Oaxaca

Oaxaca

by Metty Pellicer

I have not met another Filipino on this trip, and I’ve tried to find them. I’ve asked my expat contacts, their cleaning lady, storekeepers, taxi drivers, random people I happen to chat with, waiters. They’ve known Filipinos in other places, but not here In Oaxaca.  Filipino overseas workers (OFW) are important contributors to the Philippine economy, accounting for 13.5% of the country’s GDP. I’ve met them in all of the countries I’ve visited, even as remote as Antarctica and in Easter Island. In Dubai, where I’ve been most recently, they are so ubiquitous I thought for a moment I was in the Philippines. Why are they not in Oaxaca? This piqued my curiosity about Filipino immigration to Mexico and prompted a scholarly research through Wikipedia. I found no direct link to my question, and overall, there was a dearth of information about modern immigration. It can’t be because of the economy and security. There are Filipino enclaves in Pakistan, even Iraq, and Syria. Is it because of proximity to the US and that was the preferred destination? I suppose with all the problems of Mexican illegal immigration to the US, it would be foolish for Filipinos to enter from Mexico. Canada would be the obvious choice. But I got excited when I found a blog by a Filipino tourist about a chance meeting with a clan in Oaxaca who descended from a Filipino who settled in the area during colonial times. Their great, great, grandfather, Lorenzo Paulo was a sailor who jumped ship off the isthmus of Tehuantepec in Southern Mexico, a fugitive from Manila in 1854. He met their great, great-grandmother in Tijuana (near the U.S. border). As the trans-Pacific railway was being built, Paulo sought and got employment there. He and his wife moved south and finally settled in the coastal town of Salina Cruz, in the state of Oaxaca. In 1859, Benito Juarez, who became Mexico’s first Indian president , who was then governor of Oaxaca, appointed Lorenzo as chief of security of the port of Salina Cruz. He developed a reputation as a tough hombre and was referred to even by his descendants as “patron Lorenzo.” I found another article about a researcher coming across a park named Parque Reyna Maganda in Espinalillo, near Acapulco. Maganda is a Tagalog word for beautiful. He discovered  that the great grandmother of this large clan indeed came from the Philippines. I was excited to find these gems of information but also wondered why there seems so little connection between the Philippines and Mexico in modern times. My father-in-law, who’s father was a Spaniard from the continent, married a Filipina, and had 6 children. Four remained in the Philippines, a sister, returned to Spain, and a brother went to Mexico and started a family there with a Mexican wife. They consider themselves Mexicans and I suspect may not have factored their Filipino ancestry at all in their consciousness. I think they will consider themselves Spanish-Mexicans, if pressed to consider their mixed heritage. Unless I’m not entering the correct search question, there’s very little Filipino immigration to Mexico in modern times. Most occurred during colonial times, and again after the Spanish-American War when the Philippines became a US territory.

 When Mexico started its fight for independence in 1810-1821, colonial governance of the Philippines was transferred to Spain. Prior to that Spain administered its colonies through its Viceroy in New Spain, in Mexico. Filipinos stopped arriving in Mexico when the Manila-Acapulco Galleon trade was terminated in 1815. The Manila-Acapulco Galleons did not only carry porcelain, ivory, silk, and spices from Asia to Mexico but it also transported culture and language and flora and fauna and religious practices between the two ports. I was so amazed by the similarity of religious festivals, and to find similar fruits and plants, and familiar words. The mango was brought to Mexico, and mais (corn) was brought to the Philippines. I was in Oaxaca the week before Dia de los Muertos, and the preparations and graveyard festivities bring back childhood memories of similar practices in my mother’s barrio. It was a big deal. We clean the grave site, plant flowers, bring food, and socialize with neighboring grave visitors. Children scare each other with ghost stories. The weekly markets are called tianggui, and palenque, balimbim, calachuche, guayabano, nanay, tatay mean the same. When I joined a Tai Chi class at Parque Jardin Conzatti, the teacher introduced his namesake as tocayo. Our barong looks very similar to the Mexican shirt and many dances and music are done the same way. I didn’t know that La Paloma was Mexican rather than Spanish. That was a required piece in many piano teachers curriculum and one of the earlier challenge in my hard journey on the keyboard. 

With 250 years of shared Spanish colonial history and culture I’m puzzled that there is no visible expression of this relationship in both countries in contemporary society.  And there is more. There is the common experience of conquest by the US. In the Mexican-American War of 1846-1848 the US annexed the whole American Southwest from Texas to California. The Philippines became a US territory after the Spanish-American War in 1898, together with Guam, and Puerto Rico, and remained its territory after the Philippine-American War of 1899-1902, until July 4,1946. When I speak to the youth in both countries, and also true of youths in the US, there is little familiarity with the common bonds that tied these three countries together in history. When once we were brothers, we had become strangers. Some may even harbor contempt for each other.

Dubai/Abu Dhabi

I felt I’m in the Philippines as soon as I landed at Dubai International Airport, after a fourteen hour flight from Washington Dulles and a one and a half hour connecting flight from Atlanta. It’s eight hours ahead so I arrived mid-afternoon of the following day. The staff greeting arrivals and directing them to the Passport Control Area are all Filipinos. The 2000 plus passengers  simultaneously deplaning from Qatar, Bagram, Bahrain, Muscat, Riyadh, Oman, Kuwait, Doha, Amman, Addis Ababa, Hyderabad, Kish Island, Cairo, Karachi, Mumbai, Jeddah, Singapore, Bangkok, Prague, and Washington DC, were processed in 40 double-staffed stations by kandura-clad Emiratis, who were unhurried and unsmiling in their tasks. US citizens are automatically given thirty-day tourist visas on arrival, without paperwork or fees. I was en-route with my tour group to our hotel in less than 2 hours. Arriving at Royal Ascot Hotel, I was checked in and shown to my room by Filipino staff. As we were on our own until the start of our guided tour the following day I decided to check the place without delay and took the Metro to Dubai Mall. The Dubai Metro, operational since 2009, which at 75 km holds the Guinness record of the longest driverless rail system in the world, is a sleek and efficient transport system that takes you to the important tourist destinations. It has two lines currently with plans to expand into three more. The forty-five platform edged air-conditioned stations are housed in ultra-contemporary oyster shaped gold structures. It has two fares, the regular and Gold class, costing from 2 AED to 28 AED ($0.54- $7.60) based on zones traveled, plus approximately one-third more for Gold class, which has more room and uncrowded. The interior is luxurious with airplane-like seats done in a calming sea palette of royal blue, turquoise, and blue-grays. There is a separate coach for women and children only. There are uniformed attendants, mostly Filipinos, who travel up and down to make sure you are using the appropriate compartment.

Dubai Mall boasts as the world’s largest mall with 1200 stores, cinemas, restaurants, play areas, an ice rink which can host hockey games and many more. It has a Bloomingdale’s, Galleries Lafayette, PF Chang’s, California Pizza, Starbucks, and every other US, European and British establishments. The sales staff are mostly Filipinos. In the Mall of the Emirates, which looks like Milan’s Galleria Vittorio Emanuele, only bigger, there is a snow park and skiing run. In the Madinat Jumeriah, billed as an Arabian Resort, which has a lagoon and gondolas like in Venice, there are opulent souks that sell mainly goods from India, China and Egypt. In the man-made Dubai Marina, architectural wonders and breathtaking skyscrapers vie for world records.  In the man-made Palm island, so called because of its shape, the opulent Atlantis Resort sits at the apex of the palm, which is the duplicate of the original in the Bahamas. The palm’s side branches are dotted with million dollar villas that can be purchased by foreigners except the land which is leased for ninety-nine years. The Burj Khalifa, with one hundred sixty-four floors looks down at New York City’s Empire State which is a mere 53% of its size.  The Burj Al Arab, the only seven-star hotel in the world, is very exclusive, with rooms ranging from $2000-$25,000 per night, the latter comes with a butler and 24-carat plumbing. If you can’t stay for the night the only other way to gain a peek of the hotel is to book a reservation in one of their fine restaurants. I had friends who took me to dinner at Al Mahara, their signature restaurant. The dinner tab was a month’s mortgage payment. The food was fine, but I had similar fare in Atlanta’s Bacchanalia and Eugene’s for one tenth of the cost.

Why do people pay these absurd prices in Dubai? To spend like a Sheik, is an irresistible come-on that speaks to everyman’s vanity, and is a stroke of marketing genius.

Dubai and Abu Dhabi is on a roll again with construction and development, after a brief pause during the world financial crisis, which saw Dubai overstretched and required a bail-out from neighboring uber-rich Abu Dhabi. Abu Dhabi, following Dubai’s example is developing Saadiyat Island into a luxury resort and cultural district, which will hold the Louvre and Guggenheim Museums, the National Museum and Performing Arts Center.

The Bedouin lifestyle is no longer visible.The remaining symbol of cultural identity and where you can differentiate Emiratis, the UAE native born, from expatriates is in the dress. They can be identified by the elegant white kandura worn by the men, teamed with the checked head cover keffiyeh and held in place by the cord agal. Their women in black abayas, with hijab or niqab for head and face covers, or the hide-all black burqa.

There is hardly any opportunity to interact with an Emirati. They comprise a mere twelve percent of the population, and the rest of the eight million are expatriates mainly laborers, service workers, experts, business partners, and consultants from India, Pakistan, Egypt, Russia, the Philippines, and from Great Britain, US and Europe.

The UAE, formed by a federation of seven kingdoms and independent since 1971, started as feuding nomadic tribes and incredibly transformed itself into this modern megapolis in a matter of a generation. Sheikh Zayed bin Sultan Al Nahyan, the founder of United Arab Emirates, was raised as a desert Bedouin, scarcely had any education beyond the basics of Islam, but with a clear vision and wisdom, guided the development of his country to benefit all citizens, using the wealth created by the discovery of oil. He built roads, bridges, hospitals, schools, housing and distributed land to all citizens. The Bedouins, still familiar with the harsh existence of living in the desert had held him in great affection and he ruled until his death in 2004 at age eighty-six. Compared to other Arabian gulf countries he promoted a more liberal social and political policies and tolerance for other religions and cultures. These polices however has not kept pace with the dizzying economic and infrastructure and visual transformation of UAE.

The UAE is dependent on labor and technical expertise from expatriates who comprise 88.5% of the population. They have no stake in the country and remain as guest workers. If they lose their jobs they are deported. Children of expatriates born in the UAE may be deported unless they are in school or has a job. Though there are no taxes, expatriates are not eligible for social security, or free education for their children , or health care. There is no pathway to citizenship, except on the rare occasion of an Emirati man marrying a non-Emirati woman, then their children are citizens but not vice versa. A man may have up to four wives if he can afford it but not women. With increased female education and participation in the labor pool, women are marrying later, or choosing not to marry Emirati men, certainly fewer are giving consent to multiple marriages. The ruling body encourages large families. In Aijam, a 63-year old Emirati with 92 children, is on the news, about to take his eighteenth wife from Pakistan. One of his wives was a Filipina. He promised the Sheik 100 children, and the Sheik in return takes on the financial burden. Many still follow traditional patterns and marry their cousins. Congenital diseases have a high incidence, particularly, hemoglobinopathies, autism, and Down’s syndrome. There is inadequate services for the disabled, due to lack of expertise and education. The disabled are kept at home and families are left to deal with it. There is no election and the legislature is only advisory and appointed by the ruling class. There is increasing discrepancy in economic status, as the business and financial sector  is dominated by the powerful merchant families and the royal family and contracts are awarded based on personal relationships. The ordinary Emirati, prefers to work for the government and has avoided the more competitive private sector, prompting the ruling body to institute Emeratisation policies, which required foreign companies to have hiring quotas for Emeratis. However, this is a thorny situation as Emeratis do not have the needed expertise and do not possess the work ethic needed in a competitive workplace.

The expatriates live in a parallel universe of their national affiliations, separate from other foreign nationals and the Emiratis. For those in the lower salary rungs, there may be exploitation and physical abuse. There is no sense of community between groups, and as one can be deported easily after one’s employment ends, even after decades of toil building the nation, there is no civic engagement. It is incomprehensible, but for many who came from poor developing countries, working in the UAE permits one’s family to survive.

I was jolted to attention by the notice, about abiding by the dress code posted at the mall entrance ; no shorts or skirts above the knees, no figure-hugging or cleavage-exposing attire, and shoulders should be covered. In the mosques, the dress code is more stringent, covered up to the wrists and ankles, and the head and neck under a veil or scarf.

It’s ironic, as the fashion displayed in the malls violate these rules. Despite the ultra modernity of its infrastructure and skyscrapers, and the abundance of material goods and luxury items and entertainment in the malls, and the appearance of Westernization, don’t be fooled. There is no pork in the menu, alcohol is only available in hotel restaurants and bars and is expensive. You are awakened by the prayer call at dawn and at sunrise, and you’ll hear the call again wherever you are, at noon. In the gloaming, and at night when the last prayer call is heard, it is hypnotic and calming, a pristine moment for reflection. The weekend is Friday and Saturday, and the work week begins on Sunday.

So, on the surface the UAE looks like any developed Western country in its display of material and consumer wealth, but at the end of the day it is still a Muslim country ruled by Sharia law and is an autocratic state.

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Why Travel

Why Travel?
June/2013

As soon as we got our US passport Johnny and I started traveling even before we could afford it. We were also independent travelers, carving together itineraries from scratch and exploring our destination on our own. It’s amazing that we were able to do this before the era of Google, Kayak and Hotels.com.  Danger, theft, or being swindled or mugged or facing terroristic threats were not of concern to us then. We went to see the sites and the museums, but after touring a few palaces and cathedrals, we got the idea about these places and their role in history, and we opted to spend most of our time discovering the nooks and cranny of the land or the city and imagining what’s it like to live there. So we’d hang out in public places and allow ourselves to be open to meet locals. I’d say it was more fun when I traveled with Johnny because he was more adventurous, more spontaneous, more approachable, and having skills physically that I did not possess, he could think of more exciting possibilities, and he was a man, so we had access to places that women may not necessarily be welcomed. When we were in France, in NIce, he thought it would be great to drive to Monaco, so we rented an open roadster, a stick shift, and zipped on the Grand Corniche at breakneck speed, high on the exhilaration of adventure and without a care. While on a cruise of the Greek Islands, we rented a scooter in Rhodes, and toting a picnic bag, we drove away from the bustle of the tourist areas, and explored the beaches and bays and unnamed fishing villages along the coast, and settled on a secluded cove to lay out our picnic and make love.

After Johnny died, I continued to travel, and people always ask, who I traveled with and many find it incomprehensible that I travel alone. Most inquiries are from women. I suppose men do not find it unusual to travel alone, they do it all the time. I haven’t given it a thought at all. Since I live alone, it’s logical to me that I travel alone. These reactions however have led me to ponder the question, why do I travel? and what’s contained further in women’s reactions to my traveling alone.

I see traveling and going on a vacation trip as separate. I prefer to travel alone, but I go on vacation trips with friends. Vacation trips are to the beach, to golf holidays, to do theater and sport events, to celebrate holidays and life milestones, or attend festivals. I love the company of friends around these mutual activities. I’m thinking that inquisitors who suggest that it must be lonesome to travel alone, are referring to taking vacation trips, and they need not pity me. I began to differentiate traveling from taking trips when I found out that I could not travel with another person the way I had traveled with Johnny, and it had nothing to do with the fact that we were married.

Traveling is like beauty, it is in the eyes of the beholder. It’s joys are subjective and must meet a match with another, or be understood with empathy, in order for it to be shared, and to fulfill its promise of wonder and life’s enrichment.

I was reading before I entered first grade, that was the beginning of my wanderlust. There were other lands beyond the languid coconut lined beaches and nipa huts of my youth. When my father went to work for foreign owned companies in the lumber and mining industries, my awareness about a bigger world  grew. My mother opened that world concretely by taking us on trips to Naga, the provincial city and then to Manila, the big, bustling alien metropolis, where she took us to see, the awesome movie, Ten Commandments, and to the big Circus, with exotic animals and performers from the other side of the world. We took the train on these trips, there were no commercial flights then, and we paid 3rd class fares.The trip took the entire day or overnight. We sat among sacks of rice and bananas, and crates of chickens, and bought food from food vendors on train stops. I love trains, they promise something wonderful at the end of the line.

 My father’s employer was an American company  doing business with a Japanese company, and Japanese ships docked regularly to load the harvest of iron ore to Japan. We were privileged to visit the ship and I still feel the excitement of being transported in fantasy to that mysterious land. Every Christmas we would receive a basket of persimmons, ham, oranges, grapes and apples from Japan. When my father went on a business trip to Japan for the first time, he came home loaded with unbelievable luxurious presents we’ve never seen before, Mikimoto pearls and Diorissimo perfume, Imari porcelain tea set, silks, canisters of exotic teas, and compelling stories that never left their excitement with me. We lived in communities established by the company for the workers, and as my father was in the senior management ranks, we mingled with foreigners, and met their children who spent summers with their parents. The rest of the year they were in school in the states. They regaled us with descriptions of a land with snow, and wheat fields, and lakes as big as oceans. When we were invited to their homes, they ate different foods, and many of their ways were different. They had Santa Claus who brought gifts at christmas, whereas we had the Three Kings fill our stockings with candies on the Epiphany. When in high school, I learned in world history, of the ancient lands of Mesopotamia, Egypt, Baghdad, Persia, Jordan, Anatolia, Istanbul, and rolled the names of Tierra del Fuego, Scheherazade, Sulaiman, in my tongue, I was hooked. One day I will visit and see for myself all these lands, and see the world.

For me traveling is experiencing this wonder and awe and discovering something new and different from my world and enlarging my world in the process. Discovery is a uniquely personal and solitary experience. In group travel one eats catered meals or at recommended restaurants,  one is cautioned from eating food from local vendors fearing contamination, one is led to familiar entertainment, to shop the same goods, hotels are selected to be as similar as possible to what’s one is accustomed to, and private transportation is provided, and everyone gets more or less similar experiences from these trips.

The journey towards the destination provides the main excitement of travel for me. I prepare for this journey by reading and research. I’m interested in knowing some history, the culture, the people, the food, the beliefs, the lifestyle, how ordinary people move around, earn their living, the social classes, what’s important in living, how they define happiness? I use public transportation, go to local restaurants, eat street food, find out the local entertainment, walk or hire local guides to see cultural sites, explore the local market and shops, chat with people, and if I get lucky I connect and make new friends.

I’ve made friends from unexpected quarters traveling alone, which I’m positive would not have been possible otherwise. I had a friend I knew from youth in Sydney, who introduced me to a friend, and from there new friends were made exponentially as I met their friends. I ended up staying in their homes in Port Douglas and Melbourne and one became a travel companion to Tasmania. In Munich I was about to have dinner alone in a small out of tourist way neighborhood restaurant, when a woman asked permission to join me and we talked until the restaurant closed. She invited me for lunch in her home then introduced me to her family, took me to a concert in a palace where her niece is the solo flutist, and met her 80-year old mother who is a poet. She gave me a poem in German which I had translated to English by a friend when I returned home and sent the translation to her. It made her mother very happy. She paints and knew the Brucke expressionists and told me about this wonderful museum, the Buchheim, one hour by train outside of Munich which I would not have known about otherwise. I had an authentic experience of the Passover in Kissufim, a kibbutz in Israel, when a friend I met in Spain invited me. On this trip to Israel I met a couple from Brisbane who invited me to their home when I traveled to Australia. In Bogota, I met a gay couple who informed me about programs in a Senior center they go to in Atlanta, and I’ve been taking classes in Spanish and painting there since. They’ve invited me to their home and also gave me access to the flowers and produce from their garden. Now, they have moved to live in Mexico, I have friends I can visit there.

Some consider traveling without a complete itinerary the hard way, or the scary way. I’m often asked, aren’t you afraid? They consider me very brave to travel alone, especially for a woman! What if you get lost? I never get lost, I just take a different route :). On the first day of walking the 800 km Camino Santiago de Compostela I took a different route from the French Pyrenees on my way to Roncesvalles, in the Spanish Pyrenees. It was a 4-hour deviation, and since it was getting dark in the mountains, I decided to call for help. I wasn’t afraid. If help didn’t come before dark I had a plan. I would retrace my steps to where I deviated, but I will wait for the morning for it would be dangerous to walk the mountains in the dark, with its cliffs and steep grade and unmarked pathways, and I’m exhausted after walking 8 hours with a 20-lb load on my back.  I had a sleeping bag, I had water and leftover sandwich from lunch, and I knew there would not be predators in the mountain, as no man had crossed my path all day. But help did arrive, the wonder of cell phones, I could speak some Spanish, and since I didn’t know where I was, I was fortunate to stop in this unique landscape, which my correspondent was able to identify from my description, and she prepared to send the fire truck to pick me up, but I suggested a taxi would be a better option, and instead of camping in the wilds, I had a comfortable bed and fine meal  that night, and an adventure that I can recount to my great grandchildren one day.

Did you meet somebody? I am asked too often. Women’s heads are filled with fantasies about a  dashing Romeo rescuing a damsel pining in loneliness. They pity a woman who has no man, like she’s no longer having a life. But I believe they are also sincerely excited and will be happy for me if I fulfill that fantasy, it validates what’s important in their life.

But that’s it, a fantasy. I admit I want to fall in love again, but my experience with Johnny is a hard act to follow. He was my first love, and I was knocked off my feet when I first saw him, and literally there was a tunnel of light between us eclipsing all those around us when we met. The first experience can never be repeated. I will have to come around to another idea of being with a man, for my life is full and free and unfettered by compromises. It’s not companionship I need, I can have a dog for that, it’s not financial security, I have a healthy 401K, it’s not for being lonely, I have family and friends who love me, it’s not for sex, it is overrated (I do not make unfounded conclusions :), it’s not for being afraid to be old, or of death, for those you face alone. Like travel, it has to fill me with wonder and discovery, enrich my life and expand my world.

PRISM, etc.

Musings on US431

Road Trip to Santa Rosa Beach

It always amazes me how an unfocused mind can go in all directions. On the way to Santa Rosa Beach FL , after Eufaula AL, where your eyes delight in its main street lined with charming Victorian cottages and mansions,  there isn't much to see on the road except a long  unrelieved stretch of McAdam concrete, I find my mind wandering along with the boring scenery. This wandering thoughts also occur during my enforced 3-mile walks around Atlantic Station and the GA Tech campus. The walks however had been productive of creative ideas when I am involved with projects like fundraising or planning a trip or a party, or when I have some problem to analyze and solve. I am thinking that this same  process  is applicable to a mind plotting horrible acts of terror, criminal activities or reckless behavior during idle moments when there is nothing exciting to focus on. And so while driving on this long boring stretch of road I am mulling over this US government surveillance program expose by the Guardian and  Snowden that's all over the news and the Comedy Central show with Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert last night. The media and Fox news are in a tizzy and having almost orgasmic excitement about this most recent scandal in the Obama administration. JayJay is driving and I am listening to Mack update us on the progress of the tennis semifinals match at Roland Garros between Nadal and the Djoker. Rah is hooked to her iPod and periodically annoys Mack and there is a brief good natured poking between the 2 in the rear of the car, and my thoughts are held up temporarily. It appears the cyber surveillance is approved by Congress and the Justice department during the Bush years, designed to hunt down terrorists after the 9/11 attack, continued by Obama, and said to be successful in thwarting several terroristic plots. And Snowden exposed this whole plan by publishing the powerpoint data about this program, code name PRISM. This involves  monitoring any citizen through sophisticated analysis of huge amounts of data from internet sites such as  Google Facebook YouTube Yahoo etc. essentially prying into each and every citizen business without its consent or knowledge. This came in the recent revelation of the administration also seizing the emails of AP correspondents after the leak of security information after the Boston shooting. The ACLU is now suing the government for breach of free speech and unlawful surveillance.  It is very gray. On the one hand I recall the witch hunt for communists during the McCarthy era and the paranoia that's connected with Edgar Hoover's term in the early days of the FBI. Meanwhile there was the endangerment of government secret agents with the blowing of their covers in the Valerie Plame case, compromising their mission and ending Valerie’s career as a CIA agent. And now I just learned how tiny Estonia is all cyber connected, and does its governing pretty much through the internet, and the citizenry carry their ID in computer chips, pay their parking via smart phones, etc. Mind boggling, efficient, requires less government employees, therefore financially sustainable, but also vulnerable to cyber attacks and the whole system is paralyzed. This is like an apocalyptic scenario from a FX movie. This cyber technology and  communication the internet and social media is just awesome. The PRISM technology is incredible. As I’m in the car and could not type much on my iPhone to put my musings down, I am dictating using my Dragon app, then I will send it to myself via email, save it to my Pages app, then edit and finalize the whole article when I get to my desktop. I use Facebook for the facility and convenience of exchanging information and sharing in the activities of friends and family . Is there infringement of citizens’ rights if the government monitors patterns of activities analyzed from terrorist patterns to identify individuals for surveillance, to protect the nation? Do journalists violate national interests by publicizing classified information? How is that different from providing national secret to enemies, which is treason? Are journalist in it to inform the public, and how do they decide what’s good for the public to know, or are they seeking the Pulitzer or Peabody? or increasing circulation and prestige for their papers? I wish I could consult Solomon to resolve this dilemma.

So here’s Mack to update us that the Djoker lost to Nadal, and he’s not amused, and we’re making the turn to Calypso Pointe, in Santa Rosa beach, and it’s sunny and the warm Gulf is beckoning.

The Girls

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!