with trivia and tales about the place. He gave us good recommendations for restaurants, and being a golfer he told us to introduce ourselves to Bobby Brown, the pro and Richard, the bartender at Bettystown Golf Club where we will be golfing the next day. We casually invited him to join us for lunch, and he stopped by indeed to join us while we’re finishing at Stockwell Artisan Foods, but did he surprise us when he left his lunch bill for us to pay. Now I don’t recall if I said, we’ll buy him lunch. Oh well, he was charming and all his recommendations were excellent, that was his tip.
Marci and I enjoyed golf at Laytown Bettystown today. It was 56 degrees, sunny for 4 holes, then heavy drizzle for the next 3 holes, then suddenly sunny again for a couple of holes and cloudy the rest of the way. The course featured dunes and tight fairways, wind and the Irish sea. We got lost finding the next holes, since they were sparsely marked, and had to ask for directions from the other golfers, who were all very obliging and charming BTW. Kathy went on the Tara hop- on- hop- off shopping tour. We have the Solheim Cup scheduled for Friday.
http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.177423772334944.42075.100002019670806&l=0c893ca4d5&type=1
September 23, 2011
It is said that the people of Ireland are genuinely friendly, and we don’t doubt it. Much obliged, and no problem at all, is a common response to any request, and even if you are referred to as Luv, it does not seem sexist at all. Children here can still venture out of their yard to play, and people chat you up so easily, you feel like best friends after your conversation. Life in these villages hark back to a time we have become nostalgic about.
It’s unbelievable that we’re coming to the end of our week here. We saw the USA team lose to Europe today, the 1st day of the Solheim Cup competition. Tomorrow, Kathy will join her family arriving in Dublin for a wedding and I will hitch a ride with Paddy, a genuinely friendly Irish who will take me along to Belfast since he was going there for a christening anyway, no problem at all. I will rendezvous with my Ireland in Depth Tour and Marci has a flight back to Atlanta on Sunday.
http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.178834835527171.42853.100002019670806&l=0f51f5a267&type=1
September 25, 2011- Belfast
It is amazing that Belfast can go on like any city as we know it, considering that the Good Friday Agreement for cease fire from sectarian violence, they refer to as the Troubles, had only occured in 1998. From the late 1960’s to as recent as 2001, bombings, kidnappings, and terrorism were facts of daily life, but from the rubble and ashes, it has emerged like the phoenix and life in the city center pulsates with energy. The wound still smarts, the population is still divided, and walls still exist to maintain the peace, but it is transforming its tragedy into opportunity. These walls are tourist attractions now. And from the remains of its linen factories and ship building graveyard, it is completing a harbor side multi-use tourism center with the Titanic Museum as its centerpiece. There you go, economics is the certain agent for peace. And the ultimate irony, Belfast has been designated as the 2nd safest city in the world for tourism, after Tokyo.
http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.179538152123506.43119.100002019670806&l=9727f8fbde&type=1
September 26, 2011-Derry
We drove on the scenic Causeway Coastal Route from Belfast to Londonderry/Derry, the UK City of Culture 2013. The double name of this gateway city to Ireland’s northwest reflects the sectarian division that continues to be a fact of life for residents of this historic 17th century walled city. Like Belfast, this city is still reconciling with the infamy of the Troubles. It continues to stir passionate partisan affiliations, and how you name this city identifies who you sleep with, the Nationalists call it Derry, and the Unionists, Londonderry. I’m hungry for insights about the local’s take on the Troubles, and how it affects their lives now, and I’m delighted that our tour guide who is Irish does not wince from expressing her views, albeit very partisan, but authentic.
We’ve been here in Meath, Ireland just 48 hours but it feels like we’ve done a lot already. We arrived to witness Dublin winning the all Ireland football championship against Kerry, something that have eluded them for 16 years, so the city was wild in celebration. We were warned not to make the 40 minute trip to Dublin from our hotel in Meath, because the city would be crazy. We’ll, we want crazy so we went anyway and we had a grand time with the locals. We did the pub crawl and the Guinness was flowing. I had to hold on to my red Kangol beret, it was snatched from my head a few times, I don’t know why since the winning color was Dublin blue.
Yesterday, we were in Drogheda and entered Ollie’s Pub around 3 PM to fortify ourselves for the 56- step climb to the Millmount Tower. There were only men inside and all eyes were on us, then this guy sided up to us and very friendly like introduced himself and claimed that he is the bravest man in the room to approach us. We’ll, we were the toast of the pub for the time it took to finish a pint of Guinness.
The Irish are story tellers as everyone knows, and we were held captive by Owens, the guy at the Tourist Bureau who had us enthralled with trivia and tales about the place. He gave us good recommendations for restaurants, and being a golfer he told us to introduce ourselves to Bobby Brown, the pro and Richard, the bartender at Bettystown Golf Club where we will be golfing the next day. We casually invited him to join us for lunch, and he stopped by indeed to join us while we’re finishing at Stockwell Artisan Foods, but did he surprise us when he left his lunch bill for us to pay. Now I don’t recall if I said, we’ll buy him lunch. Oh well, he was charming and all his recommendations were excellent, that was his tip.
Marci and I enjoyed golf at Laytown Bettystown today. It was 56 degrees, sunny for 4 holes, then heavy drizzle for the next 3 holes, then suddenly sunny again for a couple of holes and cloudy the rest of the way. The course featured dunes and tight fairways, wind and the Irish sea. We got lost finding the next holes, since they were sparsely marked, and had to ask for directions from the other golfers, who were all very obliging and charming BTW. Kathy went on the Tara hop- on- hop- off shopping tour. We have the Solheim Cup scheduled for Friday.
http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.177423772334944.42075.100002019670806&l=0c893ca4d5&type=1
September 23, 2011
It is said that the people of Ireland are genuinely friendly, and we don’t doubt it. Much obliged, and no problem at all, is a common response to any request, and even if you are referred to as Luv, it does not seem sexist at all. Children here can still venture out of their yard to play, and people chat you up so easily, you feel like best friends after your conversation. Life in these villages hark back to a time we have become nostalgic about.
It’s unbelievable that we’re coming to the end of our week here. We saw the USA team lose to Europe today, the 1st day of the Solheim Cup competition. Tomorrow, Kathy will join her family arriving in Dublin for a wedding and I will hitch a ride with Paddy, a genuinely friendly Irish who will take me along to Belfast since he was going there for a christening anyway, no problem at all. I will rendezvous with my Ireland in Depth Tour and Marci has a flight back to Atlanta on Sunday.
http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.178834835527171.42853.100002019670806&l=0f51f5a267&type=1
September 25, 2011- Belfast
It is amazing that Belfast can go on like any city as we know it, considering that the Good Friday Agreement for cease fire from sectarian violence, they refer to as the Troubles, had only occured in 1998. From the late 1960’s to as recent as 2001, bombings, kidnappings, and terrorism were facts of daily life, but from the rubble and ashes, it has emerged like the phoenix and life in the city center pulsates with energy. The wound still smarts, the population is still divided, and walls still exist to maintain the peace, but it is transforming its tragedy into opportunity. These walls are tourist attractions now. And from the remains of its linen factories and ship building graveyard, it is completing a harbor side multi-use tourism center with the Titanic Museum as its centerpiece. There you go, economics is the certain agent for peace. And the ultimate irony, Belfast has been designated as the 2nd safest city in the world for tourism, after Tokyo.
http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.179538152123506.43119.100002019670806&l=9727f8fbde&type=1
September 26, 2011-Derry
We drove on the scenic Causeway Coastal Route from Belfast to Londonderry/Derry, the UK City of Culture 2013. The double name of this gateway city to Ireland’s northwest reflects the sectarian division that continues to be a fact of life for residents of this historic 17th century walled city. Like Belfast, this city is still reconciling with the infamy of the Troubles. It continues to stir passionate partisan affiliations, and how you name this city identifies who you sleep with, the Nationalists call it Derry, and the Unionists, Londonderry. I’m hungry for insights about the local’s take on the Troubles, and how it affects their lives now, and I’m delighted that our tour guide who is Irish does not wince from expressing her views, albeit very partisan, but authentic.
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