The last four entries are taken straight from emails I’ve sent during this trip. It’s kind of a cop out, but I’ve been having a hard time getting any posts up at all, as I’m sure anyone reading these has noticed, so I just figured that something was better than nothing. One or two of them have been slightly edited, but, for the most part, they’re the same as when I wrote them in a hurry. Therefore, they’re all pretty sporadic and patchy, but, like I said, something’s better than nothing. Right?
Cheers.
April 17, 2009
Japan
Japan was a lot of fun, but logistically overwhelming. Japan is EXPENSIVE. It was something of a shock to my wallet to be back in a country with a powerhouse economy. Some parts of Hong Kong and Shanghai were close, but not at all like Tokyo. Most of my money was spent on transit-- trains, buses, subways-- from Kobe to Hiroshima back to Kobe to Tokyo to Mt Fuji to Tokyo to Yokohama back to Tokyo back to Yokohama. Japan is a beautiful country, and we were lucky enough to be there at the peak of cherry blossom season. All the streets and parks were lined with the beautiful trees, and they made it easy to take a picture worth saving.
Hiroshima was a pretty memorable experience for me. The monument was beautiful and moving. The museum was devastating. You read about things like shadows being burned into stone. I saw one. It’s so strange to see something like that. I’m not sure I would have recognized it for what it was had it not been labeled. It’s surreal and astounding-- astounding the horrific force that could leave such a remnant. I was surprised at how objective the whole thing was though. In Vietnam, war memorials and museums were still very anti American-- maybe Japanese wounds had just had more time to heal-- but the Hiroshima museum was so effective because it was just a reflection. It presented facts, stories, and numbers without passing judgment or blame. Instead they just hoped to prevent such a tragedy from ever ever happening again.
The clothes were the worst. Most of them were of children, and all of them had stories of the owner's life before being incinerated. One shirt-- a little girl's shirt-- was just dirty and white, pretty unremarkable. There were stains from dirt and dust, and it was torn almost to shreds just like the other clothes in the exhibit. Then I examined it closer. I realized that the mud stains were blood stains-- 60 year old pieces of one victim out of thousands infused into the fabric of a plain cotton shirt, and it broke me down.
Despite the heart wrenching feelings one inevitably feels browsing through that museum, the end result, I think, is, ultimately, a hopeful outlook on humanities ability to learn from its mistakes, that, perhaps, someday, the world will be rid of the nuclear threat. It’s a very cool thing. particularly when the cherry blossoms are blooming, creating a pink and white rustling frame around the infamous dome devastated by the blast, there's a feeling that renewal is happening, has happened, and it's a testament to the people who live there. They always live under the unforgivable shadow of that disaster, but they have managed to conquer it.
Mt. Fuji-- Fuji-san-- was probably the other most signifant experience I had in Japan, and seeing it is an experience. It's breathtaking and marvelous, living up to, and surpassing all the hype. Its no wonder its inspired poets and artists for thousands of years. I’ve not dealt with it all the literature or all the art work, but I think the best a poet or an artist can do is pay homage to the magnificence of Fuji. They can never capture it. No poem, no painting, no photograph, no song can contain Fuji on a page, on a canvas, or behind music bars.
Hiroshima was a pretty memorable experience for me. The monument was beautiful and moving. The museum was devastating. You read about things like shadows being burned into stone. I saw one. It’s so strange to see something like that. I’m not sure I would have recognized it for what it was had it not been labeled. It’s surreal and astounding-- astounding the horrific force that could leave such a remnant. I was surprised at how objective the whole thing was though. In Vietnam, war memorials and museums were still very anti American-- maybe Japanese wounds had just had more time to heal-- but the Hiroshima museum was so effective because it was just a reflection. It presented facts, stories, and numbers without passing judgment or blame. Instead they just hoped to prevent such a tragedy from ever ever happening again.
The clothes were the worst. Most of them were of children, and all of them had stories of the owner's life before being incinerated. One shirt-- a little girl's shirt-- was just dirty and white, pretty unremarkable. There were stains from dirt and dust, and it was torn almost to shreds just like the other clothes in the exhibit. Then I examined it closer. I realized that the mud stains were blood stains-- 60 year old pieces of one victim out of thousands infused into the fabric of a plain cotton shirt, and it broke me down.
Despite the heart wrenching feelings one inevitably feels browsing through that museum, the end result, I think, is, ultimately, a hopeful outlook on humanities ability to learn from its mistakes, that, perhaps, someday, the world will be rid of the nuclear threat. It’s a very cool thing. particularly when the cherry blossoms are blooming, creating a pink and white rustling frame around the infamous dome devastated by the blast, there's a feeling that renewal is happening, has happened, and it's a testament to the people who live there. They always live under the unforgivable shadow of that disaster, but they have managed to conquer it.
Mt. Fuji-- Fuji-san-- was probably the other most signifant experience I had in Japan, and seeing it is an experience. It's breathtaking and marvelous, living up to, and surpassing all the hype. Its no wonder its inspired poets and artists for thousands of years. I’ve not dealt with it all the literature or all the art work, but I think the best a poet or an artist can do is pay homage to the magnificence of Fuji. They can never capture it. No poem, no painting, no photograph, no song can contain Fuji on a page, on a canvas, or behind music bars.
Mauritius
We were only in Mauritius for a day, but it was pretty spectacular. I really wish we could've stayed longer. There're a lot of really interesting things going on on that island. There were no indigenous people, so the inhabitants are truly a blend of all the people that ended up, or were brought there, for various reasons. Mauritius was also home to the dodo bird. There were several other flightless birds that evolved on volcanic islands like Mauritius and Hawaii because there were no large mammals or predators, people wiped them all out pretty quick. There was a big pigeon, kind of wren, and even a big flightless parrot, among others.
My day, and most everyone's, in Mauritius was a bit obscene. We pretty much got off the ship, and went to a smaller, sort of private island. There we spent the day lounging, snorkeling, swimming, and overall enjoying the Indian Ocean. There was also a huge cookout which was scrumptious in every way. Because the people come from everywhere, so do the culinary influences. There’s Indian, Creole, French. So good. And there was homemade rum. Man was that good. Mauritius was developed by the British for sugar cane, so the presence of rum is not surprising, but the quality of it blew me away. Better than even any Jamaican rum I’ve had (granted, I’ve never been to Jamaica, so I only get the import). To flavor it-- instead of the nasty syrups or whatever it is they use in flavored rums back home-- they just take plain rum and then drop fruit straight in the bottle. So the coconut rum has a bunch of real, fresh (coconuts everywhere in Mauritius) coconuts floating in it. When you finish the rum you can eat the fruit if you want.... though coconut flavored rum is a lot better than rum flavored coconut. Oh yeah, and they have this beer called Phoenix. I only had some because it's consistently ranked among the top like 5 or 10 beers in the world. Well, it was pretty good I must say.
In case you get the opinion that I just spent my day drinking, I didn't. I explored the little island and went snorkeling, too. Lots and lots of soft corals. Some was brilliant royal blue like I’ve never seen in coral before. And the lava rocks on the shore line made lots of interesting tidal ecosystems.
Neat.
My day, and most everyone's, in Mauritius was a bit obscene. We pretty much got off the ship, and went to a smaller, sort of private island. There we spent the day lounging, snorkeling, swimming, and overall enjoying the Indian Ocean. There was also a huge cookout which was scrumptious in every way. Because the people come from everywhere, so do the culinary influences. There’s Indian, Creole, French. So good. And there was homemade rum. Man was that good. Mauritius was developed by the British for sugar cane, so the presence of rum is not surprising, but the quality of it blew me away. Better than even any Jamaican rum I’ve had (granted, I’ve never been to Jamaica, so I only get the import). To flavor it-- instead of the nasty syrups or whatever it is they use in flavored rums back home-- they just take plain rum and then drop fruit straight in the bottle. So the coconut rum has a bunch of real, fresh (coconuts everywhere in Mauritius) coconuts floating in it. When you finish the rum you can eat the fruit if you want.... though coconut flavored rum is a lot better than rum flavored coconut. Oh yeah, and they have this beer called Phoenix. I only had some because it's consistently ranked among the top like 5 or 10 beers in the world. Well, it was pretty good I must say.
In case you get the opinion that I just spent my day drinking, I didn't. I explored the little island and went snorkeling, too. Lots and lots of soft corals. Some was brilliant royal blue like I’ve never seen in coral before. And the lava rocks on the shore line made lots of interesting tidal ecosystems.
Neat.
Namibia
Namibia is an incredibly beautiful country with incredibly beautiful people. I was completely infatuated with the small portion that I was lucky enough to see. Namibia is the size of Texas and Oklahoma put together, but only has the population of Houston. So people are a little spread out. Looking over Walvis Bay from the ship, it's easy to see the edges of the small town. It looks like a little oasis-- the blue of the ocean on one side, and the white of the Namib desert on every other. When we arrived, there was a group of school girls singing and dancing to welcome us. It was pretty cute. Namibia is trying hard to promote tourism, and it has a lot to offer-- beaches, dunes, German beer, safaris, typical tourist things. It is on the rise, but in a country so small, our ship had a tremendous impact. Everyone new we were coming. In fact, it's estimated that our ship of people alone contributed 10% of the tourist economy for the entire year. People were lined up for a block outside the entrance to the port eager to sell their wares. Some had traveled quite far for the opportunity to tap into the American cash flow. There were even people who obviously came straight from the traditional tribal setting. I can't think of the name of the group off the top of my head right now, but any research on Namibia will bring them up. They're distinguished by the striking red color of their skin, and the intricate hair styles of the women. They use some sort of pigment in the ground to color their bodies, and its actually possible to tell what stage of life a woman is by her hair-- prepubescent, puberty, pregnant, married, etc. There's a different style for each. It's sort of a strange thing to say, but they seemed almost unreal in the urban setting. Though, I think they were beautiful, and I can absolutely see the appeal of their choice in aesthetics.
I spent the first day exploring Walvis Bay. There's really not too much going on. It's just a small town, but there was a fabulous restaurant/bar called The Raft that extended into the water. There were 360 degree views, and we were treated to one of the most spectacular sunsets I've ever seen-- complete with flocks of pelicans flying into it. Our meal was interesting, too. They had all sorts of unique meat. I had kudu. Others in the group had orix, ostrich, warthog, and, I think, springbok. We sort of traded. It was all pretty tasty. Pretty gamey. I think ostrich was actually my favorite. It didn't really taste like bird at all, but was quite delicious.
The next afternoon was spent in the sand dunes. They're just there, right outside city limits. If the Appalachian Mountains suddenly turned orange and yellow and shifting that's sort of what the dune scape is like. The number one past time in the dunes is dune boarding. Think sledding/snowboarding except on sand. We had planned on spending the whole day doing this, and we did in a sense, but the dune we chose-- dune 7 the locals call it-- was so massive and steep that, by the time we got to the top, we couldn't bear the thought of going back to the bottom. Instead, we just chilled at the top. Actually, we most certainly did not chill. The sun was at its highest point, and the sand was something like 77 degrees Celsius. I'm not sure what that is in Fahrenheit, but, if you do the math, I think it equals hot as shit. Sticking your fingers in it was like sticking them in a boiling pot of coffee. So we cooked at the top for quite some time knowing that another hike up was inconceivable. Finally, the prospect of water and a cold beer got to be too much, so we slid/rolled/swore our way to the bottom. Sand boarding is harder than it looks. You go faaast.
One benefit of being colonized by Germans is the fact that they bring their taste for beer. They've managed to come up with several light drinks that seem to have been brewed specifically for the purpose of beating the heat. There's Windoek (pronounced win-dook) Lager, named after and brewed in the capital, and then there's Savannah Dry. It's not beer. It's an absolutely delightful hard cider, and it's 100% refreshing. It's not the same as any cider I've ever had in the States though. That stuff always just tastes like candy in a bottle. This has a bit of a bite to it, and, after being slowly broiled for an afternoon, it's perfect. Then, yet again, there was food. It's hard for me to pass up an open grill, and, in this case I was very well rewarded. It was ox tail-- scrumptious-- served on top of this stuff that I, unfortunately, forget the real name of. Though, I'm pretty sure it's something of a staple in Namibia. I think, basically, it's a sort of corn porridge. Very clumpy, something like a mix between couscous and cream of wheat in appearance. It was very delicious whatever it was.
The next day, I went up to Swakopmund, a very German town a bit north of Walvis Bay. It's significantly more touristy, but I thought I should check it out. Everything you read about Namibia mentions it. It had lots of interesting shops and stores-- mostly local. However, I ended up spending my afternoon swimming in the ocean with several locals I kind of randomly met, and then sharing a beer with them. Namibians are fun, and totally easy going. Very quick to smile. After several laughs I had to make my way back to the ship.
I spent the first day exploring Walvis Bay. There's really not too much going on. It's just a small town, but there was a fabulous restaurant/bar called The Raft that extended into the water. There were 360 degree views, and we were treated to one of the most spectacular sunsets I've ever seen-- complete with flocks of pelicans flying into it. Our meal was interesting, too. They had all sorts of unique meat. I had kudu. Others in the group had orix, ostrich, warthog, and, I think, springbok. We sort of traded. It was all pretty tasty. Pretty gamey. I think ostrich was actually my favorite. It didn't really taste like bird at all, but was quite delicious.
The next afternoon was spent in the sand dunes. They're just there, right outside city limits. If the Appalachian Mountains suddenly turned orange and yellow and shifting that's sort of what the dune scape is like. The number one past time in the dunes is dune boarding. Think sledding/snowboarding except on sand. We had planned on spending the whole day doing this, and we did in a sense, but the dune we chose-- dune 7 the locals call it-- was so massive and steep that, by the time we got to the top, we couldn't bear the thought of going back to the bottom. Instead, we just chilled at the top. Actually, we most certainly did not chill. The sun was at its highest point, and the sand was something like 77 degrees Celsius. I'm not sure what that is in Fahrenheit, but, if you do the math, I think it equals hot as shit. Sticking your fingers in it was like sticking them in a boiling pot of coffee. So we cooked at the top for quite some time knowing that another hike up was inconceivable. Finally, the prospect of water and a cold beer got to be too much, so we slid/rolled/swore our way to the bottom. Sand boarding is harder than it looks. You go faaast.
One benefit of being colonized by Germans is the fact that they bring their taste for beer. They've managed to come up with several light drinks that seem to have been brewed specifically for the purpose of beating the heat. There's Windoek (pronounced win-dook) Lager, named after and brewed in the capital, and then there's Savannah Dry. It's not beer. It's an absolutely delightful hard cider, and it's 100% refreshing. It's not the same as any cider I've ever had in the States though. That stuff always just tastes like candy in a bottle. This has a bit of a bite to it, and, after being slowly broiled for an afternoon, it's perfect. Then, yet again, there was food. It's hard for me to pass up an open grill, and, in this case I was very well rewarded. It was ox tail-- scrumptious-- served on top of this stuff that I, unfortunately, forget the real name of. Though, I'm pretty sure it's something of a staple in Namibia. I think, basically, it's a sort of corn porridge. Very clumpy, something like a mix between couscous and cream of wheat in appearance. It was very delicious whatever it was.
The next day, I went up to Swakopmund, a very German town a bit north of Walvis Bay. It's significantly more touristy, but I thought I should check it out. Everything you read about Namibia mentions it. It had lots of interesting shops and stores-- mostly local. However, I ended up spending my afternoon swimming in the ocean with several locals I kind of randomly met, and then sharing a beer with them. Namibians are fun, and totally easy going. Very quick to smile. After several laughs I had to make my way back to the ship.
Morocco
So. Morocco. Insane. I'm not exactly sure what I was expecting, but it was like a culture shot straight to the jugular. I went straight to Marrakech when we arrived, and spent my whole time there. I wanted to get to Rick's on the last day just to say I'd been, but the weather was nasty in Casablanca, and I was exhausted and probably would have been late getting back on the ship. Marrakech is fabulous though. Initially, it was a little overwhelming. I ended up by my self for about half of the first day and for the first night. I got split from the group because we were trying to decide where to stay, and I went to the one I thought would be best, and they did the same. My room consisted of a queen sized bed and a sink. That's it. The walls were about 4 feet from the bed on every side. It was a little sketch, but it was also right on the square-- right in the beating heart of Marrakech. So I got settled in, and started wandering around the markets by myself, and, honestly, I got a little nervous for a bit. I don't get nervous that easily, and I like being alone, but it was just so completely different from anything I've experienced. The markets are set up like this: imagine a very large plaza-- they call it the square, but its shaped more like an angular potato-- the plaza serves like the hub, and from it-- from all sides-- snakes and mazes of streets shoot out, winding together like the web of a drunken spider. Along these side alleys are packed every sort of vendor or peddler you can imagine-- every single one tugging, pulling, yelling at you to by their wares. Row after row and shop after shop stocked with scarves, robes, bangles, fake purses, fake sunglasses, spices, shoes, jewelry, paintings, pots-- anything you can possibly imagine-- blast every one of your senses to the point of overstimulation. I spent two days lost in these markets (souqs). To buy something, you have to barter, and I found out I love to barter! It's so much fun. I made several purchases, and each time it's like a game between you and the shop keeper. What makes it more fun is the fact that most Moroccans are the nicest people I've ever met, so the whole operation is done with a smile and laughter.
Then there's the square itself. Every evening as the sun begins to head down, the plaza comes alive. Con artists and performers of all sorts gather, and crowds come together to watch the excitement. I was pleased to see that the majority of the spectators were actually Moroccan, not just tourists. There are funny dancers dressed in wild colors, snake charmers, monkeys, storytellers, and the food stands. Oh, the food!!! When the square is really going, there are rows and rows of food stands, and, when they all start cooking, the steam rises and the smell rises, and everyone just starts salivating. There are lamb kabobs, various kinds of delicious breads, pastries, olives, dates, figs, fish, calamari, snails-- which, by the way, are delicious, and much much more. Probably my very favorite was the mint tea. It's everywhere, and it's sooo delicious.
Oh yeah, I rode a camel, too.
Then there's the square itself. Every evening as the sun begins to head down, the plaza comes alive. Con artists and performers of all sorts gather, and crowds come together to watch the excitement. I was pleased to see that the majority of the spectators were actually Moroccan, not just tourists. There are funny dancers dressed in wild colors, snake charmers, monkeys, storytellers, and the food stands. Oh, the food!!! When the square is really going, there are rows and rows of food stands, and, when they all start cooking, the steam rises and the smell rises, and everyone just starts salivating. There are lamb kabobs, various kinds of delicious breads, pastries, olives, dates, figs, fish, calamari, snails-- which, by the way, are delicious, and much much more. Probably my very favorite was the mint tea. It's everywhere, and it's sooo delicious.
Oh yeah, I rode a camel, too.
February 23, 2009
A Cab Ride in Namibia
“He is sick,” Andrew spoke with a normal voice, but the words were barely audible above the radio and the wind as we pulled away. He spoke matter of factly. I looked at him, and saw no sadness in his eyes.
“Sick how?” The girl in the back seat asked. I grimaced, unsure if it was our place or not. Andrew turned to me—still no sadness, but something else, a look of jaded hope, of pleading, of two eyes tired of watching his brother being slowly consumed, tired of waiting, and a look that said “really? Sick how? You have to ask?” He gave me a sort of half smile,
“There’s only one sickness here.” Oh. It dawned on me, and I felt foolish.
“What?” yelled the loud girl from the back, but Andrew wouldn’t repeat it. He wouldn’t name the disease, as if speaking it somehow made it real. We hushed the girl. The desert wind screamed in our ears. Aging American pop music blasted from the speakers. No one spoke.
Of course, we’d been given all the information before we arrived in Namibia. Twenty percent of the population has HIV. Just like the rest of Africa, prevention is a problem. Organizations are doing what they can, yadda, yadda, yadda. Twenty percent. 1 in 5. It’s a jaw dropping number, but sort of arbitrary—one of those things that makes you say damn as you continue about your business. Now, suddenly, all the statistics, all the numbers evaporated. 1 in 5 became Andrew’s brother—the one I met less than five minutes ago. Now there was a face.
“How old is he?” One of us ventured to ask.
“40.”
I met Andrew earlier that evening. He’s a cab driver. We were on our way from Walvis Bay, where the ship was docked, to Swakopmund, a small German town up the coast. The intention was to celebrate our friend’s 21st birthday even though the U.S. is apparently the only nation on earth where the drinking age isn’t 18. The locals thought the whole thing a bit silly, and it was. Turned out Andrew was awesome, and we all enjoyed his company so much that we invited him to come in with us when we reached the bar. He agreed. Of course, being a good driver, he didn’t drink anything but coke and apple juice, but we did share copious amounts of conversation. The topics ranged from politics to singing happy birthday in his indigenous tongue. By the end of the night we were fast friends.
Two others and myself decided to head back to the ship a bit earlier than everyone else, and Andrew (you should be rolling the r) obliged. However, we took a couple detours first. We were told again and again in our on ship briefings (we do them before every country) not to go into the townships—
Townships are the areas surrounding cities and towns in Namibia and South Africa where non-Whites were forced to live during apartheid. Both countries are “free” now, but the distribution of wealth still very much resembles the colonial model. A few rich white people. Lots of poor Africans. Because of this, many many people still reside in the townships.
—because they’re rife with crime and people trying to bridge the gap between rich and poor by any means necessary, and the opportunity to rob an American (American= rich) would be to good to pass up, etc, etc. So, naturally, when Andrew asked if he could show us the townships, and his home, we said, “Of course!”
The difference was stark and sobering. Whereas Swakopmund abounds with colorful German architecture, bed and breakfasts, and beach front villas, driving into even just the fringes of the Swakop townships feels like you’ve come someplace else entirely. The villas and high end shops vanish in the place of row after row of shanties and shacks—some that look like they were constructed the same way you start a game of pick-up sticks—jumbled together precariously so that some streets allow easy access for cars while others offer room for little more than a bicycle. Roofs of tin sheets or whatever other material could be found must be held down with old tires or cinderblocks, anything that could be used as a weight. From a distance, many township blocks could easily just be mistaken for junkyards.
Beside one of the nicer houses—it had a cinderblock foundation—we pulled up, and parked. Andrew explained that his brother lived here, and he’d just gotten off work. He wanted us to meet him. The house had two rooms. The living room (I guess that’s the best thing to call it) was about the size of a small bedroom in an American house, the walls naked and gray. A smaller-than-twin-size bed doubled as a couch and, well, a bed, and a small TV flickered on the floor, the picture going in and out. Against one wall rested a tiny table, atop that sat one electric burner. I don’t recall a refrigerator. There was no oven. There may have been a toilet in the other room, but I think it was just the living space for his roommate. Despite his… modest living conditions, Andrew’s brother greeted us warmly. He apologized for having nothing to offer us, and suggested maybe we could go drinking together. Unfortunately, it was already getting quite late, and Andrew seemed uncomfortable with the idea of taking three Americans to the township bar, so we politely refused. We were just pulling onto the highway back towards Walvis Bay when Andrew told us of his brother’s ailment.
We rode a while in silence. He looked at me and smiled,
“You want to see where Angelina and—what’s his name?—Brad Pitt had their baby?”
“Sick how?” The girl in the back seat asked. I grimaced, unsure if it was our place or not. Andrew turned to me—still no sadness, but something else, a look of jaded hope, of pleading, of two eyes tired of watching his brother being slowly consumed, tired of waiting, and a look that said “really? Sick how? You have to ask?” He gave me a sort of half smile,
“There’s only one sickness here.” Oh. It dawned on me, and I felt foolish.
“What?” yelled the loud girl from the back, but Andrew wouldn’t repeat it. He wouldn’t name the disease, as if speaking it somehow made it real. We hushed the girl. The desert wind screamed in our ears. Aging American pop music blasted from the speakers. No one spoke.
Of course, we’d been given all the information before we arrived in Namibia. Twenty percent of the population has HIV. Just like the rest of Africa, prevention is a problem. Organizations are doing what they can, yadda, yadda, yadda. Twenty percent. 1 in 5. It’s a jaw dropping number, but sort of arbitrary—one of those things that makes you say damn as you continue about your business. Now, suddenly, all the statistics, all the numbers evaporated. 1 in 5 became Andrew’s brother—the one I met less than five minutes ago. Now there was a face.
“How old is he?” One of us ventured to ask.
“40.”
I met Andrew earlier that evening. He’s a cab driver. We were on our way from Walvis Bay, where the ship was docked, to Swakopmund, a small German town up the coast. The intention was to celebrate our friend’s 21st birthday even though the U.S. is apparently the only nation on earth where the drinking age isn’t 18. The locals thought the whole thing a bit silly, and it was. Turned out Andrew was awesome, and we all enjoyed his company so much that we invited him to come in with us when we reached the bar. He agreed. Of course, being a good driver, he didn’t drink anything but coke and apple juice, but we did share copious amounts of conversation. The topics ranged from politics to singing happy birthday in his indigenous tongue. By the end of the night we were fast friends.
Two others and myself decided to head back to the ship a bit earlier than everyone else, and Andrew (you should be rolling the r) obliged. However, we took a couple detours first. We were told again and again in our on ship briefings (we do them before every country) not to go into the townships—
Townships are the areas surrounding cities and towns in Namibia and South Africa where non-Whites were forced to live during apartheid. Both countries are “free” now, but the distribution of wealth still very much resembles the colonial model. A few rich white people. Lots of poor Africans. Because of this, many many people still reside in the townships.
—because they’re rife with crime and people trying to bridge the gap between rich and poor by any means necessary, and the opportunity to rob an American (American= rich) would be to good to pass up, etc, etc. So, naturally, when Andrew asked if he could show us the townships, and his home, we said, “Of course!”
The difference was stark and sobering. Whereas Swakopmund abounds with colorful German architecture, bed and breakfasts, and beach front villas, driving into even just the fringes of the Swakop townships feels like you’ve come someplace else entirely. The villas and high end shops vanish in the place of row after row of shanties and shacks—some that look like they were constructed the same way you start a game of pick-up sticks—jumbled together precariously so that some streets allow easy access for cars while others offer room for little more than a bicycle. Roofs of tin sheets or whatever other material could be found must be held down with old tires or cinderblocks, anything that could be used as a weight. From a distance, many township blocks could easily just be mistaken for junkyards.
Beside one of the nicer houses—it had a cinderblock foundation—we pulled up, and parked. Andrew explained that his brother lived here, and he’d just gotten off work. He wanted us to meet him. The house had two rooms. The living room (I guess that’s the best thing to call it) was about the size of a small bedroom in an American house, the walls naked and gray. A smaller-than-twin-size bed doubled as a couch and, well, a bed, and a small TV flickered on the floor, the picture going in and out. Against one wall rested a tiny table, atop that sat one electric burner. I don’t recall a refrigerator. There was no oven. There may have been a toilet in the other room, but I think it was just the living space for his roommate. Despite his… modest living conditions, Andrew’s brother greeted us warmly. He apologized for having nothing to offer us, and suggested maybe we could go drinking together. Unfortunately, it was already getting quite late, and Andrew seemed uncomfortable with the idea of taking three Americans to the township bar, so we politely refused. We were just pulling onto the highway back towards Walvis Bay when Andrew told us of his brother’s ailment.
We rode a while in silence. He looked at me and smiled,
“You want to see where Angelina and—what’s his name?—Brad Pitt had their baby?”
February 12, 2009
Espana, Finally
Right. Spain. I was there. It was neat. I did some stuff. It was fun… And that’s all I have to say about that.
Actually, the problem is I have far too much to say about that—so much that it’s taken me this long to condense it all into something fit for a blog entry and not a novel. The difficulty came primarily in determining which observations and experiences were most potent and worth sharing—not that they weren’t all worth sharing—and trying to hard to make them into something profound and life-changing. Okay, so I doubt this will actually be profound or life-changing after all, but I hope, at least, it will be a little interesting and/or entertaining. Annnnnd, we’re off:
Spain is pretty much as old as Moses’s toeseses, and it showseses. Every turn of the head reveals something historical, and tour guides describe something as ‘new’ if it was built after 1500. Cadiz, the city we arrived in, claims to be the oldest city in all of Europe, and they have much to back that claim. A short stroll through the antique side of town leads to the discovery of buildings or monuments from virtually every significant era of Western Civilization. In fact, Cadiz is so artifact rich that it’s virtually impossible for anyone to break ground for a new building project without the Spanish government turning it into an archeological site of national importance due to the discovery of a new cultural layer. The small town was home to Phoenicians, Romans, Moors, Spanish conquistadors—Columbus set sail from Cadiz— and every major European Empire. Its position between the Atlantic and the Mediterranean meant that whoever controlled Cadiz controlled commerce for the entire region……….. I don’t want to talk about this anymore…. Tangent!
So, I spent my first day in Cadiz. That evening I was lucky enough to attend a Flamenco performance. I’ve never really had a full blown encounter with Flamenco before, but it was electrifying. We sat in small, candle-lit room. The stage—little more than a plywood platform—dominated the front of the room. There was an intimacy that allowed, or forced, everyone present to see the fire coming from the dancers, to hear the intricacies of the guitar, and to feel the walls vibrating with the power of the singer’s voice. And Flamenco is about all three—dancer, guitar, vocals. Each part is essential, and none can stand without the other two. I watched and listened fairly mesmerized, and, when the performance ended, the energy lingered until everyone had filed out.
Day two started and ended on a bus. A great portion of the day was devoured in transit between several Andalucían cities and towns. This is not by any means a complaint. The Andalucian country side happens to be every bit as spectacular as the Cathedrals and monuments throughout. The rolling hills and mountains feel and awful lot like Western Carolina—the brilliant emerald color of it all, the farms dotting the landscape here and there. On the other hand, it’s much more drastic, more similar in many respects to the rough mountains of the southwest, but green instead of red or brown. Another stark difference between a drive through Appalachia and Andalucia comes with the realization that, instead of ugly, deteriorating barns or burnt out houses, the ‘trash’ speckled across southern Spain comes in the form of abandoned forts, aging churches, or even a castle or two.
The first two stops were Arcos and Ronda. Both belong to a series of towns in southern Spain known as ‘white towns.’ Not surprisingly, the name comes from the fact that the towns are, well, white. It’s quite remarkable approaching thing on land. You glance up, and the first impression is of a snow capped mountain. As you draw nearer you realize that, no, that’s a town. Both Arcos and Ronda sit precariously atop sheer cliffs. The only way to enter Ronda is across a bridge of phenomenal engineering as it’s literally an island with sheer drops all the way around. The towns are quaint, delightful, and awe inspiring. They’re white because they were originally built of limestone, and every year they would be white washed to reduce dust and deterioration.
The final stop was Granada. Oh, Granada! It’s a place that would be very easy to pass away the years in. My Spanish professor, Ignacio, happens to be a native Granadian (I’m not sure that’s what their called), and he happened to move back there last semester—good for me. I got in touch with him, and we were able to meet up which proved to be a fabulous advantage. I essentially had my own personal tour guide, and a pass to all the super secret local hang outs. It’s no exaggeration to say that many of the best clubs and bars are little more than unmarked doors in random alleyways.
Before I got to all that, however, I had to sleep, which I did because I got into Granada late, and I was quite exhausted. It’s very rough on the nerves, bus hopping in a country that doesn’t speak your language. I have to say that, by the end, I was very pleased with my Spanish performance, but quite spent. I’d been on a total of four buses, and had to successfully make a transaction in Espanol each time. Ok, good, so I got a good night’s repose.
The next day, Friday, I explored Granada. As I said, it’s quite something. There’s just as much history as Cadiz, but in Granada it’s more closely intertwined with the modern. It’s possible to walk down the main strip seeing nothing but neon and advertisements for American movies, only to turn a corner and find yourself face to face with the Cathedral from Gothic times. The skyline is a collage of Islamic domes, Christian facades and spires, and modern office buildings. Somehow, all of this manages to coexist more or less in harmony. Watching over all of this, the Sierra Nevada mountains dominate the view to the east, snowcapped, and glimmering. This was the ultimate treat. I sort of new they were there, but it didn’t cross my mind at all as we strolled through the ancient streets. Then, BAM, there they are. More remarkable still, was the castle, Alhambra, silhouetted against the stark white of the snow. It seemed as though I’d walked right out of the 21st century into the 16th. My jaw dropped. That’s the only response I could have. I stood frozen, incapacitated, trying as best I could to wrap my head around the sight before me. Things like that don’t exist in real life. They’re only in movies and postcards, or manufactured for desktops. But there it was. There I was.
The sun set purple, yellow, and pink as we made our way down from our viewing perch. As sightseeing would be foolish in the dark, Ignacio led the way to our next activity—experiencing the Spanish nightlife. One thing about Spaniards—they are very serious about their nightlife. However, when I say nightlife, it’s more like early morning life. They go until four or five in the morning on a normal night. On a ‘good’ one it’s not uncommon to get home at eight or later. It sounds crazy, and it kind of is, but it’s also important to note the supreme difference with which Spaniards approach drinking, or ‘partying.’ To begin with, I think it would be more accurate to call it socializing than partying. There is a certain maturity and responsibility to their approach that is nearly impossible to find in the US. That’s not to say there’re no drunk Spaniards, but it’s just not such a big deal as it is in the States. Everyone is exposed to it all the time, so I feel they have a better handle on alcohol in general. And you’re eating the whole time you’re drinking. Every drink comes with tapas. You don’t pay more. It just comes, so it’s not just binge drinking… ok, I feel like this is getting boring, and I’m kind of just rambling, so, ummm… tapas are awesome!
I’ll
t
ry to get one more posted for Morocco before I get to Namibia….
Actually, the problem is I have far too much to say about that—so much that it’s taken me this long to condense it all into something fit for a blog entry and not a novel. The difficulty came primarily in determining which observations and experiences were most potent and worth sharing—not that they weren’t all worth sharing—and trying to hard to make them into something profound and life-changing. Okay, so I doubt this will actually be profound or life-changing after all, but I hope, at least, it will be a little interesting and/or entertaining. Annnnnd, we’re off:
Spain is pretty much as old as Moses’s toeseses, and it showseses. Every turn of the head reveals something historical, and tour guides describe something as ‘new’ if it was built after 1500. Cadiz, the city we arrived in, claims to be the oldest city in all of Europe, and they have much to back that claim. A short stroll through the antique side of town leads to the discovery of buildings or monuments from virtually every significant era of Western Civilization. In fact, Cadiz is so artifact rich that it’s virtually impossible for anyone to break ground for a new building project without the Spanish government turning it into an archeological site of national importance due to the discovery of a new cultural layer. The small town was home to Phoenicians, Romans, Moors, Spanish conquistadors—Columbus set sail from Cadiz— and every major European Empire. Its position between the Atlantic and the Mediterranean meant that whoever controlled Cadiz controlled commerce for the entire region……….. I don’t want to talk about this anymore…. Tangent!
So, I spent my first day in Cadiz. That evening I was lucky enough to attend a Flamenco performance. I’ve never really had a full blown encounter with Flamenco before, but it was electrifying. We sat in small, candle-lit room. The stage—little more than a plywood platform—dominated the front of the room. There was an intimacy that allowed, or forced, everyone present to see the fire coming from the dancers, to hear the intricacies of the guitar, and to feel the walls vibrating with the power of the singer’s voice. And Flamenco is about all three—dancer, guitar, vocals. Each part is essential, and none can stand without the other two. I watched and listened fairly mesmerized, and, when the performance ended, the energy lingered until everyone had filed out.
Day two started and ended on a bus. A great portion of the day was devoured in transit between several Andalucían cities and towns. This is not by any means a complaint. The Andalucian country side happens to be every bit as spectacular as the Cathedrals and monuments throughout. The rolling hills and mountains feel and awful lot like Western Carolina—the brilliant emerald color of it all, the farms dotting the landscape here and there. On the other hand, it’s much more drastic, more similar in many respects to the rough mountains of the southwest, but green instead of red or brown. Another stark difference between a drive through Appalachia and Andalucia comes with the realization that, instead of ugly, deteriorating barns or burnt out houses, the ‘trash’ speckled across southern Spain comes in the form of abandoned forts, aging churches, or even a castle or two.
The first two stops were Arcos and Ronda. Both belong to a series of towns in southern Spain known as ‘white towns.’ Not surprisingly, the name comes from the fact that the towns are, well, white. It’s quite remarkable approaching thing on land. You glance up, and the first impression is of a snow capped mountain. As you draw nearer you realize that, no, that’s a town. Both Arcos and Ronda sit precariously atop sheer cliffs. The only way to enter Ronda is across a bridge of phenomenal engineering as it’s literally an island with sheer drops all the way around. The towns are quaint, delightful, and awe inspiring. They’re white because they were originally built of limestone, and every year they would be white washed to reduce dust and deterioration.
The final stop was Granada. Oh, Granada! It’s a place that would be very easy to pass away the years in. My Spanish professor, Ignacio, happens to be a native Granadian (I’m not sure that’s what their called), and he happened to move back there last semester—good for me. I got in touch with him, and we were able to meet up which proved to be a fabulous advantage. I essentially had my own personal tour guide, and a pass to all the super secret local hang outs. It’s no exaggeration to say that many of the best clubs and bars are little more than unmarked doors in random alleyways.
Before I got to all that, however, I had to sleep, which I did because I got into Granada late, and I was quite exhausted. It’s very rough on the nerves, bus hopping in a country that doesn’t speak your language. I have to say that, by the end, I was very pleased with my Spanish performance, but quite spent. I’d been on a total of four buses, and had to successfully make a transaction in Espanol each time. Ok, good, so I got a good night’s repose.
The next day, Friday, I explored Granada. As I said, it’s quite something. There’s just as much history as Cadiz, but in Granada it’s more closely intertwined with the modern. It’s possible to walk down the main strip seeing nothing but neon and advertisements for American movies, only to turn a corner and find yourself face to face with the Cathedral from Gothic times. The skyline is a collage of Islamic domes, Christian facades and spires, and modern office buildings. Somehow, all of this manages to coexist more or less in harmony. Watching over all of this, the Sierra Nevada mountains dominate the view to the east, snowcapped, and glimmering. This was the ultimate treat. I sort of new they were there, but it didn’t cross my mind at all as we strolled through the ancient streets. Then, BAM, there they are. More remarkable still, was the castle, Alhambra, silhouetted against the stark white of the snow. It seemed as though I’d walked right out of the 21st century into the 16th. My jaw dropped. That’s the only response I could have. I stood frozen, incapacitated, trying as best I could to wrap my head around the sight before me. Things like that don’t exist in real life. They’re only in movies and postcards, or manufactured for desktops. But there it was. There I was.
The sun set purple, yellow, and pink as we made our way down from our viewing perch. As sightseeing would be foolish in the dark, Ignacio led the way to our next activity—experiencing the Spanish nightlife. One thing about Spaniards—they are very serious about their nightlife. However, when I say nightlife, it’s more like early morning life. They go until four or five in the morning on a normal night. On a ‘good’ one it’s not uncommon to get home at eight or later. It sounds crazy, and it kind of is, but it’s also important to note the supreme difference with which Spaniards approach drinking, or ‘partying.’ To begin with, I think it would be more accurate to call it socializing than partying. There is a certain maturity and responsibility to their approach that is nearly impossible to find in the US. That’s not to say there’re no drunk Spaniards, but it’s just not such a big deal as it is in the States. Everyone is exposed to it all the time, so I feel they have a better handle on alcohol in general. And you’re eating the whole time you’re drinking. Every drink comes with tapas. You don’t pay more. It just comes, so it’s not just binge drinking… ok, I feel like this is getting boring, and I’m kind of just rambling, so, ummm… tapas are awesome!
I’ll
t
ry to get one more posted for Morocco before I get to Namibia…. January 27, 2009
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The Intro, I Suppose
Well, I’m about a day out from Spain, so I suppose I should probably get this thing up and running. I haven’t exactly picked the angle from which I want to approach this blog, but, in the meantime, I think I’ll just let everyone concerned—and everyone who’s not—know what’s going on.
Ok, so, for those of you who don’t know, or only sort of know, I’ve been on a ship since January 19 on the first leg of my voyage around the world. The first stop is Cadiz, Spain followed by Morocco, Namibia, South Africa, Mauritius, India, Thailand, China, Japan, Hawaii, and Guatemala. I kicked the trip off in Nassau, Bahamas when I flew in on January 18. After checking into the Towne Hotel—a fabulous, locally run and operated hotel within easy walking distance of anything you might want to walk to—I went exploring.
My first objective was to locate and consume some phenomenal conch salad. Having thoroughly picked the brain of my cab driver between the airport and hotel, I knew I should head towards an area known as Fish Fry. It’s a string of not-quite-restaurants-more-like-shacks along one of the main docks in Nassau. All were painted in warm colors—pinks, yellows, blues—and most proudly displayed signs for Kalik, the local brew—a very light beer, much akin to Corona, though a bit more satisfying, and with the ability to stand on it’s own (no need to fruit this beer). I made several trips up and down this strip considering which stand would provide me with the best—I knew they’d all be good, but I wanted the best—conch salad, and trying my hardest to blend in with the locals despite the fact that I was one of very few people in the area who had to be concerned about sunburn. Finally, I settled on one. There were several factors: the pile of fresh conch I saw waiting patiently to be eaten by me, the lack of a menu—they served conch salad and beer. period.—the number of locals gathered there, and, last but not least, the reggae blaring from the inside. How could it be bad?
It wasn’t. It was incredible. I sat at the bar. That’s really all there was—an L shaped bar extending from a shack of a building onto the dock with a few places for patrons to sit, a cooler where they kept their beer, and a cutting board where they prepared the food. I ordered a salad and a beer, and, sipping my drink, watched the wedge-shaped hammer knock a hole in the living shell of the conch, watched the machete carve the meat out—it looked like a huge slug, or the tongue of a large mammal—watched it curl in protest, and watched the machete fall again and again and again—dicing tomatoes, onions, peppers, and the conch. It can’t be much fresher than seeing your food die... sounds kinda gross I guess, but the meal was fresh and light, perfect for the Caribbean setting. It’s such a simple dish, but one that’s been perfected to the point of, well, perfection. The conch in the salad was like blueberries or strawberries in your morning cereal. Y’know, the cereals okay on it’s own, but every time you get a bite of one of those berries—yes!—there’s that little celebration amongst your taste buds to let you know, “ya, that was good. do that again!” So it was each time my teeth clenched, and my tongue tasted, one of those sweet, succulent, kind of chewy morsels of meat.
Satisfied with my meal, I willingly paid the absurdly high price quoted me. The vendor probably thought he was pulling one off on me, but I think it was the other way around. Any ‘real’ restaurant would charge an arm and a leg for something that good, and I was more than willing to pay this guy. So I did, and made my way back to the hotel, and mingled with several folks going on the trip, too. We probably stayed up too late—I was pretty tired the next morning—but when I should have been dragging, my excitement to board the ship fueled me better than any coffee.
Check in went smoothly, and I boarded. Once I got past the gangway, actually on the ship, I could no longer tell I was on a ship. It seemed more that I had just checked into a way overpriced hotel. Red carpet and well burnished hand rails welcomed me, and gold embossed wall signs directed me where to go. I found my room, and went in…..
This is getting kind of long, and I have some things I must attend to. However, I’ll do my best to post again soon. I just wanted to get something up before I get to Spain. If I have time, I’ll even post again tonight… Right, so, tata for now!
Ok, so, for those of you who don’t know, or only sort of know, I’ve been on a ship since January 19 on the first leg of my voyage around the world. The first stop is Cadiz, Spain followed by Morocco, Namibia, South Africa, Mauritius, India, Thailand, China, Japan, Hawaii, and Guatemala. I kicked the trip off in Nassau, Bahamas when I flew in on January 18. After checking into the Towne Hotel—a fabulous, locally run and operated hotel within easy walking distance of anything you might want to walk to—I went exploring.
My first objective was to locate and consume some phenomenal conch salad. Having thoroughly picked the brain of my cab driver between the airport and hotel, I knew I should head towards an area known as Fish Fry. It’s a string of not-quite-restaurants-more-like-shacks along one of the main docks in Nassau. All were painted in warm colors—pinks, yellows, blues—and most proudly displayed signs for Kalik, the local brew—a very light beer, much akin to Corona, though a bit more satisfying, and with the ability to stand on it’s own (no need to fruit this beer). I made several trips up and down this strip considering which stand would provide me with the best—I knew they’d all be good, but I wanted the best—conch salad, and trying my hardest to blend in with the locals despite the fact that I was one of very few people in the area who had to be concerned about sunburn. Finally, I settled on one. There were several factors: the pile of fresh conch I saw waiting patiently to be eaten by me, the lack of a menu—they served conch salad and beer. period.—the number of locals gathered there, and, last but not least, the reggae blaring from the inside. How could it be bad?
It wasn’t. It was incredible. I sat at the bar. That’s really all there was—an L shaped bar extending from a shack of a building onto the dock with a few places for patrons to sit, a cooler where they kept their beer, and a cutting board where they prepared the food. I ordered a salad and a beer, and, sipping my drink, watched the wedge-shaped hammer knock a hole in the living shell of the conch, watched the machete carve the meat out—it looked like a huge slug, or the tongue of a large mammal—watched it curl in protest, and watched the machete fall again and again and again—dicing tomatoes, onions, peppers, and the conch. It can’t be much fresher than seeing your food die... sounds kinda gross I guess, but the meal was fresh and light, perfect for the Caribbean setting. It’s such a simple dish, but one that’s been perfected to the point of, well, perfection. The conch in the salad was like blueberries or strawberries in your morning cereal. Y’know, the cereals okay on it’s own, but every time you get a bite of one of those berries—yes!—there’s that little celebration amongst your taste buds to let you know, “ya, that was good. do that again!” So it was each time my teeth clenched, and my tongue tasted, one of those sweet, succulent, kind of chewy morsels of meat.
Satisfied with my meal, I willingly paid the absurdly high price quoted me. The vendor probably thought he was pulling one off on me, but I think it was the other way around. Any ‘real’ restaurant would charge an arm and a leg for something that good, and I was more than willing to pay this guy. So I did, and made my way back to the hotel, and mingled with several folks going on the trip, too. We probably stayed up too late—I was pretty tired the next morning—but when I should have been dragging, my excitement to board the ship fueled me better than any coffee.
Check in went smoothly, and I boarded. Once I got past the gangway, actually on the ship, I could no longer tell I was on a ship. It seemed more that I had just checked into a way overpriced hotel. Red carpet and well burnished hand rails welcomed me, and gold embossed wall signs directed me where to go. I found my room, and went in…..
This is getting kind of long, and I have some things I must attend to. However, I’ll do my best to post again soon. I just wanted to get something up before I get to Spain. If I have time, I’ll even post again tonight… Right, so, tata for now!
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