When I was eleven years old, I first read JRR Tolkien’s The Hobbit. And almost instantly, page by page, and word by word, I fell in love with Middle Earth, fantasy, and stories in general. At thirteen, I wrote my first short story – 14 pages long, when the assignment only called for 2 – entitled The Case of the Purloined Pussy (about a stolen pet cat – don’t get any funny ideas!). Senior year of high school, I put together a one hour James Bond spoof film for my Speech & Media class. After graduating from Ohio University, I wrote, directed, and produced a full-length independent feature film: Eclipse.
When I finally hit thirty, I hadn’t done much of what I had set out to do in this life. I wasn’t rich. I wasn’t famous. I hadn’t traveled the world. I hadn’t gotten published. So a couple years later, I moved to South Korea and began this very blog site in the hopes that it would become my online portfolio and help me get freelance work as a writer and editor. A couple years into the blog, I finally finished and published a middle grade novel called Don’t Mess with Coleman Stoops (available on Amazon!). I lived in six different countries on four different continents and visited almost thirty others in the time I was an expat overseas.
I fell in love and brought my beautiful wife Jen with me on all of our new adventures. And boy, did we have some adventures! However, as the theme song of the cartoon version of The Hobbit I loved so much as a child exclaims: the greatest adventure is what lies ahead.
Ladies and Gentlemen, family and friends, one and all… It is the most amazing privilege and pleasure of my life to announce that Jen and I are about to embark on the most important adventure life can throw at you… parenthood. We are expecting our first baby!
I cannot wait to meet her and I cannot wait for all of you to meet her. But with her birth comes a shifting in priorities. With family, a full-time job, and other writing that’s more important than a blog, as of spring 2019, Lost In Translation will officially be retiring. The articles I’ve written will remain online for your reading pleasure (as well as the photography), but I will not be updating it anymore. The time that I spent on the Internet and playing video games will transition to baby-time. But please continue to look for my novels on Amazon as I get them out there, which I will continue to do as time permits.
Needless to say, Jen and I are beyond excited for this new chapter in our lives to begin. It really will be our greatest adventure yet!
“Prison time is slow time, so you do what you can to keep going. Some fellas collect stamps, others build matchstick houses. Andy built a library.” – Ellis Boyd “Red” Redding, the Shawshank Redemption
Rural village life isn’t quite prison, but Jen and I have to be really creative to fill the time that we have. It seems that many of the people who choose to come teach up here fit into one of two categories: either they’re super outdoorsy and love to be out in nature (camping, fishing, hiking, hunting, and generally roughing it), or they are completely content to retreat into their den and do nothing but lounge around watching television, playing video games, and surfing the Internet.
Unfortunately, Jen and I fit right down the middle. We want to go out and have adventures and we like to snuggle up with a good book or movie too. What we don’t want to do is only do one thing all of the time. So for the past few months these are some of the things we have done to try keeping busy and having fun after work and on weekends.
Well, now that we’re all geared up (see my previous blog about extreme cold weather equipment), we took to the outdoors for some crazy adventures. We went moose hunting, didn’t get anything, tracked it through the forest, and then carried butchered moose meat (when our shooter actually bagged one) back to his house for him to chop and grind up. He gave us some fresh ground moose for cheeseburgers. MMM!!! They were so good (and so healthy… no GMOs or hormones in this meat!).
We have seen foxes stealthily tiptoeing though the village in the wee hours of the morning. They’re too skittish for us to get closer than a few yards away though. We’ve gone up and down the Kobuk River a few times just to see what’s what and get the lay of the land. And since the snows started (in September, lol), we’ve been out to make snow angels, take photos of icicles, out on snow mobiles (which were super fun), and even tried to dig a stuck van out of a snowbank.
Schools up here are constantly shorthanded, so I was asked to referee a volleyball tournament one weekend. I thought it was volunteer. I would have been happy to help out for free. But I discovered that it was a paying gig. So I quickly brushed up on the rules and then voila! Everyone in the community who attended got to see me in action and afterward, I received cash-in-hand to go buy fresh milk at the local village general store (it’s about $8.00 a gallon).
We had a nice Thanksgiving with some coworkers. And we even took a trip out into the woods on the outskirts of Kiana to procure ourselves a little tabletop Christmas tree. I was almost hip-deep in snow drifts just trying to get the tree cut down. Then we headed into Jen’s pre-k classroom to craft a few homemade ornaments. Our tree is so cute!
The plan is to exchange our gifts here first (with another fresh-off-the-plane pizza from Kotzebue) and finally to head home to share the holidays with family and friends for the first time in over five years! Boy, oh boy! We can’t wait to see everyone!
In 1867, United States Secretary of State, WilliamSeward, convinced PresidentAndrewJohnson and the U.S.Senate to purchase the territory known as Aleyska from Russia. Many Americans viewed this as positive, however some thought it was a horrible idea and referred to the move as Seward’s Folly. One hundred and fifty years later, whether or not the AlaskaPurchase was a colossal mistake is yet to be seen, but there are indications on both sides of the fence.
The primary reason for acquiring the land was that many Americans in the late 19th century believed Asia to be up and coming economically. They wanted the territory to serve as a means of trade between China, Japan, and the UnitedStates, envisioning an entire coastline of ports filled with merchantships bringing low-cost goods across the Pacific.
Another reason wouldn’t be seen for a hundred years. During the height of the Cold War between the United States and the Soviet Union, the Russians placed missiles at our nearby neighbor, Cuba. The standoff between PresidentKennedy and Soviet Premier NikitaKhrushchev is famously remembered as the CubanMissileCrisis and was a major turning point in our favor during the arms race. Imagine a scenario where Kennedy not only had to deal with short-range missile silos 90 miles off the coast of Miami, but also up and down the Southeasternpanhandleof Alaska (near Juneau) – 300 miles from Seattle. A Soviet presence on the continent of NorthAmerica might have enabled the Cold War to play out completely differently.
A third reason happened with the discovery of petroleum in the northernmost edge of the state, near PrudhoeBay, in 1969. With the potential riches of oil, private companies came knocking on the very cold Alaskan door, and have been set up here for the last half century. Blackgold has poured out of Alaska and that’s both good and bad. It’s good because the more domestic petroleum the United States can come up with, the less we are dependent on MiddleEastern suppliers like SaudiArabia.
It’s bad because of the potential damage to the pristine environment up here (in fact, economist DavidBarker thinks the oil companies have yet to earn enough of a return on oil investment to justify the risks, and the federal government spends more governing the state than they get from the tax revenues), but the influx of funds into the mostly impoverished and rural Alaskan communities has become a double-edged sword.
The long-term effects of American involvement in the culture and lives of NativeAlaskans have recently been shown to be far more negative than positive. In the 1970s, natives went to bat for themselves against the federal government and received the Alaska Native Claims Settlement Act, awarding the various tribes both monetary reimbursement and protectedlands for their continued use and development. In addition, an annualstipend is provided to all Alaskan residents (regardless of ethnicity) from the tax revenues earned by the sale of Alaskan oil.
Additionally, most of the native population resides in remote and rural “Bush” villages (like the one where Jen and I now live) hundreds of miles from cities, pavedroads, and infrastructure common in most other parts of the U.S. These scattered pockets of people struggle to survive in their traditionallifestyle: subsistence hunting, fishing, and gathering. They also fight against the influence of contemporary civilization: schools, hospitals, and government oversight. The natives are perfectly happy to reap the benefits of cooperation with the white man (electricity, cellular service, and European-style housing) without putting in any of the effort required on their part.
As I see it, the discovery of oil brought interest and investment into Alaska. It’s only fair that the native people get a piece of that pie. However, I also feel that as a culture, they have misappropriated that money. Individually, many natives are misusing those benefits to the detriment of their society, their families, and themselves. The combination of the remote location and never-ending free money from the government has stifled economic growth in the regions of Alaska outside the three major cities: Anchorage, Fairbanks, and Juneau. Natives don’t see the point in becoming educated because there are no jobs if they choose to remain in their community. If they obtain an education, there’s nothing in the villages to do with it; they would be forced to relocate to the Southeast just to utilize what they’ve learned.
Traditionally, the only education the natives got dealt with how to live off the land. And that was passed down by word of mouth through the generations. Elders taught their sons and daughters the skills of hunting and fishing as well as the crafts that enabled them to survive in such extreme cold and harsh winter climates: beaver hats, seal-skin mittens, and mukluks (heavy winter boots made from animal furs and walrus fat). Looking around at the villagers here, I notice that few are capable of their traditional skills and in succeeding in the American-style educational system. They’re stuck in the middle.
Students either drop out before graduation or simply graduate into perpetual unemployment to live in the welfare state that has become the native Alaskan villages. In some cases, the educated natives fill necessary roles managing the city (I have met a lot of hard-working and dedicated workers at the city office, health clinic, and public school); however, the rest feel like they are drowning in their depression – trapped between an unwanted way of life and another that appears to be slowly dying out. The suicide rate among Alaskans is the highest in the country (per capita).
Would the native culture have been better off underneath the leadership of the Soviet Union? Meh. Highly doubtful. But that doesn’t mean we can ignore the fact that whatever benefits America thought we were bringing the native population, by making Alaska an official state in 1959, have become overshadowed by the detrimental way in which the people in the Bush have chosen to exist.
An idle brain seems to be the devil’s playground – a cliché that is everything up here. Children and adults alike find themselves with loads of time on their hands and nothing to occupy it. So they get into trouble: alcoholism and drug abuse, vandalism, and assaults and rapes run rampant throughout the villages.
(Point of fact: rape in Alaska is three times the national average and child sexual assault is nearly six times – those are conservative estimates since most offenses go unreported due to the fact that the perpetrator is also the family’s means of survival – hunting, cutting wood, and bringing water in – and in some villages the rate of violence against women is 100%).
As with everything they seem to do, the federal and state governments are great at staring a problem in the face and then only doing a small fraction of the work necessary to solve it. Is it up to the government to figure everything out? Certainly not, however, when the people here don’t seem to be able to help themselves, whose responsibility is it to enact the changes required to save an entire culture? Nobody wants to bear that burden, not the government, not the village elders, or any of the natives themselves. There’s only so much money can do, and in Alaska, it seems that handouts aren’t fixing anything. Too bad Seward didn’t have a crystal ball, else he might have not spent the money on Alaska.
When my wife told me we were moving to the ArcticCircle, I knew we didn’t have what we’d need to survive up there. I figured we would be spending a bit of money on boots and gloves and a few other things. Boy, oh boy, was I wrong! Boots are the tip of the iceberg. Like the snowball rolling down the mountainside, outfitting ourselves to stay warm in the harsh winter kept getting bigger and bigger.
So I set out to research every single bit of gear that’s required for living in temperatures that drop downwards of -75 degrees Fahrenheit in the cold, dark winter months. The keyword when preparing for the harsh extreme cold is: layers. Some of my readers may think they know what cold feels like in NewYork, Winnepeg, or Minnesota – you don’t. Trust me; as I write this article, the temperature outside is in the 20s and it’s only September!
Shopping for winter coats and parkas for a normal winter in the Lower 48 is easy! E – A – S – Y! Not all stores carry the quality gear we need in Alaska, not all companies even make said gear. But I don’t want to get ahead of myself. I’ll start at the beginning (or the bottom, and work my way up).
We felt the footwear was the most important, so that’s where we started. While you can layer your feet, for the most part boots need to have all the characteristics of successful outer and inner layers, meaning: warmth and waterproof. Knee–high boots are good in the spring and fall because you might be wading through deep mud puddles; that also means they should be made of some heavy–duty rubber. In the winter, they don’t necessarily need to be that high, but a high, warm boot helps to keep your calves toasty too.
I decided to go with Muck brand boots; they have a line called ArcticSport that is tested down to –40F. I also will be wearing woolsocks underneath. The great thing about Mucks (as they’re called up here) is the versatility of the single pair of boots. I didn’t need to buy snow boots, rain boots, hiking boots, etc. One pair is a one-stop-shop.
Other guys swear by Baffins, or army-style ‘bunny‘ boots, but they just didn’t come up high enough on my leg for the rainy season. They do look awesome though – I’d feel like a SWATteam member wearing them, so if the Mucks don’t work out for whatever reason, I can always get another pair down the road. If my wife lets me.
Jen went a different direction. She wanted traditional Native Alaskan Mukluks. Her opinion is that if it worked for the native population for thousands of years, it will work for her. She did some research and found a pair she liked from a Canadian company. They’re made of sueded leather (a different pair was actual moose-hide) with a rubber sole that’s glued to the bottom of the mukluk. They are lined both inside and out with rabbitfur. There’s even some cute bead work on the top of the foot. The problem is that mukluks aren’t a one-stop-shop like my Mucks are; if she gets the suede wet or muddy, the boots are destroyed. So we needed to get her an inexpensive pair of waterproof rain boots as well (though if the puddle’s deep enough, the suction will take the boot right off her foot). She also has wool socks.
Coats & Pants
No company makes a single piece of gear that withstands everything you’ll need in the subzero temperatures.There are plenty of websites that offer advice on how to layer properly. The problem is all the best gear for what we need has the highest price tags. When I called to speak to sales reps on the phone at the various clothing companies, they helped as best as they could, but without all the information, the brick wall hit us in the face.
Most of the time, the gear will be just to get us back and forth to school or the post office. We won’t be spending hours upon hours in the cold wind and frigid temperatures – but you never know. We want to be prepared for a day when we have to be out for hours. Maybe that’s not possible, we’ll see. A lot of guys tend to have multiple sets of gear for different purposes, but these men are ‘lifers‘ up here. We aren’t going to be. We just need some good quality gear to survive the next few winters.
My friend Glen – ex Army Ranger, retired science educator, and avid hunter & trapper – told me that each person has a different way of doing things in the cold; he said try it out and if it doesn’t work, change it. So we’re back to trialand error. And if we choose wrong, the situation can get deadly quickly. Hypothermia and Frostbite are household words up here.
Basically the way it works is like this: woolbaselayer (because it wicks up the moisture from your sweat), polarfleecemid–layer, heavyinsulationlayer (like goose down – but 500 fill coats aren’t enough, you need at least 750 fill for the Arctic), and then an outerlayer called the ‘shell‘ that’s typically waterproof and windproof. The best is Gore–Tex.
A lot of people up here say that waterproof isn’t critical because we have dry winters. Essentially, once the temperature drops that far below the freezing point, the air no longer carries any moisture at all (remember those Arizonans talking about the dry heat of the desert not being as bad as the humidity in Florida?). I disagree though.
Suppose you’re traipsing through the snow for whatever reason and your body, or your movement heats up the snow enough that it begins to turn back to water. The last thing you want is to not have a waterproof shell, especially with down. The instant down gets wet, it’s worthless. It will get heavy and take a long time to dry. Wet down will not keep you warm. Waterproof shells are also windproof – and that is something that you’ll need up here as gusts of wind can make a –20F day feel like –40F in minutes.
So Jen chose a coat by another Canadian company called Sorel, that has 800 fill goose and duck down. I also got us both sets of polar fleece mid-layers, merino wool base layers, and snow pants from a company called 6th Avenue Outfitters that by themselves aren’t enough, but with proper layering should be. And again, if none of this ends up working, it’s like playing roulette in Atlantic City. I guess we go back to the drawing board and keep buying stuff until we’re warm enough.
As far as my coat, I have a tri-climate Toread (Chinese brand) coat that I bought a couple years ago (tri-climate means the jacket is in pieces and can be upzipped into separate parts for various uses). The shell is in perfect condition, but the insulation layer that came with it, won’t cut it up here. I’ll need a new one at some point, but with all the money we’ve been spending on other layers, I’m going to give it a shot and see how warm the coat keeps me as-is. After all, like I said, I don’t know how much time I’ll be spending outside at all. I already run hot, so if I’m able to layer up correctly, the insulation layer might not be needed for quick 10 minute walks back and forth across the village.
Head & Hands
Similar to the rest of the body, you’ve got to layer your head and hands. Frostbite can occur on any patch of exposedskinwithin seconds. So you’ve got to make sure that everyinch of your body is protected. On our hands we have layers mitts that begin with a merino wool liner, followed by an insulated and waterproof subzero tested mitten – warmer than gloves because keeping your fingers together traps in the heat.
The head and neck are two of the most important parts of your body to keep warm. The warmth of your head affects your fingers and toes as well. You start with a full head/neck balaclava of wool or synthetic material. It pulls down to your chest and the only exposed skin at this point are your eyes and cheekbones. Then you put on a neck gaiter, typically fleece, and a beanie or wool sock cap on your head – these are your insulation layers. To protect your eyes, you need goggles. Finally, you can put the hood of your coat up, tie it snugly, and you’re ready to brave the elements.
For those of you keeping score, we have 1) socks 2) boots 3) outer shell legs 4) fleece mid-layer legs 5) wool base layer legs 6) outer shell coat 7) down insulation layer 8) fleece mid-layer 9) wool base layer 10) wool glove liners 11) waterproof mitts 12) neck gaiter 13) balaclava 14) wool cap 15) goggles. Over $1,000.00 in extreme winter gear, per person!
I don’t mean to be offensive (as some people might interpret the title of this article). It’s appropriate. Native Alaskan tribes have elected (long ago in fact) that most didn’t want to live on the “prisons” the white man called reservations. Instead, corporations were set up to oversee and manage Native Alaskan land (during the 1971 Alaska Native Claims Settlement Act). They are choosing to live off the reservation; but the idiomatic meaning of the phrase, while not 100% accurate for our native neighbors, is pretty accurate for us. Village life is off in many ways.
It’s a feeling more than anything else, and that makes it very difficult to describe if you haven’t had the experience yourself. Sure, I can paint you a picture, but it won’t really give you the feeling. I’ll endeavor to do my best though.
The three aspects of the Alaskan villages that make life here the most different are size, location, and culture (to some degree, and I’m not talking about Native Alaskan culture – I mean survival/subsistence culture, which I suppose is an offshoot of both the size and location issues). Life here, interestingly enough, has a lot in common with the experience we had on top of the mountain in Nepal at the Buddhist Monastery. Again, size, location, and culture. We’ve been in third–world countries that felt more “American” than it feels to be here in spite of some of the modernconveniences that we are allotted (like phone calls home, domestic flights again, and our own zip code).
Kiana is .2 square miles. That means that you can walk from one side to the other in about 20 minutes. There are no paved roads, the paths are dirt/mud/eventually snow & ice. The population hovers around 400, and the average age is 28 (and will get lower as the elders unfortunately continue to die off). Everyone knows everyone, like in other small towns across the lower 48; however, most people are related to each other in some way. Remember, 97% of the population are not only Native Alaskans, but natives from the same tribe. Many of Jen’s students have brothers, sisters, and cousins in other classes in the school.
Everybody is somebody else’s relative, and everybody is into everybody else’s business. They know everything. Gossip is all over the place, and as ‘foreigners‘ coming in from other places, all the teachers must really watch what they do and what they say to not get caught up in a feud or some sort. It would be like if your entire social world was one street: WysteriaLane…
Kiana is located 30 miles north of the ArcticCircle. In August, the temperature hangs out in the 40s and 50s (Fahrenheit) – and in the dead of winter it can drop down to -75F. Brrr…. So those temperatures affect just about everything. There is special gear that must be purchased and worn (and layered, layered, layered) to keep warm just to go outside. A ‘regular‘ winter coat and boots that might get you by during a NewYork or even Minnesota winter won’t get the job done here. There is an entire subculture of winter that people learn about and live. It’s survival, pure and simple.
In addition to our location on the globe, we are also more rural than rural. I explained in a previous blog that there are no roads to get from village to village (there are trucks here, I’m not sure how they got them in though). People have to fly in. Each village has an airstrip (ours is gravel) and a local small business that charters flights in/out.
Now, that’s not entirely true because we are located right on the KobukRiver, which can be used via boats/snowmobiles to get from village to village along the waterway. Sometimes though, it’s impossible to leave.
Planes and other transport are good–weather dependent. So if there’s a storm or fog or the temperature drops below –50F, everything shutsdown: people and cargo have to wait it out, whether they’re stuck in the village trying to get out or out of the village trying to get in. We’ll see how big a pain in the butt this becomes come Christmas vacation…
Oh, and the prices! We have had some culture shock regarding what things cost up here. First of all, the food – for example – is higher priced in Anchorage than in say Seattle because of the additional shipping and handling just to get it up here.
But we’re not in Anchorage.
So we pay a premium to get the food from Anchorage to the village (food that’s already been marked up to a premium). It’s just part of the lifestyle where we are; what makes it harder to swallow is that we have been paying third-world prices for produce at a fraction of what most American pay (sorry to rub it in). To go from one extreme to the other has me ripping handfuls of hair out of my skull!
So if you’re unlucky enough to find yourself in the precarious position of needing a missing ingredient for your fresh baked chocolate chip cookie recipe, you’ll need to go to the villagestore to pick some up. The village stores are even higher priced than the Anchorage ones that ship into the villages.
And they might not even have what you’re looking for by the time you arrive! One of our stores here didn’t have eggs for weeks (the shops are just as vulnerable to the weather and availability of items as we are when we order online).
Speaking of online ordering, not everything is available or able to be shipped up here. We have to use different stores for different things. Learning all of that is tricky. Mistakes were made. Other mistakes were made. But overall, we’re slowly getting the idea. Amazon Prime has been a godsend to these people, and stores like Fred Meyer (Alaskan version of Walmart) has created a special “Bush Orders” department, where they handle shipping and handling for the rural villages. We’ve managed to get everything we need – so far.
Native Alaskan culture aside (since we’ve had to deal with that aspect of changing countries over and over for the past six years), I have to tell you about the survivalism up here (I was asked before we got here what kind of gun I was bringing… what? What?? WHAT?!?!).
It’s like you stepped off the plane and entered 1860 (calling Doc Brown...). There is no radio station (the alarm clock only gets static – try waking up to that every morning). There is no TV station. Villages have cell phone service (a single company has the monopoly), but no 4G data (not even 3G or 2G), only talking and texting – and that’s only a recent development. To communicate, villagers all have handheldVHF devices, which are great in emergencysituations like there’s a storm coming or there’s a grizzly bear across from the general store or a pack of wolves over on Taylor Rd (yes, those things happen); but not-so-great when people feel like getting on the horn and venting about their deadbeat drunken husbands (yes, that also happens).
Most commonly the VHFs are used to inform people when planes are inbound. People wait around for flights so they can leave, but also for cargoshipments. Getting mail is an event here (like the Pony Express must have been in the 19th century) and something to get very excited about (O-ho the Wells Fargo Wagon is-a comin’ down the street, oh please let it be for me…). And that’s rightly so, considering the fact that all our food, clothing, and furniture has to get shipped in from Anchorage and other places.
The only commodity that comes out of the village are what the villagers hunt, trap, catch, gather, or createthemselves. Subsistence hunting (and even whaling) is allowed for the natives and any Alaskan citizens who reside in the villages for so many days a year (visitors aren’t legally allowed to shoot anything). But there’s also fishing (and ice fishing), gatheringmushrooms and berries (which the townsfolk, especially tween boys, try to sell you for exorbitant prices – I’d say highway robbery, but there are no highways), and trapping (my favorite character here is trying to get rid of a wolverine he took down for about $550.00).
For fun, people take to the river in the summer to visit islands and beachheads and to explore the wilderness. In the winter, we’ve yet to see, but I’m guessing the buzzing hum of snow-gos (as they’re called here) will fill the air. I’ve been told that one can get all the way to Kotzebue in under 2 hours from here (57 miles as the crow flies). I’m not sure I’m brave enough to do it myself, but we’ll see if we end up investing in a snow-go or not. We’ve already been taken on a couple of moose–hunting expeditions down river, with no sightings; but it’s ‘early in the season for moose‘ apparently…
Those are the firstimpressions. Here’s another: this promises to be one of the most unique of all the adventures we’ve ever had!
It’s humannature to fear what you don’t understand, and what’s different from what you know or who you are. One of the easiest ways to differentiate what isn’t like you is visually: if someone looks like you, they’re safe, if they look different, they’re dangerous. That is the fundamental law of the human psyche that paved the way for racism.
The practice of treating people differently based on their physical appearance is as old as humanity, and after thousands of years of evolution, racism hasn’t dwindled at all. One would think that modern mankind would have transcended a concept so superficial. Why does it matter how someone looks? The content of their character is far more important, yet in all corners of the world, people are drawn to the similar. It makes them comfortable. Different is uncomfortable. I have seen it on every continent and in every country.
In India and Nepal, the castesystem classifies people based on their ancestry, pigeonholing them into neighborhoods, jobs, and spouses that the culture deems appropriate.
The majority ethnic group in China – the Han – use social breeding practices to assimilate minority groups into the larger, essentially exterminating the lesser and feeding the larger.
Turks persecute, and in the worst cases murder, the Kurdish people trying to survive and scratch out a living within the borders of that Middle Eastern country.
The various Arab tribes have been at war with each other for thousands of years (not to mention the everlasting jihad against non-believers).
Even in a modern and developed country like Spain, immigrants from the Latin American nations are looked down upon by the indigenous Spaniards.
And if it’s not skin color, it’s religion or gender or sexual orientation. Yes, America is leading the way for the rest of the world regarding these social issues, but even the United States hasn’t been without violence, oppression, and bloodshed because of racism inherent in the human condition. We were one of the last countries to outlaw slavery. And following the Civil War, blacks in the southern states weren’t treated much better than they had been before the war. A century later, the civil rights movement finally made progress in curbing a lot of racism thanks largely in part to the work of Martin Luther King Jr, Rosa Parks, Malcolm X, and other freedom fighters.
More recently, South Africa went through a similar struggle overcoming the statute of Apartheid (legalized racism) within my lifetime. Everyone has heard the name Nelson Mandela. Most are familiar with his role in stamping out the all-white government and winning the ‘94 election that allowed a “one man, one vote” policy giving black Africans a voice for the first time in history. At the time, it seemed like a resounding victory for the minorities and underdogs of the world. But Mandela didn’t seek a second term, and once he passed away, the situation in South Africa didn’t improve. In fact, in the past few years, the political situation in that nation has been steadily growing worse.
International news media has a short attention span; they don’t seem to care about what’s happening in South Africa 20 years after the demise of Apartheid. However, take it from someone who’s been there and spoken to locals on the ground – both black and white… the problems are far from solved. Apartheid is over, yes, but racism runs rampant in South Africa.
Mandela preached peace. He didn’t want the black community to enact revenge on the white South Africans, because he knew that would make the blacks no better off than the whites who had violently oppressed them. It was bad, very bad, for the blacks for generations. I’m not defending the white South Africans in charge from the early 20th century until the ANC(African National Congress) won the election, placing black politicians in office. What has happened in the years since is a travesty unto itself.
In the more rural communities, white farmers and their families are not only being brutally murdered, but in some cases being skinned alive and strung up in trees. Lynching is the word Americans would use (and some older Americans might remember the horrible days when blacks were lynched at the dirty hands of the KKK and other racist whites). For the 10% of white South Africans, it seems that progress has taken them two steps backward.
The majority of black South Africans aren’t part of the problem. Similarly to Muslims, a few bad apples (as they say) spoil the bunch. I’m not only speaking of educated blacks in the nation. All it takes is a bit of common sense, which some of the poorest of the poor and least educated citizens of Johannesburg demonstrate on a daily basis. On our tour of Soweto (South Western Township – the poorest community in the city – and the ghetto where Mandela and all the Johannesburg blacks were forcibly relocated back in the 1950s-60s), we met a handful of people who cram their large families into two room, tin-roof shacks… people who live on $2.00 a week… people who shunned the violence being carried out against white South Africans and tourists. They know better. So not everyone is to blame.
The issues stem from those who have an inclination toward violence and greed. The have-nots who want to take whatever they want from those who have it. That includes some of the politicians, post-Mandela, who’ve risen to power in the past 5-10 years.
Just to put things into perspective, the current president – Jacob Zuma – is a far cry from Nelson Mandela. In 2005, he was charged with rape. There have been years-long legal battles over his involvement in racketeering and corruption (his financial advisor was convicted for fraud). He opposes same-sex marriage, wants to confiscate the accidental babies of teenage mothers, and believes the ANC will remain in power until the second-coming of Christ.
And last year, the Constitutional Court unanimously decided that Zuma failed to uphold the country’s constitution, calling for his immediate resignation (a failed impeachment attempt followed). And that’s just the dirt on the president, the head of the ruling party! Who knows what other tragedies occur every day in regional and municipal politics.
Here are some racist quotes from ANC leaders in various levels of government:
“We are not calling for the slaughter of white people, at least for now.” – Julius Malema
“White people in South Africa deserve to be hacked and killed like Jews.” – Velaphi Khumalo
“The first people that need to fuck off are whites.” – Kenny Barrel Nkosi
Evidently, the ANC has slid quite far down the rails of ethics since Mandela’s retirement and death. Twenty years after the dissolution of Apartheid, South Africa remains a nation torn apart. Racism is wrong in every direction. It doesn’t matter if those attitudes are from whites toward blacks or from blacks toward whites. We are moving swiftly into the 21st century, and those backwards ideas need to be left in the past.
Tourists are also losing out because there isn’t much worth traveling to South Africa to see. If the violence against Europeans and other white races continues, the nation will definitely see a decline in the revenue from their tourism industry. It’s a no win situation for everyone involved.
South Africans have suffered through tremendous tragedy in the past fifty years (orlonger) and it’s time to set aside those difference and start working together, regardless of skin color, to create a more peaceful and prosperous tomorrow.
Infinity. It’s a difficult concept to grasp; a concept that has grown even more increasingly hard to find as mankind has spread out across continents and oceans, exploring and conquering as we go. The next frontier is outer space, but it isn’t difficult to imagine what certain areas of our own planet used to feel like to humans as they gazed across the horizon into what must have appeared to stretch on forever and ever. Oceans. Deserts. And Plains.
In the middle of Africa, there lies the endlessplains. In Swahili: Serengeti. A tried and true AfricanSafari is on every travel enthusiast’s bucket list. And there is no better place than in northern Tanzania, where prides of lions hunt in their natural habitat, and millions of terrestrial mammals migrate in a loop that takes them from the south of the country up into neighboring Kenya.
When it comes to safaris, the Serengeti is the Times Square of destinations. There are lesser parks and preserves where one might visit to feel more alone and immersed in nature. In fact, many of the travel advice websites and guides suggest other places that have maintained an authenticity that is somewhat lacking in the Serengeti. But when we visited that and a few other parks in Tanzania, the abundance of other tourists (all inside similarly painted Toyota Land Cruisers) didn’t bother us as much as the ‘theme park’ feel of the smaller areas.
Truly, when scanning the horizon line of the endless plains, we felt like we had traveled not only into the wilds of Africa, but also into the past – to a time when mankind didn’t disrupt the natural order of the planet. At 12,000 square miles, the sheer size of the place can dwarf any visitor, making us all feel insignificant in the grand scheme of the universe.
There were moments that took our breath away. Below are some photos I took that I hope will take yours away as well.
Welcome to the Endless Plains!
Asili Explorers! Asili means ‘nature’ in Swahili…
Luxury Tented Camps (inside the park) are the best way to stay!
We heard lions and hyenas outside our tent every night!
As you can see, luxury is the word for this kind of camping!
And the zebras aren’t too shy when they can’t see you!
Picnic areas are scattered around the park for guests’ convenience (toilets too)…
Oh, did I mention how many guests are here?
Sometimes, other cruisers even ruin photos…
But nothing can ruin such a beautiful African sunset!
Especially, when you can capture the wildlife with the changing colors in the sky!
These gazelles better be careful (can you see the lioness stalking them?)…
This impala posed for me between sips of water…
I think this could be a postcard!
We were able ot get really up close and personal with the giraffes!
Interdependent (or simbiotic as our guide liked to point out) relationships between species…
These little guys were playing around and I snapped the perfect shot!
No, those aren’t rocks. They’re hippos!
Almost 2 million wildebeests migrate every year!
Here they are running along the hills!
This family of hyenas had a den just outside our campsite (aren’t the cubs so cute?!)…
The cheetah is rare to spot, but this was one of the first animals we saw on day one!
Simba Kopje – the inspiration for Pride Rock in Disney’s The Lion King!
Which brings us to the lions!
We got very close to many (there are over 3,000 in the Serengeti)!
So glad to have a great lens (some people had bigger ones though…)!
Is it just me, or is she looking right at me?
A pair of males
These two were having some fun together (it was mating season)!
Look closely! The lioness is chasing a gazelle!
The warthog is perhaps the most skittish animal in Africa (they didn’t like to have their picture taken)…
Our guide let Jen get out of the car to take a picture with some (distant) lions…
Life isn’t all you find on the Endless Plains – there is much death as well…
Morning cup ‘o joe with some zebras!
The Baobab tree is one of the oldest trees in the world – this one is thousands of years old!
The local Maasai children think they’re funny setting up roadblocks to get tourists to give them food and money (but our guide wasn’t happy about it)…
These two Maasai boys are about to be circumsized (hence the face-painting and black clothing)…
Sharialaws dictate everything in the world of Islam. They tell people what they’re allowed to do and what they’re forbidden from doing. The set of rules and regulations was formulated in the 6th and 7th centuries in a world muchdifferent from that of today. Yet in over 1,000 years, not a single law has been questioned or changed. Additionally, Arab Muslims are encouraged to self-police each other – even between family members – handing down personal punishments when loved ones act, speak, or even dress inappropriately. The most obvious and outward symbol of sharia is the burqa.
The Quran tells both genders to ‘avert’ their eyes and dress ‘modestly.’ However, it doesn’t mention the specifics behind what exactly signifies a modest wardrobe, leaving each individual Arab subculture to make it up as they go. Depending on the country, the laws regarding this modest ‘covering’ vary from requiring women to wear a simpleheadscarf, called a hijab, to being completely veiled from head to toe whenever outside their home. In Saudi Arabia, they have to even cover their eyes.
Jen, my wife, wore a hijab whenever she wanted to visit a mosque. She told me that she experienced an instant feeling of shame as soon as she was out on the streets. She felt her eyes being tugged toward the ground. One the one occasion, she inadvertently made eye contact with a man in a park. He subsequently harassed her for an hour, repeating the word ‘sex’ over and over. She just didn’t realize what smiling and being a friendly American would mean in this culture of women’s oppression. In hindsight, I feel like she was lucky he didn’t try to abduct or rape her. I shudder at the thought.
From country to country, even from city to city, the percentage of women who feel the need to cover changes. But if women choose to wear one (or are forced to), they always wear it. Always. They never take it off in public, even to go swimming! In Tunisia and Turkiye, for example, the larger cities are swarming with uncovered women in Western style clothing. Travel to the smaller desert villages and you won’t see any women uncovered. And in conservative nations like Saudi Arabia, Yemen, and Afghanistan, women aren’t allowed to be uncovered – it’s illegal and punishablebylashings and beatings.
It’s all because of sharia, a system of rules that allows for husbands to beat their wives (providing they don’t draw blood or hit them in the face, marking up their beauty).
One of the most amazing developments of Western civilization has been the separationof churchand state and the idea of freedomofreligion. However, in the Arab world, church and state are the same exact thing. They’re not even two different things intertwined – they’re identical. Muslims believe that the word of God passed down through the prophet Mohammad is immutable (unchanging), and therefore any progress in culture or society would be moving backwards. These Arab men want to turn back the hands of time to the days of their prophet: the darkages of a misogynistic and patriarchaltriballifestyle, because well, those were the good ole’ days!
Religious leaders, imams, and political leaders have become the same people. They instill strictadherence to the words of the Islamic texts and across the Arab world, previously European-based laws have been replaced by sharia with increasing regularity. In the OldTestament, a reader might find references to archaiccorporalpunishments such as crucifixion and stoning. However, Judaism and Christianity have advanced far beyond the use of those primitive and barbaricpenalties. Modern day Islam still allows those punishments to exist, and what’s worse, to be carried out by civilians.
Sharia law needs to become obsolete if Islam and the Arab community expect to peacefully join the rest of the civilization in the 21st century. Without reform of their way of life, Islam will continue to back pedal into the dark ages. There is a global conflict happening right now. The only answer for Arabs is reform. If history has taught us anything, it’s that the oppressorsalways lose, sooner or later. The end is inevitable – one way or another.
In much the same way that sharia has stifledthe development of the Arab world, their tribal mindset has done the same thing. I find it intriguing as I’ve learned how Muslims view their societal roles, specifically (but not limited to) gender roles. Women cook and clean and raise kids. Men work (sometimes). One can see this in many non-Muslim countries and even in conservative Christian households in America. But that’s not the truly interesting part.
Muslims marry and have children for no other reason than because it’s their religious and culturalobligation to do so. I’m sure there are exceptions, and I’m not saying that Arabs don’t love their children in the ways that they understand the concept of love. But it’s not the same as it is in the West.
Arabs are taught that marriage and parenthood are synonymous – one always follows the other, and often immediately. I’ve been told that a new bride will get pregnant within the first few months of marriage. Jen has been yelled at by older women and strangers in conversation, who are confused that we’ve been married for years and have yet to conceive children. It’s unheard of in their society, and in many cases the wives are scorned with rumors of being barren.
Additionally, Muslims don’t usually marry because of love (though this is beginning to change with the younger generations – and there have always been exceptions). Men and women are so segregated in youth, that there is no commingling. Men aren’t taught to enjoy the company of women, and vice versa. They serve a specific role. Men hang out with each other. Women are the same. They simply don’t mix. Once, Jen went to an engagement party, where the women got up to dance and uncover after all the men had left the room; they wouldn’t dance at all until only females remained.
Muslims don’t appear to marry for love. They don’t appear to have children out of a love or desire to raise them and spend time together. Families don’t often spend any time together at all! Fathers are borderline negligent when it comes to child-rearing, especially with infants and toddlers. They have a role. Mothers have a role. Even sons and daughters have their own specific roles to play. I’ve spoken to working Muslim women, who after a long day at the office, are expected to return home to do all of the housework: cooking, cleaning, laundry, and child-rearing.
And those are the women married to the more liberally-minded Muslim men, who allow them to keep their jobs after the wedding. Some men refuse to let their women work or their daughters attend school. Education for Arab girls is typically nothing more than what a mother and grandmother can teach her about keeping a home. Have you heard of Malala? She is a young Pakistaniactivist and Nobel Peace Prize winner that was shot in the face for standing up for her right to an education. She had the support of her father, who worked in school administration and operated his own institute. But Malala’s father is the exception and not the rule.
Under sharia law and within the confines of Arab culture, 50% of the Muslim population is denied basic human rights. When that happens, it’s impossible for a society to flourish and thrive. The Arab world needs more Malalas, and more men like her father. Few Muslim girls are as fortunate as Malala, spending their lives in oppression, isolation, and a veritable prison.
Muslims account for 20% of earth’s population, and sure, not all women are mistreated or stuck in horrible situations. But enough are that the religion needs to begin seriously questioning itself and reevaluating its priorities. One life is far more important than a centuries old set of laws and rules. Islam needs to modernize. The Arab world is no longer tribal-based. So why continue to operate as such?
For a world plagued by terrorists and jihadists, killing in the name of Allah, change cannot come soon enough. The West and Western Muslims need to work together to change the conversation. We must challenge the archaicideas presented in the Quran, the hadith, and sharia laws. Only then can true progress take place and peace fill the void left behind by suicide bombers.
Women have had a rough go of it for pretty much the entire duration of human civilization. Images of Neanderthals clubbing women over the head to drag them back to their caves for the purpose of consummation have become caricatures. But most jokes are rooted in truth. The role women have been given in history is no different.
Arab culture is stagnant, as I surmised in the first installment of this article. Because of that lack of progress, women’sliberation, which gradually came to the West over a period of a century and culminated in the gender equality legislation in the United States in the 1960s and 70s, is nonexistent from North Africa to the Far East. Not that America is perfect – far from it. Women in the West still have a long way to go for true equality. However, after living in the OldWorld for the past five years, I can confidently say that America is leading the charge and treating our women far, far better than the rest of 21st century civilization. That isn’t as evident anywhere than it is when looking at the Arab world.
The first thing one must realize when critically observing Arab culture is that there are different branches and ways of thinking in both Islam as a religion as well as the various nations that make up Arab society. Liberal countries like Turkiye and Tunisia have given women the right to walk around without covering, the right to work and drive, and even legally divorce their husbands. It’s a much different picture in Saudi Arabia, Yemen, and other more conservative Islamic nations, where women cannotdrive, divorce, or evenwalkaroundinpublic without a male family member or husband as an escort (in Afghanistan and Pakistan, they can’t even show their faces through their full-body burqas). Not all Arabs are the same. Not all Muslims follow the rules of their religion the same way. There is a schism in Islam much the same way there is in Christianity between all the various denominations of Protestantism.
The bottom line behind the way women are treated in Arab culture has less to do with Islam as a religion though and much more to do with the primitive tribal societies that have flourished in this part of the world for over 1,000 years. Women, like livestock, are commodities to be bought, traded, sold, and orderedaround at the whim of the men in their lives: husbands, fathers, brothers, and even sons. In a warring, tribal culture that values the ability to fight and defend the family unit, men are more valuable than women, whose only recognized contribution to the family is the ability to make more babies. Within that context, Mohammad created Islam; there are a few key verses in the Islamic holy book, the Quran, that literally devalue women as a gender.
“Men are in charge of women, because Allah hath made the one of them to excel the other, and because they spend of their property. So good women are the obedient, guarding in secret that which Allah hath guarded.” (Quran 4:34)
“Your wives are as a tilth [cultivated land] unto you; so approach your tilth when and how ye will.” (Quran 2:223)
“And enjoin believing women to cast down their looks and guard their private parts and not reveal their adornment except that which is revealed of itself, and to draw their veils over their bosoms, and not to reveal their adornment save to their husbands, or their fathers, or the fathers of their husbands, or of their own sons, or the sons of their husbands, or their brothers, or the sons of their brothers, or the sons of their sisters, or the women with whom they associate, or those that are in their bondage, or the male attendants in their service free of sexual interest, or boys that are yet unaware of illicit matters pertaining to women.” (Quran 24:31)
Men are more important than women. It says so right there. But did those words come from God? It’s more believable that the ideas found in the dark ages holy book came from the founder’s desire to appeal to his audience. He wanted the pagantribes on the ArabianPeninsula, who were already mistreating their women – to jump on board his monotheisticbandwagon. So he tailored the message so that the majority of Arab men would fight for him in his quest for power (Constantine did much the same thing when he changed early Christianity so that the pagans in his RomanEmpire would adopt the infant religion).
It’s been suggested by Western liberals that Muslim men have been misreading the Quran. I whole-heartily disagree. They aren’t misreading the words in their holy book when it comes to Sharialaw and the role of women; what they are doing is taking the entire thing as literally as it can possibly be taken. It is that unwillingness to adapt and reinterpret the intention behind their prophet’s words that is keeping the Arab world in the ancient past, and giving modernday Muslims justification for continued abuse and maltreatment of women.
Sons have always been more desirable than daughters in the Arab world (similarly to India and other poor, undeveloped nations), and they’re dotedupon by their mothers and grandmothers. The young men aren’t expected to do any household chores. They can’t cook or clean. They can’t take care of themselves at all from the time they’re born until they’re adults (eventually they trade their mothers and sisters for wives). Polygamy is legal in many Arab nations, allowing Muslim men to father a dozen or more children through multiple wives (preferably sons, but if they get stuck with girls, fathers will simply marry them off as young as the hadith allows).
Why would men take multiple wives? So they can have sex whenever they want with younger and prettier women. Point of fact: many (not all) Muslim men seem to be 12-year-old boys trapped in men’s bodies. It’s the worst form of arrested development.
Once, in Turkiye, a visiting neighbor tried to force me out of my own kitchen so that his wife could do our dishes instead of me. He couldn’t fathom a world where men cook and clean. And he was on the more liberal side as far as Muslims go: his wife didn’t cover, and they both drank alcohol.
Do you play cards? Of course you do. In the West, the highest value face card is the king, followed by the queen and then the jack after. However, in Tunisia and other Arab countries, the jack has a higher value than the queen. It seems trivial, but it’s illustrative of a culture that has completely devalued women.
There are horrorstories as well as humorous anecdotes. Two teenage Saudi boys traveled to Egypt and while they were there, they paid a poor mother the equivalent of $15.00 USD for a couple hours with her 8-year-old daughter. The two boys repeatedly raped the young girl while she screamed her head off. READ THIS! The Saudi Arabian brand of Islam is called Wahhabism, and considers women to be slaves to men (it’s atrocious in every aspect). Those boys said the young girls are the ‘best.’ Yuck…
The Saudi royal family (among others) hires teenage girls from the Philippines and Thailand as “housekeepers” for their palaces. There are recruitingcompanies in these countries who knowingly bring innocent girls into the lion’s den, where – in addition to their housework – they are expected to be sexually available to every man of the palace, every single night.
The epidemic of childbrides is rampant from Morocco to Indonesia, as Muslim men accept younger and younger wives (because Mohammad married a 7-year-old girl as one of his four wives – he consummated the marriage when she turned 9, it must be acceptable for the rest of the Muslim men to do it too). In Yemen, 10-year-old NajoodAli was married to a thirty-something man, who raped her every night of their marriage (some grooms are as old as 65 or 70). One day Ali took a taxi downtown and demanded a divorce. When the court asked her why, she said, “I hate the nights.”
When girls and women don’t behave the way the men in their lives deem appropriate – ideas taken from sharia law (strict adherence to a literal translation of Islam as found in the hadith and the Quran) – they can be punished in a variety of ways. There is a punishment called, “The Woman’s Room,” where a girl undersuspicion of sexual misconduct (not even proven, just suspected) can be lockedaway in a sound-proof room without windows, and no hope of escape. She lives out the rest of her days in this prison: no friends, no bathing, no going to the bathroom (except for a hole in the floor); she can literally never leave until she dies. And the term ‘misconduct’ is vague and open to interpretation. The girl could have glanced at a man (like one girl whose mother threw acid in her face as a particularly harsh form of punishment) or chatted with a boy on social media to warrant such a heinous reaction from her family.
And if the “Woman’s Room” weren’t punishment enough, Arab men can steal the lives of the women in their families in the form of honorkillings if it’s believed that she brought shame to the family unit in some way. Girls can be stonedto death, drownedin the family pool, or stabbed or shot by younger brothers for dishonoring the men with actions or even the mere rumor of sexual activity (and this doesn’t only happen in Saudi Arabia; there are documented cases in the United States and Canada as well). Fathers and brothers feel no regret for the lives they take and admit to doing it again if a lowly female brought disgrace to their family.
It’s the worst kind of repression and oppression. Men have a fear of their own sexuality, and are never taught to control their own urges and hormones; instead, Arab culture – and thus Islam – blames women for the sins, and potential sins, of the men. When a woman is raped, she is at fault, and usually punished. In some countries, rapists can get away with their crime by marrying their victims. In one case, a 16-year-old rape victim committedsuicide after the courts orderedher to marry her attacker.
What can be done to help these women? Islam is in desperate need of a reformation, similar to the Protestant Reformation of the 16th century. The problems with the Arab world cannot be fought with strength of arms. It is a war of ideas. We, in the West, need to change those ideas. And we need to start with the strict interpretation of sharia law and how those laws affect the way the Muslim community treats women as well as non-Muslims across the globe.
As an ESL educator, one of the most important concepts that I teach in the classroom is using context clues to determine the meaning of new and unfamiliar vocabulary. As a student when I was in school (decadesago), I loved history class; it was one of my favorite subjects. Any student of history will tell you that a true education about the past has little to do with memorizing names and dates and much more to do with understanding the framework through which historical events took place.
Context is a very important aspect of learning and comprehension. It doesn’t matter if you’re studying language or history or even culture. Figuring out the context is akin to asking the all-encompassing question: why? I have lived in two very different Muslim countries (both on the liberal side of the Muslim scale), but I can tell you that it’s difficult to determine where the split between Arab and Islamicculture occurs, the lines have blurred over the centuries. One followed the other and was created within the culture’s subjective context. Westerners don’t know enough about it to understand, and Muslims themselves don’t look critically at their past, nor do they ask provocative questions about their present and future. And that was all part of the founder’s plan.
Or was it?
The religion of Islam was born over 1,000 years ago on the ArabianPeninsula in a time without order, without technology, and without real civilization. Imagine if you will a desert world with 20 or 30 different tribes in a constant state of war with one another. There were no real cities, no governments, no infrastructure. Arab tribes were comprised of family units and bloodlines; fighting to protect and secure those clans wasn’t only encouraged, it was necessary for survival.
During the same period, the European nations operated under the feudal system with kings and queens ruling over large estates of land called kingdoms. The RomanEmpire had fallen and the Holy Catholic Church had taken its place, with a religious hierarchy that not only dictated the way people behaved and thought, but also maintained a substantial amount of wealth and power. Yes, in both locations a historian might use the phrase “darkages” to describe the situations. The difference being that eventually the European dark ages came to an end while the Arab dark ages persist even to this day.
The current world issues with Islam didn’t start with the religion. Problems of violence and aggression against other Muslim factions and even non-Muslims began with Arab tribal culture of the sixth and seventh centuries. It was that world into which Islam was conceived and born. A world where men were more valuable than women. A world where you drew your sword instead of asking questions. A world where your political and religious leader was the same man. A world where you could die of starvation and thirst in a hot, desert climate if you didn’t take what others owned to ensure your own survival.
It is within this context that one must first look before really understanding the culture of Islam and why there is so much violence associated with its holy text, the Quran. Islam has been called the Religion of the Sword – and for good reason. The Quran states in multiple places that believers must convert or kill disbelievers, which is very unlike Christianity and Judaism (Jesus was a pacifist, who preached love thy neighbor and turn the other cheek). There are many similarities between Christianity and Islam, though, and it’s no wonder since the Muslim prophet, Mohammad, was quite familiar with the other monotheistic religions of his day and borrowed from them as he saw fit.
Whether or not the Quran and Mohammad were the real deal or not isn’t the purpose of this article. Suffice it to say, the man who created one of the major world religions today was a warrior and political figure. He wanted power and usedhis religious ideas to develop a following, form alliances, and build an army to do his bidding. He used his faith to unify the previously pagan and warringArabictribes into one violent mega-tribe. And it is that mega-tribe – which extends from Morocco all the way to Indonesia – that is still fighting in the 21st century. That mega-tribe is the problem, not necessarily the religion that was used to create it.
The Arab world in our day and age has stagnated. They ceased making any kind of progress centuries ago, because they disregard and discredit those among them who think critically and ask questions about their culture and their religion. Muslims in the 21st century live in much the same way their ancestors did in the 11th.
Sure, they watchtelevision, drivecars, and usecellphones, but they don’t value education, they don’t strive to better themselves as individuals or as a society, they don’t seem to have a decent work ethic, and the men still rule in a very misogynistic and patriarchal way of life that has been virtually dead in the West for a hundred years. Can you name any Arabs who have made substantial contributions to humanity? The Arab world is eager to use the West’s contributions to better their lives but then fight against us when convenient for their message.
The Muslims/Arabs I have met and spoken with (and of course, this isn’t true of all Arabs, but it’s the vast majority) still maintain a very primitive and archaicmentality about the role that religion plays in their lives, the roles men and women play in society, and their role in an ever-shirking global community. When viewed in the context of Mohammad’s life and experiences, Islam was his way of gaining power and influence over varying groups of people who at that time, weren’t listening to any centralized authority. And we’ve seen it since then as well. What happens when one man wants to control huge populations of people? He creates totalitarian dictatorship regimes and burns books.
Asking self-reflective questions and thinking critically about faith and life is forbidden in the Muslim holy book. Not merely discouraged or frowned upon – literally forbidden. Mohammad wanted his followers to have blind faith in whatever he said to them. He didn’t want any situations where another man or group could challenge his ultimate position as their new leader. The angel Gabriel visited the prophet and told him, “O, you who believe! Ask not about things which, if made plain to you, may cause you trouble.” (Quran 5:101)
When Mohammad died and others picked up the baton of his new monotheistic religion, they didn’t exactly know what to do with it. So they took the words in the Quran literally. Anybody throughout the history of Islam who questioned the literal interpretation of Mohammad’s ideas has been denounced or killed. To this day, Arab culture doesn’t ask questions. They don’t think critically, and they don’t analyze life, religion, or themselves. It’s blind obedience to the rules of their religion that were created in a time of strife and insecurity. But those rules are still being applied today in the name of honorkillings, jihads, and forcing other cultures and peoples to submit to the will of Allah.
Mohammad didn’t choose the word Islam by happenstance, nor did I choose the name of this article in the same way. Both were calculated moves. The word Islam translates to submission. It’s an idea that could be beautiful, again within the right context (if we each submit to each other, then there will be peace all over the world). But Arabs, the world over, aren’t using Islam for peace. Even the ones who don’t believe in jihad (which is quite a few believe it or not) aren’t standing up for themselves and their version of their faith. They sit quietly while the more violent members of their clans justify murder in the name of Allah. At the same time, this silent majority does follow the ancient rules of their culture. They use it to subjugateand oppresshalf of their own population: women.
Well, my loyal readers, this is the end. You have followed me on my journeys for the past five years. You were with me in SouthKorea, where I began my expatriation and initial contract teaching English as a Second Language.
I brought you along to the capital city of Turkiye, where I immersed myself in Islamic culture for the first time and taught at a conservative, Muslim, all-boys high school.
You followed me to rural China – the heart of communism on earth – and its 1.5 billion people, with its factory worker mentality and lack of personal freedoms and individuality.
Next, I explored the wonderful continent of Europe, and took you with me as I not only taught at an Opus Dei high school in Pamplona, Spain, but also managed to squeeze in visits to 10 other nations on the Continent during my year living there.
The fifth year came with unknown challenges and unexpected obstacles as I first volunteered for 6 months at a Buddhist monastery on top of a mountain outside the city of Kathmandu in the rural and impoverished country of Nepal, and then spent 2017 (so far) living on the continent of Africa while teaching for an American NGO in the predominately desert – and very hot and humid – country of Tunisia.
And with that… the adventure is over.
Or is it?
One chapter is at an end, yes. But another chapter is just beginning. I am officially suspending my campaign as an ESL educator for upcoming the 2017-18 academic year and will be…
…Going, going, Back, back, to the U S of A!!!
That’s right! We are coming home!
My wife, Jen, has accepted a position teaching at a rural, NativeAlaskanvillage school. It was her dream to live in a small village and be accepted into a tight-knit community. So, we will be relocating back into the land of zip codes and Amazon deliveries, of phone calls to friends and family, of English as a Primary Language… but we won’t be returning to the contiguous 48 states (not yet at any rate).
We’re moving to Alaska (but we won’t be living in an igloo)!
The village of K—- (meaning: where three rivers meet) is located 30 miles north of the Arctic Circle and boasts a total population of around 400 people (about 130 students in the school, which is PreK-12). The village was founded several centuries ago by the InupiatEskimos. The school is 97% Native American (the only non-natives are probably the imported ‘white’ teachers from other states – Alaska has been having difficulties – as they themselves say, ‘growing our own teachers‘). The nearest ‘city’ to K—-, and what Alaskans refer to as a hub, is Kotzebue. Kotzebue is located at the northern tip of a peninsula that juts out into the Pacific Ocean from the state’s very crooked coastline.
As I write this blog, I haven’t yet arrived or traveled to the LastFrontier. So these are hardly my first impressions. What they are, however, is nothing more than Internet research and my limited understand of life in the bush country. I’m sure there will be many more articles about Arctic village life to come.
The first thing you have to realize about the ‘bush‘ is what that word technically means. The bush is any area – sparsely populated by villages – in Alaska that you cannot travel to by car. The villages aren’t connected by roads (Roads? Where we’re going we don’t need… Roads!). The only way to get to these rural villages is to fly there on small 5-20 seat prop planes, or – when the weather is nicer – boat up rivers or along the coast. As you can probably imagine, in the cold and dark winter months, the waterways freeze over, making travel all but impossible save for planes (and even severe storms will cut us off completely from the outside world).
When we want to travel, we first have to take a teeny-tiny plane to Kotzebue and then transfer to a slightly larger plane that will take us to Anchorage. From Anchorage, we can use websites like travelocity, skyscanner, and cheaptickets to purchase our plane fare to the east coast to visit our friends and family. To receive shipments and packages, the boxes will first make their way to Anchorage and then get delivered by plane to Kotzebue, followed by the various villages of the region, where we’ll have to walk to the airport or post office when we want to pick them up. To the best of my knowledge, getting things in and out of the bush – including ourselves – will be a very expensive and time-consuming affair. It’s my hope that the experience will make these inconveniences worthwhile.
Okay, okay… I lied. It’s not the end.
As long as you keep reading, I’ll keep writing. Trust me, though. You’re going to want to stay with me. Our Alaskan adventure is proving to be the most interesting and unique of anything we’ve done so far. I can’t wait!
Any teacher will tell you that there are problems in education. Problems in the classroom. Problems with student behavior. Problems with administration. Problems with government regulation. I began teaching ESL – English as a Second Language – in foreign classrooms for foreign schools and companies all over the world about 5 years ago. From the Iberian to the KoreanPeninsulas, I have observed many difficulties that exist in overseas classrooms, but particularly ones that occur in ESL situations.
The most obvious of these issues is that most students do not develop the necessary criticalthinkingskills required to be successful in academia or in the work force. Perhaps my expectations are too high since I’ve valued my own education from the time I was a young child (my parents were both very actively involved in my learning, even reading books to me before I could speak). I surrounded myself with overachievers, so now that I’ve reached adulthood, I often get disappointed, discouraged, and disillusioned with what I deem to be a quickly sinking average IQ across the globe (but it might have always been low, I just never exposed myself to those people).
I’m a believer in life–longlearning. Many of the cultures in which I teach barely believe in childhood learning. The basic concept of bettering oneself, and upward mobility in general, is alien to many who live in third-world countries. It’s a shame really, but when I get into a classroom full of students who are unable to answer simple logic questions (why? for example), my heart breaks a little.
Along the same lines, I have also observed that the students are a direct reflection on their elders. In many of these nations, the idea of education is a relatively new concept. Some students are the first generation to attend school, especially if they hail from rural villages. I remember being in Turkiye and learning that my 16 year old students’ parents nevergraduated from high school. What has always been more important than individuals in these nations is family – so even at the youngest of ages, children went to work in fields or factories in an effort to contribute to the family income stream. Which begs the question: how can a 10 year old care about their own education when their primary role models never did (and still don’t)?
Thirdly, and also on a related thread, students in most foreign countries (Far East Asia aside) are never taught how to be students. In the US, the first things that kindergartners learn is how to sitstill (you’d be surprised how hard this is for most foreign students – they must all have ADHD), raisetheirhands, walkinstraightlines, and other basic classroom etiquette. As they age, they’re taught how to properly take exams while in school, and how to study for those exams while at home. Teachers and parents in America are equally invested in the development and progress of the youth who look up to them. Working abroad has opened my eyes to 14 year olds who behave like 5 year olds and 45 year old adults who behave like 14 year old teenagers. It’s completely a mess.
The next two issues are specific to the ESL world.
The only requirement for an ESL teacher is being a native English speaker (and in many countries, this isn’t even set in stone – I have worked along side teachers born and raised in Thailand and Romania). I have met teachers who are so young, they are only extending their college partying experience with a year abroad (so to speak) so they can travel. I have also met teachers who couldn’t care less about the quality of education they provide to their students. I have rarely, if ever, met an actual qualified teacher. Employers are literally floored to see Jen’s resume and learn that she not only has one, but two master’s degrees in education. They just never see it (hell, even I don’t have a degree in education).
Most ESL teachers come from the US, Canada, and the UK and I would guess many haven’t ever been instructed in the proper way to create a lessonplan. Just because you know how to speak the language, doesn’t mean you know how to teach it (so in this regard, the teacher from Romania, who’s familiar with the official grammar rules, is superior to the native speaker). Some put effort in, of course – I’m not saying all are blase. But you’d be hard-pressed to find an ESL educator familiar with Kolb’s learningstyles, or even know what the word pedagogy means. Similarly to a bachelor’s degree, a simple TEFLcertificate hardly prepares someone for employment in the real world.
Perhaps the single biggest issue in the ESL industry is this: lackoflifeexperience. I know it sounds unimportant, but nothing could be further from the truth. I go into these classrooms to teach English. English is a form of communication. I’m not there to teach students how to think or give them things to talk and write about. They are supposed to come to the table with ammunition themselves. I have had students who have never traveled outside of their village. I have had students who have never been on vacation, or slept in a hotel room. I have had students who don’t have any hobbies, interests, or unique personality traits – other than soccer and shopping – that separate them from the pack.
How can an ESL student possibly write or speak in an effort to learn a new language, when they haven’t done anything worth writing or speaking about?
Very few of my students have ever been to a themepark, taken a dance class, played a musicalinstrument, or opened a historybook. And…
Reading for fun… WHAAAAAT????
They only seem to care about cellphonegames and partying. They know next to nothing about foreign countries and cultures; they know very little about their own country and culture. In the US, students are given ample opportunities to participate in extra–curricularactivities after school and on weekends. That doesn’t seem to happen in the third-world. And so, when I present a lesson during which the English learners are supposed to have opinions and share ideas about their lives, they simply sit there dumbfounded with nothing to say or write. They seem like empty, hollowshells of people (it reminds me of Westworld in a way).
My new apartment in Monastir, Tunisia overlooks the MediterraneanSea, but that’s not all. It also overlooks the mausoleum of ex-president (and socialist dictator) HabibBourguiba. Every morning, when I take my coffee out onto the balcony and bask in the sunlight as it reflects joyously off the rippling sea waves, I stare out at the palace-like structure. I began to wonder about who this Bourguiba actually was. So I looked him up, and this is what I discovered.
Habib Ben Ali Bourguiba served as the country’s first president following their independence in 1956, himself proclaiming the Kingdom a Republic the following year (1957). After the nation’s separation from France, he earned the title “Supreme Combatant” (whatever that means). He was born and spent his childhood in Monastir (hence why he’s buried outside my window), and you can eat in a restaurant in a building that he previously called home.
His rise to power isn’t that interesting at all. He was a statesman during the time of French occupation, but quickly became a socialist and ruled for about 30 years as dictator (for lack of a better word). He was ousted in a coup de’tat by prime minister, a man named Zine El Abidine Ben Ali in 1987 because of his declining health, the rise of Islamism, and a War of succession. Basically, he came into power via bloodshed and turmoil and he left in the same manner.
What makes this story slightly more interesting is that his successor, this Ben Ali, was the leader until the TunisianRevolution in 2011, also known as the JasmineRevolution. At that point, he was ousted and now lives with his family in exile in SaudiArabia. If he comes back into Tunisia, he’ll be executed on the tarmac. What is it about this country that causes leaders to be so violently overthrown, just about all the damn time? He is accused of a variety of crimes like manslaughter and drug trafficking.
For those of you who don’t know, the revolution here wasn’t much more than a campaign of civil disobedience (thank you Dr. King) and street protests. The country has since become democratized (mostlysuccessfully), which means that the general public and the media now enjoy freedomofspeech – no small feat for an Islamic nation. But that’s about all that changed. From what other Tunisians have told me, there are other aspects of life which have gotten worse in the past six or so years, including unemployment, the value of the dinar (their currency), and trash or garbage, which litters just about every street in every city that we’ve seen – even our beautiful Monastir (and don’t get me started on the way it smells when the wind blows a certain direction).
Many analysts agree that the revolution here could very well pave the way toward freedom in all other Arab countries. Although other ArabSpring nations have failed to convert to constitutional democracies thus far, there may still yet be time for them to fall like dominoes. Fighting in Egypt resulted in a regime change (when the MuslimBrotherhood was taken down by General Sisi, who went on to win a general election to become president himself) as well as the current civil war in Syria may yet go either way. Many other conflicts are still on-going and have been given the name The Arab Winter. For Tunisians, however, the winter and spring are over and the time for summer seems at hand.
In 1977 the world changed forever. The epic space opera, StarWars, revolutionized the way films were made and the way audiences watched them. 2017 is the 40th anniversary of that groundbreaking undertaking. And I got to visit one of the filming locations in Tunisia.
GeorgeLucas originally conceived LukeSkywalker‘s home planet to be a lush jungle, however, he altered the decision at the eleventh hour to be a desert world to pay homage to Frank Herbert’s science fiction classic, Dune. He learned about the indigenous people of NorthAfrica, who lived in the mountain caves that surrounded the borders of the SaharaDesert and was inspired.
Tatooine was born. In our world, the real-life Tataouine can be found in southern Tunisia and it’s pre-Arab inhabitants are known as Berbers. They have spent centuries – up to this day – living in troglodyte caverns underground. The most famous of these can be found in OldMatmata (or Matmata Kadeema) and became the now well-recognized home of Luke’s Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru – desert moisture farmers.
As a lifelong fan of the franchise, I just had to see the Lars’ Homestead for myself. The Hotel Sidi Driss isn’t only a decently preserved Star Wars set. It’s also a hotel, restaurant, and bar. I was surprised to see just how hoppin’ the place was. Every night, it crowds with locals drinking beer and wine as well as snacking on their favorite southern Tunisian foods. The loud music detracts from the magic, but if you want solitude, the place is perfectly quiet between dawn and 4pm.
Jen and I got to eat dinner at Luke Skywalker’s dining room table. We got to sleep in his bedroom (never filmed, but Mark Hamill actually slept there…. actually, I can’t honestly back that up, there’s just no evidence that any of the cast or crew stayed the night in the cave rooms – and to go even further, I couldn’t find evidence that the now hotel was a hotel in 1975 either. That may have been a more recent alteration).
We also took some fun photos. See for yourself!
Until Next Time…
Main View of the Lars’ Homestead (Star Wars: Episode IV – A New Hope. 1977)
Justin at the Hotel Sidi Driss 40 Years Later – 2017
Jen at the Hotel Sidi Driss 40 Years Later (2017 – notice her Darth Vader T-Shirt)
Luke, Owen, and Beru at their Dining Room Table (1977)
Justin Sitting Exactly Where Luke Skywalker Sat (2017)
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the culture of Islam, it was the culture of Buddhism, it was the beach by the sea, it was the hamlet in the mountains, it was the spring of relaxation, it was the autumn of inner–reflection.
Usually, we sign a one year contract and stay in a place from September to June. However, when the opportunity to volunteer and live at a Buddhist monastery in the foothills of the HimalayanMountains for six months presented itself, we had to take it. Now, from where I sit – on my private balcony overlooking the crystalline MediterraneanSea – I can see the decision was destiny.
Following our volunteering, we accepted a six-month position (to round out the year) with an American NGO (non-government organization) in Tunisia: Amideast. When we were hired, we were supposed to have been placed in one of the largest cities in this small north African nation, Sousse (you may remember it from the terrorist attacks in the summer of 2015). But fate reared its head yet again and our assignment shifted to a smaller city about 20 kilometers south along the eastern seaboard.
Yep, you guessed it. The name means monastery. So while we’ve been staying put for 10-12 months at a time, we moved to two different locations within the same year and both were – for all intents and purposes – monasteries.
My firstimpressions of Tunisia were mostly unexpected. The people smile all the time. They seem much friendlier in general than in other similar countries. Perhaps it’s the climate. The summers (theysay) can get very hot, but all in all the coastal cities share the weather of Greece, Italy and southern Spain.
There is a lot of litter around on the streets and blowing in the wind. The beaches aren’t up to American or even European standards (probably one of the reasons tourism has dipped recently), but what surprised me is that the air seems cleaner than Nepal and Egypt. There seems to be much lessdust and there is an ability to take deep breaths and smell the salty sea air.
Monastir as a city is quaint and quiet. It juts out on a little peninsula that faces east so the sunrises sparkle off the blue-green water. The view from our balcony looks out over the Mausoleumof Bourguiba and the ribat (a medieval fort) as well as the eastern wall of the medina (old city). There is a lot of traffic along the busier streets, but it’s nothing compared to the hectic turmoil of Nepal. So maybe first impressions are relative. If we had arrived in Tunisia directly from the United States, we may have been in for much more of a shock than we were.
The costofliving is much lower here than many other places, including Spain. In fact a kilogram of oranges costs about $0.25 and rents are a fraction of what a similar apartment would be in America or Europe. We’ve started running again, now that we have room to do so, and there are lots of benefits to exercise so near to the sea. More importantly than any of that though: we feel safe. There was a lot of speculation regarding our security before we got here. I’m pleased to announce that as of the writing of this blog, all is well.
One of the initial downsides that may impact the entire time here is the workschedule. Many of the classes are geared toward adults and therefore must take place in the evenings and on weekends. It makes planning meals and leisure time activities difficult. On top of that, it’s not a static schedule. There is the potential to get more classes each month when new sessions begin.
Like everywhere else in the world, Tunisia is full of positives and negatives, advantages and disadvantages. Only time will tell if the pluses outweigh the negatives, but so far, it’s looking quite good.
America has a carculture. I remember quite distinctly being a teenager in the suburbs and waiting with baited breath to turn the legal driving age so that I could get around to see my friends and have the ultimate freedom. I remember getting my learner’s permit and those first few times starting up the ignition and backing down the driveway. I remember all the lessons: parallel parking, checking mirrors, signaling before changing lanes… and the infrastructure is something that most Americans take for granted. Traffic lights, stop signs, painted lines on the roads, mile markers, and other conveniences are abnormally absent from third world countries.
So when I decided to become an expat, I knew that driving was one privilege that I didn’t want to lose. I went to AAA and got my internationaldriver’spermit so that I could operate a motor vehicle in every country in the world. While living in SouthKorea, I bought a motorcycle and took lessons so that I could get around town without having to rely on the public transportation system – the metro line was in construction in JisanDong (myneighborhood) and overcrowded buses were the only option.
In Turkiye, I only drove once when I had to leave school and get back to my apartment for some important paperwork that I had left at home. I borrowed my supervisor’s car and braved the Middle Eastern roads and traffic (my wife was a mess thinking about it). It’s something that I couldn’t have done without my international permit.
While living in China, the school provided us with an eBike – it topped out at 40 kph (whichisnothing), and only for a short time before needing to be recharged, but we were able to get back and forth from the school campus to the bus station or the supermarket in town when we needed to. Incidentally, I didn’t need a permit to operate such a small eBike anyway.
In Spain, we rented a car a few times to drive around the country, or between countries. We took an amazing roadtrip through the south of France in October of last year (with a detour through Andorra) and then when we were in Germany over the Christmas holiday, we rented a car to get us back and forth to Prague in the CzechRepublic. Driving in Germany was one of the best vehicular pleasures of my life – the roads are well-lit, the drivers know what they’re doing, and sometimes there’s no speed limit at all.
Whether or not I was behind the wheel in these countries, I sure as heck saw some weird, crazy, and sometimes amazing things on the roads.
For example, in Ankara we saw people get into a fight on the road. They literally got out of their stopped cars in the middle of the lanes of traffic, went into their trunks and pulled out ironbars and baseballbats. Apparently, a lot of drivers keep weapons on hand in case of incidents of roadrage. Pretty freaky!
In another instance, we were in the backseat of a car in China (driven by one of the workers of our school), who proceeded to not only drive into lanes of oncoming traffic, but then swerved onto the opposingshoulder of the road to try and make a leftturn by avoiding the intersection completely and cutting off four rows of cars, buses, and trucks to do so. It was single-handedly the worst driving I have ever seen in my life.
The roads in Nepal and Cambodia are a nightmare. Yet somehow, the drivers seem to know how to successfully navigate the traffic. I have yet to see any kind of accident here. The speeds top out at probably 35 mph anyway, so no one is really gunning it – pedal to the metal – down the dusty, pot-hole-filled streets, but still. The roads are twisting and turning, and in both countries, 5 cars are squeezed into the space of where only two would normally fit. Don’t get me started on the motorbikes either. They are everywhere and will cut off the larger vehicles on both sides just to get around a jam.
If you choose to drive overseas, make sure you are completely comfortable behind the wheel. And if you’re an avid driver in the States, thank your lucky stars that you get to drive in such amazing conditions.
As all of you already know, it’s very difficult to be away from home for the holidays. There’s just something about surrounding yourself with friends and family that makes the Christmas season all the more special. Living abroad, Jen and I often find ourselves alone and have to make the best of it. This year was particularly hard since we don’t have many comforts of home living at the monastery. So we took it upon ourselves to make our own holiday magic.
For Thanksgiving, we ate on a balcony overlooking the BoudhanathStupa, which was all lit up like it was Christmas. It was quite a festive feeling to be had on our holiday, as well as a great kick-start to the season. Surprisingly, the monastery helped set the mood too. On the night of December 23rd they held a candle-lit vigil in front of a very “Christmas-y” looking gompa. We processed around the grounds, including a walk through the stupagarden, along with almost four–hundred monks. It was quite a thing to behold.
On the morning of the 24th, we took a two hour taxi ride outside the KathmanduValley and up into the Himalayan Mountains. There is a small hilltop village called Nagarkot where we stayed at a really nice hotel called the CountryVilla. We got a corner room overlooking the snow–cappedpeaks. The ‘suite’ came complete with a queen–sizebed, heating in the room (a rarity in Nepal), hotwater in the shower (that doesn’t go out after five minutes), and roomservice.
We spent almost three full days simply relaxing in the mountains. We read. We played games. We ordered in. We woke up early to watch the sunrise on our private balcony. We drank hot cocoa and egg nog. And we, of course, opened our gifts. It wasn’t the fanciest Christmas ever, but we managed to enjoy it quite a bit.
So far, we have no plans for New Year’s Eve. The monastery closes its gates at 9:00pm and we cannot be out later than that without special permission – which we probably won’t worry about getting. We’ll see what happens. This will be my final post for 2016. We wish you all a wonderful holiday season and a happy new year!
Sometimes it’s nice to be pampered: to go to a spa and relax with a hot stone treatment, deep tissue massage, and the whole works. Sometimes it’s just nice to be able to get a haircut. Living abroad can make doing these kinds of things difficult.
Recently, I went to a local Nepali barbershop to get my haircut and I was reminded of all the other haircuts we’ve tried to get since living overseas. In Korea, I couldn’t get the stylist at the salon I went to with my buddy Luke to agree to the haircut I wanted. Perhaps it was the language barrier, or perhaps he knew what I wanted and simply refused to give it to me. Either way, I never went back and didn’t try getting my haircut anywhere else since then. Until now.
In China, I didn’t get my haircut, but Jen did (she didn’t in Turkey, what with her coworkers all wearing hijabs, she didn’t have anyone to ask about salons). It cost her very little money and the stylist spent the better part of an hour working her hair over and she looked glorious when it was all said and done. He did an amazing job for practically pennies. He cut it, styled it, layered it, thinned it, blew it out, and did whatever else it is that you ladies always get done at the salon.
See, my hair is simple and I own my own set of clippers so 99% of the time, I just do it myself. I cut my own hair in Turkey, in China, and in Spain. However, trying to give myself a trim here at the monastery would prove to be a hassle. We don’t really have our own living space: essentially living a dormitory lifestyle, we have a room and a bathroom and we get our meals in a dining hall. But we don’t really have the money to spend on cleaning products (volunteersthatweare) and I don’t really feel like having to stoop down and pick pieces of my hair up one at a time off the floor. On top of that, our bathroom is minuscule, I would have more room if I used the outdoor shared bathroom in our old building. However, then I have to worry about the cold, the inadequate lighting, and potential people walking in on me while I’m half-naked and shaving my head.
It’s just not going to work.
So I went to get it done. And what an experience it was. The salon – spelled Sailoon on the window – was a dirty, one room business on the corner at the bottom of the hill beneath the monastery. The owner is a young twenty-something who took over the family business from his father. He’s been cutting hair since he was nine years old. He sat me down, flipped the skirt thing around me, and asked me what I wanted. I told him and he began with the clippers, but he didn’t last long with them. He quickly switched to the scissors and comb.
His deft fingers flew across my scalp, faster than anyone’s ever cut my hair before. But I wasn’t scared he was going to cut me; he was simply that good. It was like EdwardScissorhands or something. He got halfway through my haircut and then declared a fiveminuteteabreak. He went next door and came back with a glass of tea for me and one for himself. He sat next to me chatting in his very broken and difficult to understand English. Super nice guy.
After we finished our tea, he commenced my haircut. When he was finished, he asked me if I liked it and I told him I did. He then proceeded to massage my scalp. I thought that was all I was going to get but when he was finished with my scalp, he moved to my forehead and eyelids and then down the back of my neck. He massaged my neck, back, arms, hands, and even crackedmy knuckles on both hands. Following the massage and the haircut, he then moved into style mode. He put three products in my hair: gel, pomade, and hairspray – all of which he applied using a blowdryer. When I left, I looked like a movie star. I guess that’s what you get when your barber has been cutting hair since he was in the single digits.
I’m sorry to have to report this back to you guys in the States who pay upwards of $20 (for men) and $60 (for women) just to get your haircuts. But this very able barber charges his Nepali clients a total of 50 rupees (50 cents) for their haircuts. I felt generous after such a good job. I gave him $3.00.
Drums out in the wilds of the deepest jungles of central Asia! The beating will drive madness into the mind! Danger! Excitement! Wild beasts! And now, presenting a safari trekking excursion!
Our third day began with an early start. When we finished breakfast, we walked down to the river and got into a special kind of canoe, made by the hollowing out of a special type of tree trunk. The canoe held about ten people and slowly made its way downstream to the entrance of the jungle. Along the way we saw plenty of waterfowl including egrets, cranes, and smaller, more colorful birds, and even a few crocodiles near the banks. I was worried the boat would tip too far to the left and start taking in water, but magically, it never did. We arrived at our destination dry as bones. Now it was time for our jungle trek.
The guide gave us his spiel about what to do if we encountered some of the area’s more dangerous critters: sloth bears, rhinos, and tigers (fun fact: did you know that you’re supposed to stare down a tiger if he comes across you, looking fierce, making funny faces, and loud noises while waving your arms at him? Truthfully, the last thing you want to do when facing a tiger is turn tail and run away). Rhinos have bad eyesight so if they charge at you, you’re supposed to run in a zigzag pattern and possibly either hide behind or climb up a tree.
So we hiked through the dense vegetation of the rain forest and the adjacent grasslands with 12 foot high grasses (whichmadevisibilitynegligible) and didn’t encounter anything dangerous. We saw lots of brightly colored insects and birds, a few monkeys, a flock of spotted deer, and tiger tracks (weevenheard one barking in thedistance), but we didn’t see any. I thought I saw the back half of a panther, jaguar, or some other type of smaller jungle cat, but it disappeared before our guide could identify it. What we did see was big piles of animal stool, like sloth bears and rhinos. It was like we were tracking the beasts and our guide could tell us how recently the animals had been in the very spot we were standing. Too bad they had vacated the premises before our arrival.
Three hours later, we were sitting on a raised platform under the shade of a tree overlooking the river, watching an elephant cross the water. We hadn’t seen any rhinos yet, so our guide promised to take us out the next morning to a spot on the river where he knew they would be so that we could see them. All in all, our jungle safari trek was fun, but uneventful. At one point Jen had a leech on her pants, which came off easily with one small tug, but otherwise not much else happened. We returned to the town for showers, more a/c card games, and dinner.
Our fourth day started with a bang. RHINOS! We hiked to the river and saw two of them, one in the water taking his own bath and another up on the bank eating some grass (they’reherbivores). They are truly amazing creatures that made me feel as if I were in Jurassic Park. They really do resemble dinosaurs with the horn and armor plating. The rhino in the river crossed paths with a wild elephant too. They were really awesome to see.
After the rhinos, Jen wanted to bathe with the elephants again since it was our main reason for coming to the area and she had so much fun the first time. So she did that again, this time she spent close to 45 minutes scrubbing down a twenty-five year old girl named Elisa (orEliza), who had walked for five days across India just to get into Nepal with her teenage owner and his five year old little brother. Both Jen and the elephant were all smiles that day and I got some great pics, so I was all smiles too.
Following more showers, we took a quick motorcycle ride to the ElephantBreedingCenter, where baby elephants run around amok. We arrived just as they finished their grazing in the forest and were coming back for feeding time. We both got to play with and touch them (something you could never do in the States); one of the younger ones was running around the entire place looking for something sweet to eat, barreling toward the tourists, who jumped out of her way.
Their mothers are chained up while the babies roam free so that when they’re playing with tourists, the mothers don’t stampede or do anything else dangerous. We finished up just as the rain started coming down so we went back to town to wait out the rain and then head around for some souvenir shopping and more dinner at KCs.
When dinner was over we took a walk along the river, saw some more crocodiles and tried to see the sunset, but because it was cloudy we only got more changing, shifting colors and didn’t ever really get a chance to see the brilliant ball of gas slipping lower behind the horizon. That night was awful because the electricity never came back on and we had to sleep in a muggy, bug-infested room (the screens had holes) and I barely slept a wink. It was awful, especially knowing what followed the next morning: another horrible, terrible, no good, very bad bus ride back up to Kathmandu (we found out the hard way that this time took 8 hours, not 6 because of muddy roads and traffic).
All in all, we had a great adventure in the jungles of Nepal. As always, the people are marvelous and well worth visiting. They really seem to care about going above and beyond to ensure you’re enjoying yourself. If you can stomach the bus ride, and have a few extra days, Chitwan National Park is worth it in spite of not ever getting the guarantee of seeing animals on your jungle trek. We recommend it!
Drums out in the wilds of the deepest jungles of central Asia! The beating will drive madness into the mind! Danger! Excitement! Wild beasts! And now, presenting a safari trekking excursion!
Our adventure began with the bus ride from hell: six grueling hours on bumpy, unpaved, dusty, twisting and turning mountain roads in a vehicle without comfort (no a/c, cramped seating, and some bad body odor). When we wiped our foreheads, our hands came back black with soot and dirt. We weren’t sure the bus would even be operating on the day we needed to go because the monsoon season had brought with it a fair share of mud and landslides, blocking the roads. The tourism company had to find out if the roads would be cleared first, before they would even consider selling us tickets.
The bus did end up going and once we arrived at the dirt parking lot of the Sauraha bus terminal (there was no terminal), we negotiated a taxi to the hotel with a local driver, hopped into the back of his “junglejeep” (nothing more than a pickup truck with seats in the back) and drove through more bumpy, unpaved, and dusty roads to get to our hotel. Our backs and backsides were killing us, but as the rain started pouring, we just wanted to get into our room and get showered.
The hotel was called the RiverBankInn, aptly named as it is (asadvertised) on the edge of the RaptiRiver. The staff, all three of them, were very helpful and friendly. We chose the hotel because the guidebook said they owned three of their own elephants and that idea sounded marvelous to Jen; however, when we got there we learned that only four months earlier, the owner sold the elephants because they were too expensive to keep and business wasn’t doing so well. During our time there we learned why.
The hotel had zero ambiance. Up and down the main strip in the town, you can find dozens of safari themed lodges and campgrounds – totally immersing visitors in a jungle experience. The River Bank Inn didn’t do any of that unfortunately (but their breakfasts were some of the better hotel breakfasts we have had over the past few years).
After the rain ceased, we wandered around the town for a while, checking out the local shops and restaurants. The town of Sauraha feels like you’re stepping into a time warp; it’s not just being in an exotic location, it had a very Bedrock vibe to it. We had dinner at a wonderful little place called KCs, which had an entire garden out back and a diner-style menu featuring Indian, Mexican, Italian, and American foods. They’re known for their tandoori dishes so we stuck with eating Indian food while we were there (we went back every night for dinner – it was the best restaurant in town). The sky lit up with beautiful colors of magentas and violets as the sun set across the river and we were treated to some unique sights: elephants walking down the town streets, something we had never seen, nor even fathomed seeing before. Jen’s reaction was priceless!
Our second day activities opened with the primary reason for our visit. Jen donned her bikini and we hiked down to the river so that she could meet and bathe with the elephants. Basically, there are two kinds of elephants in the ChitwanNationalPark area: government owned and privately owned. Private owners let the elephant handlers, aka mahouts, take their elephants out and around town for various money-making enterprises, one of which is the bathing.
Tourists can help scrub the elephants down while they lay around in the river, or they can get on the beasts’ backs and allow themselves to be sprayed with trunk loads of water. The elephants are trained to suck up the water and then blow it all over their backs and the people on their backs. It’s a lot of fun to watch and even more fun to be soaked. Needless to say, Jen had a blast, no pun intended, playing around with a couple of elephants and then we headed back to the room for showers again.
Southern Nepal (headingtowardIndia), where Chitwan National Park is located is much closer to sea level than the mountainous valleys of Kathmandu. Therefore, it’s much hotter and way more humid than the weather at the monastery. Every day peaked in the mid to high 90s with humidity at about the same. So following our morning activities, we spent the better part of the afternoon holed up in our room in front of the a/c (when the power worked – don’t forget this is Nepal and they only get electricity that works 50% of the time) playing cards or reading together. Once 4:00pm hit and the temperature and humidity dipped down did we brave the elements to venture out into the town again for some shopping, dinner, and night life.
And night life meant the TharuStickDance performances at their cultural hall. Following dinner, we were entertained by a troop performing ancient, local dances to a very loud bongo drum. There was some chanting, but overall it was a bunch of people moving about in a large circle with smaller one-handed sticks or larger two-handed sticks, beating them together to the rhythm of the drum. The announcer had a really bad microphone (andnot–so–hotEnglish) so while we couldn’t understand what she was introducing, we were entertained in an awkward sorta way by their costumes and musical numbers. It was obvious that most of the participants cared about their heritage and wanted to put on a good show for those in attendance (aboutfiftypeopleorso). At the end, they even called willing spectators on stage to join in the final number. That was hectic and chaotic, but everyone appeared to enjoy it and have a great time.
There are many advantages and disadvantages to living abroad as you have read so far in this series, and most of them can be rather humorous. One such example is stayingactive and workingout, which can sometimes present interesting challenges and unforeseen difficulties in third world countries.
As I’ve mentioned before, teaching ESL in South Korea ran like a Swiss clock. The school not only provided housing and healthcare, but also gave their teachers memberships to a local gym. I could work out to my heart’s content (typically about 3 times a week when I lived there – before Jen started forcing me to do it every day). The club was within walking distance of both the school and the apartment building where the teachers were housed. Since leaving Korea, however, keeping fit has been something of a hassle, in spite of my wife’s prodding.
While in Turkiye, Jen and I had to walk down (and then up) hill for 15 – 20 minutes just to get to the park with the outdoortrack so we could run. Unfortunately, the track wasn’t only used for running. We had to play Frogger with the other pedestrians and their strollers and toddlers and wheelchairs and senior citizens – not to mention the actual cars that would cross over the track on their way to the parking lot nestled on the other side. I actually ran into a toddler once and inadvertently knocked him down. I didn’t look back but could hear him crying as I continued along my way.
In China, we ran through the ruralvillage in the countryside near our school campus. In Taoyuan, the people had never seen anyone white before so we’d get our photo taken countless times during shopping trips to the market. You can imagine what running must have looked like. People began to expect to see us (as far as I can tell) since they would cheer when we went by and even offer high fives or butt slaps on occasion (okay, okay, I’m exaggerating about the butt slaps). Yes, they would’ve been sitting on their front porches anyway, but it is truly hard to run when you’re laughing so hard because you just got punched in the shoulder by some old Chinese woman as you ran past her house.
And in Spain, Jen was such a drillsergeant that she made me (and our friend Alicia) run through all weather conditions including rain, snow, sleet, and hail. I felt like a postal carrier. On a more positive note, we did our first international5k while in Pamplona, last October for breastcancer awareness. On a negative note to that positive note, most of the Spaniards walked instead of ran, you can just guess how well that went over with Sergeant Jen. But it was practice for her, at any rate, to runwiththebulls in July.
Here, in Nepal, we can’t even run at or around the monastery because there just isn’t a place to do it. There aren’t any paved roads on the side of the mountain for us to run up and down (not that we’d want to run up and down a mountain), so that’s not an option. And while the gompa sits in the center of the grounds and a stone path circumnavigates it, because of last year’s earthquake, it’s covered with rubble and construction equipment as the contractors rebuild and repair the damaged structures (if we ran that loop, we would also have to deal with stairs and stray dogs).
Oh, you want to hear a dog story? Back in Ankara, Jen was attacked by a pack of the wildbeasts when she tried to run one evening. They were jumping all over her. And if you don’t know Jen very well, let me tell you she just loves dogs. Loves them. All animals really, especially the strays. Not.
But running isn’t the only thing we like to do to be healthy. We also enjoy yoga from time to time. Since coming to Nepal we’ve been doing it on the roof of our building (the only place with enough flat space and some amazing Himalayan views) every morning between 5:30-6:30am. We’ve tried to do yoga other places though with some hardships. In Spain, for instance, we didn’t have wifi in our apartment and since we were streaming episodes from the internet, it was difficult. Since then, we have had to download episodes and then save them all, knowing we were coming here with limited internet access. When we run out, we’ll have to just repeat the same couple dozen that I’ve saved over and over again.
Wherever we go, we do our best to make the best of the situation. There’s always time and a place to work out and take care of your body. You just have to look for those options. You can’t shortcut health and fitness. Make a schedule and stick to it. Don’t let weather or laziness or bad internet or even unpaved mountain roads get in your way. The moral of the story: Just Do It!
On Sunday, Jen and I attended a four hour puja in the gompa at the monastery. Now, if a bunch of those words don’t make sense to you, you’re not alone; just let me explain. A puja is a prayerservice and a gompa is the building, like a church or a temple. Over 1,000 people attended this very special prayer service on Sunday, which was dedicated to one of the gurus, who passed away a few years ago and has since been reincarnated into a now three and a half year old little boy. Sound a bit far-fetched? Not if you’re Buddhist.
A lama is a spiritualleader in the Buddhist faith. But more than that, lamas are people who have learned how to control when and where they will be reincarnated. They aren’t all “enlightened”, at least not yet, but they all have achieved a certain level of understanding of the universe around them. In Buddhism, the main concept is to still your mind through meditation so that you can learn the truths of the universe – the major one being the idea of emptiness (or selfless-ness, loss ofego). All Buddhists are somewhere along the Dharma or the path to enlightenment. They are striving to attain the status of Buddha. There are stops along the way, including the title of lama.
This particular puja was dedicated to a man named LamaLundrup, the former abbot (head) of KopanMonastery. His reincarnation appeared in a boy named TenzinRigsel, who lives in the city of Kathmandu until he becomes old enough to enter monastic life. Hopefully, he’ll accept his destiny. But what happens if he doesn’t? Well, it happened recently.
A few years ago, a young man denied his Buddhist order after being chosen by the DalaiLamahimself as a reincarnation of another lama. OselTorres, now lives in Spain and studies film at a university in Madrid, but he was supposed to be a monk. So what happened? He was the finalist chosen out of nine boys to be whisked away to a monastery in northern India, where he was denied sports, movies, and girls. “It was like living a lie,” he told ElMundo (aSpanishnewspaper). I suppose ultimately, we’re born with free will and that can mean turning your back on your fate if you want to, and choosing another.
So the puja lasted four hours with an intermission and involved a lot of bowing, offerings, and chanting in Tibetan. It was very hard to follow, but with the help of our English translation, Jen and I at least got the gist. Visitors from Singapore sponsored the event, which meant they brought along snacks and relics to hand out to the participants. Other than being in a foreign language and in a foreign temple, all in all, the services were a lot like a Catholic Mass or a Christian church service. It was quite an experience.
Recently, my wife and I moved in with one of her coworkers in an effort to save money over the summer during the period of time we won’t have an income. It’s a great help and we’re very thankful to her and her family for their sacrifice.
That being said, they have to do something about their hotwaterheater. The flame randomly goes out all the time, especially when someone has a face and hair full of soap and shampoo in the middle of their shower. The water turns icecold to the point of being very painful and the difficulties we’re now having with our bathing have reminded me of some of our past issues while living overseas.
One would think bathing is a fundamental human activity. After all, everyone has to do it. So even the most under-developed nations should have a system in place of helping people to bathe and shower easily and conveniently. Not so.
Bathrooms are vastly different from continent to continent. Some people in Africa and the MiddleEast don’t have running water and indoor plumbing. The FarEast doesn’t use shower stalls and bathtubs, preferring instead to just open up the entire bathroom to wetness while showering (you get the toilet and sink drenched every time). Most countries, other than the US and Canada don’t implement clothing dryers when doing your laundry (this isn’t exactly bathing, but still). One has to hang their laundry on lines or racks; Asians even used these circular hangers with clips for their naughty bits to dangle from while drying.
In Turkiye, before we bought legitimate towels, Jen and I had an experience of drying ourselves off with paper towels from the kitchen after our shower. But perhaps of all these weird and wild experiences trying to keep clean abroad, the craziest happened to us in China.
Last year we lived in a dormitory for teachers and students in a ruralboardingschool. The building didn’t offer freehotwater to its residents. Instead, we had to charge money onto a special card that went into a reader that was bolted to the wall in the bathroom when we wanted the hot water to come on. Unfortunately, hot water was onlyavailable certain times of the day, typically between 6-8am and 8-10pm. If we wanted to wash dishes or shower in the middle of the day we were either freezing our tushies off or just plain out of luck (you would think they would either limit the time or charge us money, not both).
One time, when we absolutely needed to shower, but the hot water wasn’t turned on, I had to boil water in our electric kettle and then dilute it with cold water until it was a decently warm temperature so that the mixture could then be poured over top of Jen’s head while she scrubbed herself down. You can imagine this picture: Jen covered in soap, shivering… me fully clothed and pouring buckets of water over top of her while she’s in the bathroom, getting me and everything else wet.
The moral of these stories: don’t take your nice, hot showers for granted. Ever.
Cultures of the world are full of traditions. Some are time-honored. Some are silly. Some both. Made famous by Hemingway in his novel, The Sun Also Rises, Pamplona Spain is home to one of the most random I’ve ever encountered that is all of the above: The Running of the Bulls. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?
Hundreds of people, dressed in red and white, take to the street (only one, sectioned off by wooden blockades) to run and jog alongside half-ton beasts with pairs of 18″ daggers protruding off the front of their heads. Many of these runners are drunk – let’s face it, you’d have to be right? But not all of them.
My wife was recently one of the sober ones (and she still chose to do it). If you don’t know what it is, allow me to wax intellectual about it for a brief moment. Six bulls are let loose to run as fast as their little hooves can carry them up and around the twisting, turning streets of the medieval section of Pamplona during the festival of San Fermines every July.
Originally, the custom dates back to the 14thCentury when it became necessary to use fear and excitement to entice the bulls to run faster and faster (and the butchers themselves wore white). What evolved was a competition between men to see who could do the best job of scaring the bulls into the corrals. Enter the Spanish concept of Machismo with men trying to showcase their bravado and you have the contemporary Running of the Bulls.
The course ends at the PlazadelToros where the bulls are kept for a few more hours between the morning run and the evening bull fights, an event during which time the bulls are ruthlessly toyed with for the amusement of the expectant crowd before being callously slaughtered – by the matadors – for no apparent reason. They do eat the meat, and honestly the killing is more humane than most American slaughterhouses. And it’s tradition. So it’s okay.
Jen decided she needed to run, not once, but twice. The first time was just a run through (nopunintended) and she felt as if she could do better. So she did. The second time around, she waited for the bulls to make their presence known before starting her brief jaunt. Two men tripped and fell in front of her so she had to leap over their bodies, solidifying her opinion that she actually participated in the event (because running in and of itself doesn’t quite count). Don’t forget, this is the girl who sneaked into the Domeof the Rock and drove across the Sinaipeninsula with an armed escort.
Contrary to popular belief, Pamplona isn’t the only city that hosts a running of the bulls. Smaller villages all over northern Spain do their own version of the run, sometimes with less bulls, sometimes with cows instead (did you know they have horns as well?), and sometimes with both. For example, the principality of Viana does a run with three cows and one bull. And another small village of Alfaro (in the La Rioja region of Spain) does an afternoon run with bulls and another run in the mornings with cows.
Additionally, there’s a firebull for the children. What’s a fire bull? Funny you should ask. A fire bull is a 30kg headpiece with handlebars and fireworks shooting out from the sides. Some guy dons this device and chases after children as young as three years old. The saying goes that if you get burned by the fireworks, you’re running too close to the bull. That way, when you’re old enough to run with the real bulls, you’ll know to keep well ahead of them. Fun, right?
So the next time you’re bored, you can either head off to the local bull ranch and tease a bull, or just shoot off some fireworks at your kids. That’ll get ’em running!
I’ve gotten some feedback recently that many of my readers enjoy the articles filled with anecdotes about some of the troubles in living abroad. Therefore, I have decided to create a little series of blogs called the Overseas Series, in which I will explore various aspects of life as an expat in humorous and poignant ways. This will be the debut article in that series.
It’s the little things, most of the time, that make living abroad difficult. Likewise, it’s an entirely different set of little things that help create a homeawayfromhome. What do I mean? Let me share a few stories with you so you can see for yourself.
When hopping from country to country, one also hops from apartment to apartment. In so doing, you’re forced to abandon and then re–buy items that make you feel comfortable in your new surroundings. Simple household items such as curtains, coffeepots, and holiday decorations can turn a drab and empty flat into a cozy place you can return to at the end of a work day for R&R. However, finding these items (and then affording them) can be quite difficult.
For example, most recently Easter came and went and Jen and I had a tough time dying our eggs. Why? Because in Spain (as in many of the other nations across the globe) white eggs are difficult if not impossible to come by. America is one of the few countries whose dairy industry pressure washes the eggs (additionally, only in America is it necessary to refrigerate your eggs – while abroad, we leave ours out on the counter and they’re perfectly fine).
Another example is Christmas decorations. In Turkiye and China (two cultures in which Christmas is foreign), decorations are put up for the NewYear celebration and those decorations look strikingly similar to what we would use for Christmas (ie twinkling lights, glittery wall-hangings, even a fully-trimmed tree). So it wasn’t that hard to find, but again, there were little differences. In the Basque region of Spain, only about 20-30% of the population knows anything about SantaClaus. The other 70-80% either get their gifts from the TresReyes (orThreeKings) during the Feastofthe Epiphany, or from a Santa “knock–off” who wears blue and sweeps chimneys: Olentzero (and many of the decorations are him or the kings).
Which quickly swings me around to my next point. Many of the customs and traditions are similar to ours in the West, but are slightly different. For instance, Spanish people celebrate their birthdays not by being taken out to dinner (or drinks), but by taking their friends and family out. Needless to say, they can get quite expensive, especially if you’re a popular guy. In Turkiye, when a couple gets engaged, they are expected – yes, expected – to bring in little sweettreats to share with their coworkers (even the ones who weren’t invited to the party).
Sometimes, our holiday traditions are so foreign to those we befriend, we find ourselves explaining them in gross detail. Like the time I had to call a restaurant to make dinner reservations for Jen’s birthday in China, and the concierge didn’t exactly understand what I meant by having a birthdaycake with candles (that phone call lasted way longer than it needed to). Or the occasion that Jen taught her class about Halloween and Trick or Treating. She invited them to knock on our apartment door to get some candy (they didn’t have costumes so I wanted to “trick” them, but she wouldn’t let me).
As you can see, there is a lot to learn on both sides of the proverbial aisle when it comes to living in a foreign land. We are constantly learning about other cultures and teaching the people we meet about ours (at least the ones they don’t pick up from American films and television shows). These are just a few of the ways in which it’s possible to create a home away from home.
That famous song and scene from My Fair Lady depicts Audrey Hepburn learning to pronounce the long A vowel sound in English. I wish my students displayed such a love for education as she does. Alas, they do not.
The most difficult aspect of my job this year, teaching in an Opus Dei high school in Pamplona is a single question: What kind of adults does a school system create? Or to put it another way, how does the school system affect the culture of a nation and its people?
40 years of a fascist government under Francisco Franco has dictated (no pun intended) the direction that the culture has shifted. You’re probably scratching your head and wondering how one has anything to do with the other. Well, let me connect the dots for you.
The first element of this equation is the culture. Spaniards are known to be a very friendly and relaxed people (see my other article about it). Because of that, they don’t put as much emphasis on work or career that Americans or Germans do. The Spaniards simply enjoy their lives to the fullest. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
The second element is the aftermath of Franco’sregime. For generations, who are still very much alive and can remember, Spain wasn’t allowed any semblance of freedom. Franco told everyone what to do, how to do it, when and where to do it, etc. When the country became a democracy in 1975, the pendulum swung the other way completely. Now, there’s a underlying feeling of political correctness in the air.
Add these two parts together and what do you get? One of those firecrackers that doesn’t go off. Students in Spain lack any type of motivation to learn. It’s a struggle to get even the brightest of minds to complete his homework or ask a question in class. They rush through their assignments so that they can play smartphone games, or join their friends on the soccer pitch (don’t get me started on Europeans’ obsession with soccer).
So what came first? The proverbial chicken or the egg?
The students seem to want to do only the bare minimum of work to get through the class. There isn’t any inherit curiosity about their world. There isn’t any value for education or where a good one will take them in the future. Most importantly is something I’ve noticed in all my travels. The UnitedStates gets a bad reputation all over the world. We aren’t loved, and I’m not sure we ever were. When I first began teaching, it was my goal to escape my home country.
Four years later, I have now found the single greatest thing that makes America and Americans great. Criticalthinking. No nation on the globe teaches their students to be critical thinkers like the US does. Sure, I’m speaking in broad generic strokes and there may be elements of it in other countries (I’m sure the U.K. and Germany do a pretty damn good job too). But overall, from Turkiye and Spain to China and South Korea, there is no emphasis placed on a learner’s ability to plan ahead. There’s just not enough problem solving going on.
In Spain specifically, the reason goes again back to their government. Most students want to scrape by because when they graduate, they want to get a civil service job. There are 46 million people living in Spain and 3 million federalcivilservice positions including administrators, police, healthcare, and even street sweepers to name a few. There are even more per capita region by region.
With a gradually decreasing unemploymentrate (from 23%-20% in just one year), and so many civil service positions available for many who do not have an education, students in Spain just don’t have the motivation to apply themselves. And the few that do, haven’t developed the necessary critical thinking skills to succeed (they’re too content to play their video games and text with their friends all the time – check out this article from the Guardian).
From early primary school, children aren’t taught to behave properly in public. I have seen it in my school and in other schools. From the age of 3+, they run around like wild animals, screaming and fighting, and doing God knows what else. It is this awful behavior (which remains uncorrected by both parents and teachers) that continues through secondary school. Unlike in Turkiye, Spanish students do not get 10minutebreaks between classes, but classes runtogether as the schedule is written, making the transition between lessons confusing.
Additionally, the long lunch break affects learning as well. Students are in school between 8:30 and 11:15. Then they get a 30 minute recess. From 11:45 to 1:20, they are in classes again, but the two hour lunch break follows and the next class doesn’t begin until 3:10. This concept is bad enough for teenagers, but the schools subject primary school and even kindergarten students to it as well. Can you imagine a classroom of 25 four-year-olds stuck in school from 8:30 to 4:50? It’s baffling.
To sum up, four countries with four distinct educational systems. The only real insight I’ve gathered is that parentalinvolvement is key. Parents need to show their children that they not only care about them, but they care about their education. Students need to build self–respect, because if they can’t respect themselves, they’re certainly not going to respect anyone (or anything) else. After all, education is the silver bullet.
We don’t need little changes, we need gigantic, monumental changes. Schools should be palaces. Competition for the best teachers should be fierce. Teachers should be making six figure salaries. Schools should be incredibly expensive for government and absolutely free to the citizens.
Officially known as the Tribunal of the Holy Office of the Inquisition, the SpanishInquisition was established to maintain Catholic orthodoxy in rural regions throughout Spain. In the latter half of 1500s, it came to the attention of the church and QueenIsabellaI that some of their citizens were practicing unconventional religious ceremonies, rituals, and customs. In a massive effort to stamp this “witchcraft” out, cardinals and bishops were dispatched to the farthest reaches and the most rural villages to exterminate those ideas and people. The region of Navarre was a hotbed of this kind of activity.
You may ask, what exactly is witchcraft? Well, I’d like to begin by telling you what it isn’t. Nowadays, people think of witches as they have been depicted in popular culture films, television, cartoons, and literature. In TheWizardofOz, the wicked witch of the west has greenskin and wears a pointyblackhat while she flies around on her broomstick. More recently, the wizarding world of HarryPotter depicts witches and wizards wearing long flowing robes (also flyingaroundon broomsticks), making potions in cauldrons, and playing with magicalcreatures such as unicorns, hippogriffs, and dragons. In reality, witches were nothing of the sort.
Prior to modern medicine and science, little was known about commonailments of the human body. The genome hadn’t been mapped and people didn’t even know what bloodcells were. A group of people, typically rural country folk, used homeremedies to cure these afflictions. Ever heard of homeopathy? They had a vast knowledge of plantlife because they were farmers and the daughters and wives of farmers. They understood certain plants had healingproperties and would use them to create salves and drinks that helped with a variety of symptoms including headaches, stomach aches, and skin disorders. These salves and drinks worked on both animals and humans.
Unfortunately, there were many who didn’t understand these naturalmethods of healing. Those who didn’t get it grew scared and believed these women (and some men) to be worshipingthedevil. Their weird rituals and symbols were distinctly non–Christian and therefore considered evil. Something had to be done about them and their primitive beliefs. In Basque (the oldest language in Europe), the word for witch is sorgin (the origin of the word is sortze: to be born, and egin: to do – or she who makes born, ie a midwife).
Midwives were the precursors to modern day doctors and they used the resources at their disposal to help new mothers bring their children into the world. They were revered themselves, as they should have been for being the bearers of new life. But what they themselves worshiped was the naturalorder of the world (not what they felt was just some guy on a cross who had been dead for six hundred years).
These same sorginak (pl.) closely resembled people who are today known as Wiccans. They are a group of people who worship Mother Earth and love all things natural. They pay attention to the stars and positions of the planets and they pay homage to the cycle of birth, life, and death that can be found in all walks of nature from plants to animals to humans ourselves. But four centuries ago, the HolyCatholicChurch didn’t see it this way. These women weren’t going to church and they weren’t practicing Christianity. You couldn’t find crosses or palmbranches in their homes. And since they were different, they were deemed bad.
Last weekend, we took a trip to the small village of Zugarramurdi, which was a hotbed of witchcraft and Inquisitorial punishments. The locals performed orgiastic rituals and festivals in nearby caves that celebrated life and the seasons. They had secret knowledge of how medicinalherbs could heal the body. And for this, they were hunted down and murdered, burnedat the stake. Anybody could be accused of witchcraft and that threat would have been taken very seriously.
The equivalent nowadays to the rampant fear that accompanied the Inquisition is terrorism (but the witches were healers, not harmers). Muslims the world over are being persecuted for their beliefs, and only a small minority are doing anything wrong. In Europe during the 17th century, people who believed anything different from what the Holy Church deemed appropriate were destroyed. The goat, their symbol of fertility was rebranded by the church into an image of the devil and demonicworship. Imagine how they must have felt though? If you had stumbled into a Catholic Mass for the first time, never having heard of Christianity before, the rituals would freak you out too.
What is the biggest shame is that the fear that took control so many years ago can still be found today. People are scared of anything different from what they know. Any cultural people, customs, language, food, style of dress… is looked down upon by those outside, who don’t understand its importance. Can’t we please learn from the mistakes of our ancestors? Stop the witch hunts. Stop the killing. And enjoy the video below.
One of the main reasons I initially decided to leave the safety of my home country and move out abroad, teaching English as a second language (ESL) to foreigners overseas was for a mental focus that comes with only working one full-time job instead of three or four part-time jobs. I have been blessed since leaving to have completed twonovels and started work on two more in addition to a handful of short stories and articles. Writing has become an avenue of creativity and solace for me.
So when I moved to Pamplona, Spain and realized that one of the all-time greats lived, and wrote, here, I was flabbergasted. I was beside myself with giddy joy. Here I was, just doing my own thing, and I followed in the footsteps of arguably one of the greatest prose writers of all time: ErnestHemingway. I was in good company.
Like these great names, I have embarked upon my own adventure to see the world, meet interesting people, and witness exotic cultural traditions, while at the same time learning and polishing my craft as a writer. In addition to my fiction, I have also had articles published in newspapers and magazines about my experiences living abroad. Look for my work in the CourierPost, the SouthJerseyTimes, and GlobalLiving magazine (to name a few).
And like me, Hemingway thoroughly enjoyed his time in Europe. In 1921, he was hired by a Canadian newspaper as their foreign correspondent and left immediately for Paris. It is said that he wanted a life in Europe because of the comforts such a life provided (at the time the exchange rate was profitable for Americans overseas). He first visited Pamplona for the SanFermin festival, aka the RunningoftheBulls in 1923. He and his family returned for the next three consecutive years, Ernest becoming obsessed with bullfighting and bullfighters.
It was during this period of the mid-1920s that he wrote what is his greatest work of fiction: TheSunAlso Rises. It’s the story of a group of expats who go to San Fermin for the festivities. They also sit around in many cafes drinking wine, something we have done quite a bit since adopting the European lifestyle. Hemingway drew on his personal experiences while visiting the festival and wrote aspects of his friends into the characters: two things necessary for good fiction. The details he paints jump off the page and make the readers feel like they’re right there with him.
I’ve spent some time writing in the bar/cafe where Hemingway relaxed. It’s called Cafe Iruna, and yes I have sipped both wine and coffee whilst sitting with my laptop. I can only hope that someday, my writing is remembered half as much as Ernest’s. That’s what’s important to me. But my adventure, getting there, is a lot of the fun too.
I have now been fortunate enough to have traveled extensively around Europeancities, as well as living in one. I began to notice a trend that few (if any) American cities can boast. It all goes back to history. Sure, NewYork, Philadelphia, and Boston all have their Colonial neighborhoods out from which the modern-day limits extended. But they just don’t have the same gravitas that their European counterparts do.
Want to know why? Well, I’ll tell you… The Dark Ages!
From Nuremberg to Prague and Vienna to Carcassonne, aw hell I can’t stop there: Buda and Pest, Florence, Dublin, Zurich, Istanbul, St. Petersburg, Madrid, a bunch in the UK, and the obvious two Athens and Rome (in fact, here’s the entireLIST), European cities needed fortified defensive walls built to protect their citizens since – you guessed it – the Roman Empire. In the medieval times and the Renaissance, nations weren’t as static as they are today. Borders weren’t controlled by armed guards, security checkpoints, and people didn’t have passports (most of the commoners couldn’t even read and write).
These walls not only were built to keep aggressors out, but also to keep people in as a means of population control. The nobles who ran the city would never have even fathomed the idea or had the means to keep tabs on all the rural villages in the surrounding countryside, but they were able to monitor who came in and out of each city gate through the use of a highly automated, state-of-the-art system (for its day): a couple of guards and a big, heavy f’ing door.
My current home, the Spanish city of Pamplona in the northern region of Navarre, has an almost complete defensive fortification around the city center that borders the Ciudadela on its southern edge. In the past few hundred years, the star-shaped citadel has been transformed into a park with some garden sculptures and an art gallery (it’s also where Jen and I go running a few times a week).
It’s obvious to me where the city walls can be found even before I stumble across them. Each city changes in a distinct way between the inner and outer sections. The external neighborhoods would be familiar to most of you: wide, straight, paved streets that intersect at mostly 90 degree angles, lined with tall buildings (mostly apartments and offices). However, the charm of Europe’s oldest settlements can be found within.
Narrow, twisting streets that zigzag all over, and criss-cross at awkward angles (many times even with an odd number of roads) cover the majority of these medieval neighborhoods. Buildings only three or four stories high, lean across above you as you stroll through time (and in a few cases, the roofs of those buildings have come together to form an arch that even protects you from the elements).
In Spain as well as other countries, the narrow streets open up to become squares (plazas or piazzas), where tourists and locals relax along a sidewalk cafe sipping espresso, wine, or ale. The term ‘charming’ doesn’t even begin to describe it all (even Audrey Hepburn films don’t do it justice).
And all in all, these enclosed time machines might just be this traveler’s favorite part of Europe. Whenever life gifts you with the chance, you should come relax – even if only for a short while.
Fun fact: Spanish feminists are promoting the use feminine and masculine plural titles being necessary, instead of masculine titles being all inclusive. Anyway…
As many of you know from reading Justin’s blog, I am willing to do almost anything for an authenticculturalexperience. From wearing a hijab and sneaking into the DomeoftheRock to breaking vegetarianism to eat dog and scorpion, when I have an opportunity to try something unique, I jump at the chance. Well, in this case, I “walked” at the chance.
Did you know that Catholicpilgrimages are a very honored tradition here in Spain? As soon as I heard about this beautiful, cultural past-time, I knew that I should join in. Oh, are you wondering why Justin isn’t writing this blog?
Because he didn’t walk 55 kilometers!
After a lot of begging among my coworkers, I finally convinced an amazing friend, Nuria, to do it with me. Everyone else complained about the difficulty without training. I had faith I could do it.
Here are the basics of the pilgrimage. Javier, the patron saint of Navarre (the region where we live), was born in a castle in his namesake city. He traveled the world as a missionary and is incredibly respected among the people here. Nuria even named her first-born son Javier. In fact, when I’m not sure of a student’s name, I can simply say “Javier” and have a good chance that he will respond. The people of our region created this annual pilgrimage to his birthplace called: Javieradas.
Here’s how the trials and tribulations of the weekend went. Justin packed me lots of meals and snacks. Nuria loaned me a backpack, sleeping bag, and hiking boots. Because I knew it was going to rain and snow over the weekend (andboy, diditever), I had decided to wear her waterproof hiking boots.
Unfortunately, I had to start the journey without Nuria. For this reason, she signed us up with a churchgroup so I wouldn’t be totally alone. Awkwardly, no one raised their hand when we asked if they spoke English. Thankfully, I did find a few people to talk to! Sometimes in English, sometimes in Spanish. Good thing we’ve been taking classes.
We walked allday Saturday, only stopping twice to eat, until, under the light of the moon, we finally reached an old church. Here, there was a celebratory service. While some people were celebrating, however, I was in severe discomfort. A shout out to the cutest little old Spanish woman that you ever saw, who went out and bought me a Coke to re-energize me because she noticed my excruciating pain during the mass.
Remember those boots I borrowed? Bad move.
One should never walk 30 miles in new shoes! My feet were covered in blisters. And being obsessive compulsive about germs does not bode well for these experiences. I refused the offer of help with my blisters, not trusting other people’s tools, and continued the rest of the way. While walking, I was actually daydreaming about my sneakers and wanted to kiss them upon our reunion.
After church, we still had a kilometer to go before our overnight destination. Being in so much pain, the group tried to convince me to drive to the house. Umm no. That’s cheating. I told them, “Soycabezota.” I am stubborn. Plain and simple: I would walk the entire pilgrimage no matter the pain. After all, isn’t suffering a part of the process?
The next day, we walked the final 8 kilometers, stopping 14 times along the route for the Stationsofthe Cross. As we came around the final bend, the castle came into view. I’ve never been happier upon seeing a castle in my life. Seriously, Cinderella’s castle in DisneyWorld doesn’t even come close to my joy in this moment. Mission Accomplished!!!
Unlike eating scorpion (which I really don’t recommend), a pilgrimage is something everyone should take an opportunity to do, no matter your religion. It was a time of self–reflection and perseverance. The body and the mind are capable of much more than we often give either credit for.
I found mediation to be a powerful force in keeping me going. Ultimately, I came to regard the following three aspects of my life during the experience: gratitude for my body’s fortitude, blessed to have a friend in Spain willing to try something new with me, and happy to be graced with a life off the beaten path.
Call it the allure of the Spanish countryside. My parents came for a visit!
With our week off for Easter vacation, we met my parents in Madrid for a long awaited chance to show them around our home away from home. We went to the Prado museum (to see the Goyas and others) and the PalacioReal (to see the king of Spain, who wasn’t even there). We took a drive through La Mancha to see the windmills and then stopped for a walk through history in the capital of medieval Spain, Toledo. And we also visited Alcazar at Segovia – a castle that inspired SleepingBeauty‘sCastle in Disneyland.
Roughly translated to mean “Cityof Victory“, Segovia is about an hour and a half from downtown Madrid – the present-day capital city of Spain and their seat of royalty. In addition to it’s fairy tale like castle, the city has quite a rich history.
The aqueduct dates the settlement to the RomanEmpire (the city was the site of a battle in 75 BCE). And like all other ancient cities that have survived to today, it held an important position along trade routes. It was an important center for wool and textiles. Going back to the aqueduct, it is known as the most important Roman civil engineering work in the area, as it consists of 25,000 granite blocks which are held together without any mortar! It spans 818 meters and has over 170 arches! Quite impressive…
Likewise, the Alcazar is a royal palace of some majesty. Originally built as an Arab fort, the structure was built on top of a smaller Roman fort. Its design made it one of the favorite residences of the monarchs of the Kingdom of Castile. And in 1474, Isabella took refuge within the walls after learning of King Henry IV’s death. On December 13th, she was enthroned as Queen.
As fun as the castle is to look at from the outside, it is equally (if not more) impressive from within. Between portraits, armories, tapestries, and carpets, the ornamentation of the many rooms was completed by Arabian workmen during the Christian rule – combining elements from both religious traditions.
If you are a fan of Walt Disney, or just visit central Spain, you’ll be remiss if you don’t take a half day to visit this marvelous castle on the rocky crag.
Spain, as a country, has one of the most interesting Easter week traditions of anywhere I’ve learned about in the rest of the world. Holy week processions are very solemn traditions that date back hundreds of years. An interesting fact (for those of you unfamiliar with the Da Vinci Code), the KKK, or KuKluxKlan, stole their well-known, white, pointed head wear from these Spanish customs (although the KKK isn’t anywhere near as holy or self-deprecating as the Spanish are).
The town of San Vicente de la Sonsierra (just west of Logrono, Spain) doesn’t utilize the pointed masks. Their participants still wear white, but they do something no other town or village in Spain does. Their traditions are completely unique and different (in researching this blog, I discovered there are other Latin American nations which share these customs). Words can’t express it, but the photos below speak for themselves.
Hasta La Proxima…
The Procession Begins with the Altar Boys
Floats for Different Occasions – Holy Thursday and Good Friday use different ones
The Three Women who Accompanied Christ along the Via Dolorosa
The Men Take Turns Carrying the Cross
Feet are Bound in Chains
The Priest Reads the Stations of the Cross
The First Glimpse of the Men in White Masks (and the float of Mourning Mary)
He’s Carrying a Flag, but it might as well be a Cross
Then the most Interesting Aspect Begins: Self-Flagellation
The Men in White Masks Whip Themselves over and over again
They Represent Christ’s Suffering through the 39 Lashes by Pontius Pilate
As Many as 12 Men Participate
They Rotate Because their Backs get Ripped Up by the End
Also, The Men don’t Stop at 39 Lashings
They Continue until their Backs are Red and Raw, Stinging from the Pain
In 2012 when my plane took flight from LAX to Seoul, South Korea, I had never been off the continent of North America. Now, almost four years later, I have lived in or traveled to 19 countries on three continents. I have yet to visit SouthAmerica or Australia, and the Africa I’ve seen was limited to Cairo and the SinaiPeninsula. However, needless to say, I get around (kinda like a used bicycle, lol).
Crossing Asia from Japan to Turkey and then Europe from Budapest to Barcelona, I’ve noticed how gradual the cultural shift actually is. People don’t often think about how similar China and Italy are (only one example). The buildings, food, clothing, and customs seem like two different alien worlds, when in fact, there is a definite path one can follow to get from one to the other (you only have to pass through India, the Middle East, and Eastern Europe to see it).
East Asians eat noodles. Italians eat pasta. Indians eat rice. Spaniards eat rice. A flat bread with toppings is called Pizza in Italy and Pide in Turkey and Pita in Greece. Shrines and temples exist in Japan, Korea, China, Nepal, India, and all over Europe. All over the world, people care about spending time with family for important life events (weddings, births, funerals). So why is it that in a age of global communication, social media networks, and terrorism, each nation – and by extension each culture – feels more and more isolated and misunderstood?
I don’t know. What I do know is that the changes aren’t sudden. There isn’t some line drawn in the sand to separate where Asia ends and Europe begins. It’s gradual. It’s subtle.
Whether I meet people from Kathmandu who make me feel at home while I’m only visiting for a week, or I move to Pamplona and am warmly taken in by coworkers and neighbors, the fact remains that there seems to be so much hatred in the world just makes me sigh sadly. I want everyone to experience what I have.
I began writing this blog about the RomanEmpire’s re-purposing of pagan temples to Christian sites. But a stream of conscious tangent took me somewhere else entirely. Somewhere I didn’t expect to go. It ties in though… sorta.
While traipsing around Rome, I noticed that so many of the ‘Holy’ sites that bore crosses and statues of saints (or the baby Jesus) had previously been pagan. And not just one or two, and not only for a few years. We’re talking dozens of places where pagans worshiped for centuries! But after Constantine’s death, the Romans gradually ripped down the icons of the old gods and replaced them with crosses and other Christian motifs, motifs that weren’t even necessarily Christian to begin with (even inside the Colosseum). Pagan imagery is embedded in the art of the time and even later (medieval and Renaissance paintings and sculptures feature Christian figures that double as their mythological counterparts).
The term ‘pagan’ developed a very negative connotation over the past 2,000 years. However, if one were to look at the etymology, one would learn that the literal translation only means: villager, rustic, or rural. It was used in its time to denote who was from a city (like Rome) and who was from the countryside. So while Constantine is remembered for the Empire’s conversion to Christianity, all he really did for the fledgling religion was to allow the practice of worship legal for its adherents.
A 2001 New York Timesarticle discusses the many similarities between the pagan icons and Christian symbols. The Council of Nicea did a number on many of the early traditions that had stemmed directly from Judaism (for example, changing the holy day from the Sabbath – Saturday – to Sunday, a day that pagans worshiped Sol Invictus, or the Sun God). There are others… too many to list here.
Suffice it to say that the Empire made a conscious effort to ease the transition from the worship of many gods to only one. Christianity, therefore, shouldn’t be entirely viewed as a separate religion, but as the next stage in the development of theological beliefs by the human condition (just as Muslims believe Islam is an even newer stage).
The bottom line is that it got me thinking about how easily one culture can impact and influence another. In this InformationAge, the act of assimilation can be achieved with the click of a button, the swipe of a touch screen, or the delivery of a text-message. If 2,000 years ago the Roman Empire could alter the fundamental ideas of hundreds of thousands of pagan believers, we have no choice but to admit that corporations and governments can alter the course of our cultural development today.
Apple stock rises. Americans get their iPhones and iPads. Chinese work 15 hours a day in a factory for $2.00. The rich get richer. And there’s the gap.
Yet we all eat noodles and rice.
We all visit temples, churches, and mosques.
And we all enjoy spending our time with loved ones.
Let’s reinterpret our world to be better than the one we left it. Not so we’re all the same or to get ahead as individuals. You are entitled to your own beliefs and those may include monotheism, but just because you think there’s one god doesn’t mean there’s only one person. There are over 7 billion of us on Earth now. How about we start acting like it and share a bit? It’s time for another great reinterpretation.
If there has to be a melting pot, then the melting pot I want isn’t one of selfies, Facebook, and designer handbags. I want the melting pot of respect, diversity, and equality.
At this point they came in sight of thirty forty windmills that there are on plain, and as soon as Don Quixote saw them he said to his squire, “Fortune is arranging matters for us better than we could have shaped our desires ourselves, for look there, friend Sancho Panza, where thirty or more monstrous giants present themselves, all of whom I mean to engage in battle and slay, and with whose spoils we shall begin to make our fortunes; for this is righteous warfare, and it is God’s good service to sweep so evil a breed from off the face of the earth.”
“What giants?” said Sancho Panza.
“Those thou seest there,” answered his master, “with the long arms, and some have them nearly two leagues long.”
“Look, your worship,” said Sancho; “what we see there are not giants but windmills, and what seem to be their arms are the sails that turned by the wind make the millstone go.”
~ Don Quixote (Part I, ch 8), Cervantes
Published in two volumes in 1605 and 1615, The Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote of La Mancha by Miguel de Cervantes, is considered the most influential work of Spanish literature. It appears on almost every list of greatest fiction works ever compiled; some even put it at the top.
Cervantes himself is not only known as the greatest writer in the Spanish language, but also as the world’s first novelist. His major work, DonQuixote (quotedabove), is a satire of the romanticism in the age of chivalry, and Cervantes’ choice to create a madmanhero enabled him to showcase various elements of human behavior such as deviance, aberrance, and other eccentricities.
The Man of La Mancha (an arid but fertile plateau region south of Madrid) is paired with his character foil: the bumbling and simplistic, Sancho Panza. The two of them travel across the area battling imaginary foes and winning the hearts of imaginary princesses as the hero sets out to revive chivalry and bring justice to the land.
The now widely used English idiom “TiltingatWindmills” refers to Don Quixote’s ill-advised bout against a group of what he perceives to be giants. The idiom implies a vain effort that cannot be won against a real or imagined opponent that is impossible to best.
Living in Spain awarded us an opportunity to witness these “giants” of La Mancha first hand just outside the town of Consuegra. Nine windmills remain there, perched in an uneven row along a rocky cliff. They are accompanied by a small castle, where visitors can tour. These windmills may have been the set that inspired Cervantes to write his famous scene, but there are also other windmills in the region – in fact, we passed quite a few on the way to Consuegra.
As I move from country to country and job to job, I find myself struggling against tilting at my own windmills, as I’m sure all of you do at times. Let’s just hope that we don’t find ourselves losing uphill battles more often than we win them.
When I began booking a trip to the homeland of my ancestors, I expected big, BIG things. And I was not disappointed – literally, at all. However, I was surprised when the train pulled up to a station in Florence. The northern Italian “metropolis” is perhaps one of the best known destinations in the entire world for art, beauty, culture, and food, but I didn’t realize just how little the city is like a city.
Florence isn’t anything like Rome, or Paris, or some of the other major markets in Europe. In fact, it isn’t like any other city I’ve ever seen. It’s quaint and quiet and has an air of relaxation to it. Obviously, it is swimming with tourists, but if you – as a tourist – can get yourself away from that, it is one of the most exquisite cities on the planet (US equivalent examples: Savannah, GA/Colorado Springs, CO/Columbus, OH).
It goes without saying that there is much more history and art than those cities I just mentioned. And it’s hard to convey the sense of serenity one feels strolling through the twisting and turning, narrow streets that date back over 1,000 years (note: this was the only city in which I got lost more than once and typically I’m very good at urban orienteering). So why go to Florence? There are so many reasons!
Take a leisurely walk along the banks of the Arno River, cross over the PonteVecchio (a covered bridge full of shopping stalls), or head up one of the winding mountain roads toward the Piazzale Michelangelo for a breathtaking view of the skyline, including the Santa Maria (aka the Duomo)
Pull up a chair at a corner sidewalk cafe for a cappuccino to soak in the ambiance of the old, medieval central district
Visit one of the many museums – including the Uffizi Gallery, the Galleria Dell’Accademia, and Palazzo Vecchio – to look upon the works of the Renaissance masters (the Birth of Venus by Botticelli, the Annunciation by Da Vinci, Michelangelo’s David, the Rape of the Sabine Women by Giambologna)
Take a short trainride to Pisa for some fun photos of the Leaning Tower of Pisa
Get lost (figuratively or literally), because the town is so small – cittadina translates to “small town” in Italian – you’ll eventually find your way to your destination or back to your hotel
There is a lot to see and feel in Florence, even if it doesn’t feel like the city has a lot to necessarily “do“. I highly recommend stopping by though, as there is nowhere like it in the entire world!
The Renaissance. Ah, twas a magical time of advancement in both the arts and the sciences. During the dark times of the MiddleAges (after the fall of the RomanEmpire), people were oppressed by the HolyCatholicChurch as well as “nobles” that used the feudal system to get rich while keeping lowly peasants poor and ignorant (not to mention the blackplague). But all bad things must come to an end. And they did.
When people think of the Renaissance period, dozens of names come to mind: Galileo, Da Vinci, and Michelangelo (yes, they‘re mostly Italians) to name a few. Nowadays, the term “Renaissance Man” refers to an individual who shows aptitude in a multitude of subject areas. Perhaps today’s Renaissance Men (and Women) would have also fit in with the likes of the great masters.
While visiting Italy (Rome& Florence), I took the opportunity to admire some of the works of these men – one in particular. Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni (1475–1564) was a painter, sculptor, poet, architect, and engineer (damn!), who is probably most famous for creating the statues of David and the Pieta, as well as the painting of the SistineChapel (in Vatican City). I saw more of his works than these (including the BasilicaofSt. Peter which he helped design), but for the purposes of this article, I would simply like to give my impression of his three major works.
David – He resides in the Galleria dell’Accademia in Florence and is pretty much the only reason to go to the museum. Like all museums in Italy (and I’m assuming France as well), you have to wait in long lines just to get in and once inside, the rooms are over-crowded with people. One of the more pleasant aspects of going to see David were the art students who had sketch pads and pencils. Overall, David met my expectations (particularly since we weren’t originally going to visit the Accademia). He is positioned in a great location with fantastic space and lighting to maximize his visibility (I think the curators did that to show off his naughty bits).
The Pieta – Stumbling upon this masterpiece was a bit of a surprise because I hadn’t researched where it was, and didn’t know to look for it inside St. Peter’s Basilica. While wondering around the immense church, I realized what it was. The statue was just sitting in an alcove, minding its own business. A few tourists were taking photos, but most were ignoring it (most likely ignorant of what it was). I found the positioning of this one perfect for the mood the work conveys. A wave of solemnity with a tinge of loneliness washed over me as I stood before Mary holding the body of her crucified son.
The Sistine Chapel – Unfortunately, the Sistine Chapel failed to meet my expectations. As reported in a previous entry, we were herded into another over-crowded room with men shouting through loudspeakers to be respectful. And while it was possible to stand directly beneath many of the scenes and stare straight up for any length of time we wanted, the magnificence of the work was lost to the hustle and bustle of the mismanaged museum.
Whether or not the works of this great artist ended up where they should be, it was obvious within seconds that they were the work of a master craftsman. To have a statue you sculpted residing in a building you designed is a feat unto itself. In my life, I have always striven to be a Renaissance Man. And I hope that one day, people will consider me one (fingers crossed, lol).
Juvenal, the Roman poet, said, “The people that once bestowed commands, consulships, legions, and all else, now concerns itself no more, and longs eagerly for just two things – bread and circuses!” Most if not all of you have heard that quote before, particularly if you’re familiar with the SuzanneCollins Bestseller, The Hunger Games (which takes place in a fictitious, post-apocalyptic North American nation called Panem – Latin for bread). But what exactly does the phrase imply?
It means that the proverbial Powers that Be can get away with literal murder, rape, robbery, and everything else, provided they divert the eyes of the masses to entertainment, while at the same time keeping their bellies full. As long as the public has the means to eat and to distract themselves with games, they’ll ignore everything and everyone, including their misdeeds.
At the height of the Roman Empire, the Colosseum in the capital city was primarily where those games took place. Truthfully, it was only the largest arena in the largest city in the empire, but all cities had arenas of varying sizes that held varying types of circuses and games. Similarly today, every major city across the globe hosts some type of sports arena whether it be for football, baseball, cricket, rugby, basketball, or tennis.
We have certainly produced our fair share of games. And just like the emperors of old – doing whatever they wanted – we have our own power-brokers who take advantage of us with variable interest rates (and other garbage) while we’re waiting idly for the snap on the line of scrimmage.
Back then though, one of the most exciting (and bloodiest) forms of this entertainment was that of the gladiatorial combat. The gladiator was an entertainer who fought for his very life, with weapons and sometimes without, in front of tens of thousands of screaming spectators. Some were criminals, some volunteers, most slaves of some sort. This version of entertainment lasted almost a millennium, and boasted a wide range of styles. Listed below are some ‘other’ types of fights than the standard one-on-one gladiator battles (which was by and large the most popular).
Bestiarii – beasts, including but not limited to lions, tigers, and bears (oh, my!), were used in a variety of ways from slaughtering criminals to parading around for mere show
Noxii – mythological reenactments from the stories of their pagan religion were possibly one of the most popular types of games as the “battles” were often fixed so that the correct side would come out victorious (if you’ve seen the Ridley Scott film, Gladiator – which won an Oscar for Best Picture in 2000 – then you’ve seen this game)
Comoedii – comedic fight scenes with no real victims or casualties were used between matches to “clean up” and give the audience a rest and chance to get some refreshments
Supplicii – criminal executions were very creative as the victims were sometimes blindfolded and told to fight each other, or just put in front of wild animals without any weaponry
Aurigas Cursoresque – chariot races (self-explanatory) weren’t held at the Colosseum in Rome but across the street at the CircusMaximus
Sometimes the arena floor would even be flooded to reenact a mythic waterbattle, but usually if the emperor wanted, he could command the entire audience to move to a nearby lake for that portion of the show. I don’t know about you but that sounds a lot more exciting to me than watching a bunch of sweaty Europeans kick around a ball.
While strolling through the streets of Italy’s (and probably Europe’s) most unique city, one cannot help but feel an overwhelming sense that you’re in another world; some alien species has abducted you and transported you away to some fantastical city that couldn’t possibly exist on the planet Earth. But, you’d be wrong. You’re only in Venice.
It would be impossible (and completely insane) for me to try and convey how it feels to be in Venice. Some have called it romantic. Others magical. Sure, it’s both of those, but it’s also so much more. It’s a quaint, quiet, small town that is like nowhere else I have ever been. There are buildings one cannot get to without being on a boat!
Of course, it’s far from perfect. Nowhere is perfect. And Venice is plagued by some of the same problems that other cities in Italy and elsewhere in the world have. There are places under construction. There are hawkers shouting to sell their wares. There are noisy crowds of half-lost tourists. And there are traffic jams. The only difference is that these jams aren’t in the streets: they’re in the canals.
The quintessential image conjured in most people’s minds when they think about Venice is the gondola – an elegant, streamline boat, built for two, and rowed by a crooning Italian local in a red and white striped hat and shirt. And that image, my friends, doesn’t exist in reality. It’s purely fantasy, just like the idea that you’ve stepped onto some alien planet millions of miles away.
The truth is that the gondola ride is one of Europe’s most overrated (and overpriced) tourist traps. Yep, I said it. Not attraction, trap. A 40 minute ride runs you about 80 Euros. And the price skyrockets from there (apparently the city regulates what the drivers can charge you). An additional 40 Euro for each additional 20 minutes! It doesn’t stop there. You want some of that crooning? The price and tip for the singer must be negotiated by each gondolier, and you better believe they know this will most likely be your only time in one of these boats. So they hose you for all you’re worth.
The horrors don’t end there. Let’s say you actually bite the proverbial bullet and purchase a ride, because, hey, it’s the thing to do and you’re only in Venice once, right? Well, get in line. Because you weren’t the first (and you won’t be the last) to come to that logic. The canals quickly become crowded with rows upon rows of gondolas. And most of the gondoliers can be heard shouting to each other, not singing, shouting.
I personally spotted one of these ‘cabbies’ (yes, they share a lot in common with NYC taxis) on his mobile phone – while he had passengers! His mobile phone! Need I remind you of the price again?
Suffice it to say, we opted to not take a ride on the gondolas. If we ever get back to Venice (which we would love to do), I doubt we’ll ride on one then either. Trust me, the city is an amazing place to be without being on the water.
One of the aspects of traveling Jen and I enjoy most is experiencing the local cuisine. We love eating in general, so when we arrived in the pasta capital of the world (Jen being a vegetarian – which pretty much makes me a vegetarian), we were ecstatic and eager to try as much as we could get our lips on.
In addition to good food, we appreciate when restaurants have a story or offer a unique ambiance for our meal. While in Rome, we found a very special eatery. It might have been the most amazing place I’ve ever eaten at and not because the food was to die for, though it was very good. What made this restaurant so great was it’s history.
Da Pancrazio is located in a building constructed on top of the ruins of the Theaterof Pompey, where it is believed that Julius Caesar was murdered by politicians in the Roman Senate, including Marcus Brutus and Gaius Cassius, on the 15th of March, 44 BC. Contrary to popular belief, he was not stabbed in the Senatorial chambers, but just outside the theater in an area of Rome that was only just uncovered a few years ago (the city won’t officially excavate the ruins of the actual theater because the buildings now sitting on top of them have used the original foundation and supports for the structures still standing and in use today)
Julius Caesar avoided the Senate chamber on the ides of every month prior to his assassination (up to a year) because his wife Calpurnia had disturbing dreams that made her fearful of her husband’s safety. Unfortunately, this precaution didn’t prove to be enough as the would-be king was stabbed over 23 times. It has been said that 60 men participated in the death of Caesar, though not all brandished steel in the physical act of violence that killed him.
There has also been some controversy over the discrepancy of Caesar’s final words. The best known version comes from the English playwright, William Shakespeare, but the phrase, “Et Tu, Brute?” has no basis in fact (it was merely a popular phrase during Elizabethan times). Many of the conspirators, who were present in Julius’ final moments reported that he said nothing. He simply fell to his death.
Whether or not he said anything had no effect on our enjoyment of the meal we ate in Da Pancrazio. I had the opportunity to meet the owner and discuss his family history as well as that of the restaurant. Apparently, the location (even before it was a restaurant) had been in his family for years. It was his grandfather who opened the first restaurant, and it was his father who excavated the basement to discover the storage chambers behind the stage of the theater, which were used for props and costumes (now, it’s filled with tables). The basement isn’t the exact location of the assassination, but it’s close enough for government work – and fun to think about!
If you are in Rome, I highly recommend making reservations at Da Pancrazio, as it promises to be one of the most unique dining experiences of your life.
I’ve gone out of my way to make the best effort to track down all the ancient wonders the world still has to offer. I crossed the Sinai Desert, passing through military checkpoints, to witness the majesty of the GreatPyramids and the Sphinx. I trekked through the southeast Asian jungles to explore the temples of Angkor in Cambodia. I ran, yes ran, along the Great Wall of China. I’ve been inside both the TajMahal and the HagiaSofia (and Jen even went inside Jerusalem’s DomeoftheRock – forbidden to non-Muslims).
I traveled to Petra in Jordan, Kappadokya in Turkiye, Chichen Itza in Mexico, Jeju Island in SouthKorea, the Statue of Liberty in New York City, and just about every single temple in KyotoJapan (including Kiyomizu). So what’s left? If you’ve been reading my most recent blogs then you already have the answer. The Colosseum in Rome, Italy.
Unfortunately, my loyal droogs and droogettes, I have disappointing news to report. I wasn’t all that impressed with Italy’s contribution to the New 7 Wonders list. Perhaps, it was because of all the hype surrounding it. Or maybe it was the fact that I had already been to many of the other places on the list.
Don’t get me wrong, it was cool. It just wasn’t as cool as I had hoped. Nobody has asked me to put my official stamp on which of the “wonders” is my favorite; thankfully, because I’m not sure I could choose one. But what walking around inside the “One Hit Wonder” did get me thinking about was all of the other ancient wonders that no longer exist… the ones none of us will ever get to see.
The two that always fascinated me as a kid were the HangingGardens of Babylon and the Colossus of Rhodes. In fact, while living in Turkiye, we almost took a trip to the Greekisland of Rhodes – knowing the Colossus had been destroyed centuries ago – just for the chance to take a boat ride through the mouth of the harbor where he previously stood and say we passed beneath him.
And the crux about Babylon is that nobody knows exactly where the ancient and mythological metropolis was! Of course, there’s speculation that it’s somewhere in present-day Iraq – I think near the present-day city of Hillah (but God knows I’m never going there).
So all things considered, I suppose the Colosseum wouldn’t be at the bottom of my list… but it certainly wouldn’t be at the top (and I’m Italian).
In honor of primary season hitting full swing in the States with SuperTuesday today, I thought I would take the opportunity to turn your heads away from American politics and explain a little bit about what’s going on over on this side of the “Pond” in Spain’s politics.
Europe is like America in a lot of ways. They have basically the same stuff here that we do at home, but a lot of times, it’s just a little bit different. History, however, isn’t one of them. The history of Europe is much more complicated than that of America, although they do share some history together. What might be difficult for a lot of Americans to understand is the sheer number and diversity of cultures that have existed and still exist on the continent.
The modern geopolitical map of Europe isn’t static by any stretch of the imagination, nor has it ever truly been. Borders move. Names change. Entire peoples are uprooted from one place and deposited on another as refugees seeking new homes or asylum from tyrannical governments. America has never experienced such problem (with the major exceptions of the slavery issue and the displacement of NativeAmerican tribes), as most of us simply consider ourselves American, and our culture “Western“.
Spain, for example, has only been the nation that it is since the end of the SpanishCivilWar in 1939. FranciscoFranco united various autonomous regions under the banner of Spain. Prior to that, the geographic area that is now known as Spain consisted of a half dozen different countries with as many dialects or separate languages: including Basque, Leonese, & Catalan.
One such region is Catalonia.
Catalonia is in the northeastern most section of Spain, bordering France and the MediterraneanSea. Barcelona, its capital city, is arguably the most economical prosperous market in the country. So last month, when Catalonia held elections, the rest of Spain held its collective breath. And Catalans, by a narrow margin (52% – 48%) elected a separatist president. Now, for the first time in three generations, Catalonia has a very good chance of becoming a sovereignstate again.
So what does this mean for Spain? And what does it mean for the Catalan people?
Nobody is certain. The modern world is much different from the pre–WWII era in which Catalonia was its own nation. The EU is under threat of collapsing due to the influx of Syrianrefugees. Greece is bankrupt, Italy is on their boot heels (nopunintended), and Spain’s been struggling with a recession for 4 years. If Catalonia (the most economically successful province in Spain) breaks off, then Spain might just enter their own great depression.
But for millions of Catalans, the issue isn’t about money. It’s about culturalidentity. Under Franco, the people, their culture, and even their own language were subjugated and – in some instances – banned altogether in favor of the more widespread and accepted Castilian (textbookSpanish). Half of Catalonia wants that back. Can you blame them? I know Texans can’t.
We’ll have to sit back and wait to see if Catalonia’s new president, CarlesPuigdemont, can lead his people to their freedom. He says he need 18 months. Until then, nobody knows.
Requiem is Latin for “rest“. Therefore, a requiem mass is a mass of rest, or a funeral – mass for the dead. When a composer writes the music to accompany such an event, it is also called a requiem. Many composers have written them: Faure, Verdi, Stravinsky, Haydn, Brahms, and of course Mozart.
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart is perhaps the most famous composer who ever lived. He spent much of his youth being dragged around Europe by his father Leopold, labeled as a child prodigy. He played before emperors and bishops, and even composed works as early as age seven. As an adult, he enjoyed Vienna the most and tried to spend as much time living in the city as possible. Visiting many of the places he went to was perhaps my favorite aspect of traveling to the capital of Austria.
We toured the Mozarthaus, a museum built into an apartment in which he lived from 1784-1787 (and composed THE MAGIC FLUTE, DON GIOVANNI, andTHE MARRIAGE OF FIGARO). We had lunch at a small, medieval tavern – Griechenbeisl – where he frequented with his contemporaries. We went into the grand Church of St. Stephen, the cathedral where he celebrated both his marriage and funeral. We paid our respects at the St. Marx Cemetery where he was buried in a common grave (the marker was added later) with the likes of Beethoven, Strauss, and Shubert. We walked the streets he must have walked and saw some of the sights he must have seen.
It felt truly wonderful to step back into the history of this legendary figure. I wish there were more photo opportunities. Unfortunately, you have to be there to really feel his presence, and the few pictures I did manage to snap, simply don’t do him justice.
If you have seen the film, Amadeus (if you haven’t you should), you are aware of the mysterious circumstances surrounding his death. According to the film, it was the sheer act of composing his requiem, a job that was commissioned by a masked benefactor, that brought him to his untimely demise in 1791. The piece was finished in someone else’s handwriting. Eerie…
Guilt and shame over his father coupled with massive gambling debts are more than likely a closer cause. But the idea that he wrote his own requiem mass and that is what killed him sends a chill up my spine.
One cannot come to Vienna without spending at least one day retracing Mozart’s footsteps. Don’t forget to load some of his work onto your iPod and listen as you stroll.
As many of you know, when I travel the only souvenirs I require are my memories and my photographs. However, now that I’m traveling with a spouse, things are different. Jen loves herself some souvenirs. She wants to put them on shelves and hang them on the walls to remind her of all the wonderful times we’ve had traveling together. At first, I thought it was a waste of money. But… it brings a smile to her face and after all, what is marriage if not compromise?
The single souvenir she decided she wanted from our week in Italy was a Venetianmask. If you don’t know what they are, I guarantee that you’ve seen them at one point or another. Films such as Amadeus, EyesWideShut, or any other movie that features a masquerade ball or party shows them off. Essentially, the masks are paper mache which are hand-molded and hand-painted. The process is very extensive and was explained to us by the shop-owner of Ca’Macana – the place Jen hand-picked off the Internet before we had even taken off.
The major pitfall of souvenir shopping the world over is the cheap imitations. It doesn’t matter where you go, you’ll find crappy goods manufactured in some Chinese factory, bought in bulk, and shipped by some third-party vendor to be sold in tourist destinations all over the world. Venice was no different. There are kiosks up and down the GrandCanal with chintzy, plastic masks – some of which appear to be the genuine articles. Please don’t be fooled. They’re not.
If you truly want the full experience of trying on and purchasing an authentic Venetian mask, please visit Ca’Macana. There are two locations as well as a workshop owned by a husband and wife team (though not the inspiration for Shakespeare’s play), who employ dozens of different artists to make the masks in a variety of styles. You can browse, take photos, and try on the masks – which number in the thousands. Additionally, they offer classes where you can make and paint your own. Fun for the whole family!
Jen and I had a ton of fun looking around and finally choosing our mask. Someday when we move back to the States, come over and take a look. I’m sure she’ll have found a prominent place to display it, either on a shelf or a wall.
Contrary to popular belief, VaticanCity is not part of the nation of Italy. It is a city–state, fully sovereign and independent. When visitors pass through the walls, and enter the museum on the other side, they are in fact visiting the smallest country in the world, and leaving Italian soil.
That being said, however, the process of crossing the boundary couldn’t be more complicated. Finding out where to go, how to get there, and how long it will take once inside. I am usually pretty good about planning holidays and even the Papal State managed to baffle me.
With a bit of preliminary research I learned that the best idea would be to purchase tickets online in advance so as to skip ahead of the line on the day of the visit. The official Vatican Museum website asked to choose not only which day but also a specific time – down to the quarter hour. When we arrived at the doorstep, we found that the day-of line (non ticket holders) stretched around the block, and was perhaps 300 strong (at 10:30 am).
On the other hand, those who had purchased tickets already still had to wait in line, but that took much less time (approximately 30 minutes, mostly because of how slow security was feeding people through the metal detectors). Once inside, the crowd was moved through the museum like a herd being led to the slaughter-house. Unfortunately, I didn’t realize that the museum was the only section of the Vatican visitors got the chance to see.
So after being shoved and prodded through various halls and galleries, finally emerging into the Sistine Chapel to glare up at the masterpiece (while the security guards yelled through microphones to keep quiet because the chapel is a holy place that needs to be respected – oh, and no photos), we found ourselves outside the Vatican again, and back on Italian soil, our heads spinning around confused.
Obviously, we circled around to St. Peter’s Square and Basilica to see the burial place of the popes and other attractions, which was all fine and good. But if you go to Vatican City, be prepared for what it actually is: a cattle–drive.
Since 1993, the tiny, central/eastern European nation of Slovakia has been LOST.
Prior to that, their acreage belonged to the former country of Czechoslovakia which was part of the WarsawPact formed in 1955. Of course, it existed on and off prior to that as well, however, this article isn’t about the sovereign state of Czechoslovakia. It’s about the insignificant nation that was left behind. Similar to Hungary, Slovakia drew a short straw with their location – sandwiched between Budapest and Vienna – and with Prague just a hop, skip, and a jump to the north. All in all not a very positive location for promoting tourism and trade.
Hence why they’re LOST (strateny is Slovakian for lost).
Most of the country is wilderness. There’s not much to see that visitors can’t get in the neighboring nations of the CzechRepublic, Austria, Hungary, and even as far away as Moldova and Romania. So why go? The dinky capital city of Bratislava – where I spent about 24 hours in (the only reason we went was to check another country off of our list) – has very little to offer in the way of interesting sights. In fact, it looks much like the smaller parts of Budapest and Prague. Since the split in ’93, Prague has received the lion’s share of tourism. Such a pity for the Slovaks.
It’s their own fault though. One would think that the people of Bratislava would go out of their way to project images of warmth and friendliness. One would think the citizens of Slovakia would dump money into their tourism and marketing, hoping to increase travelers coming across their borders. Quirky museums, churches, and statues do little on their own. Alas, no. The Bratislavans are lost, just like their country.
They aren’t friendly. They aren’t welcoming. And they certainly don’t seem to give a shit if tourists come to their city or nation at all. Which is a shame, since they’ve got no other major industries there. What a missed opportunity for Slovakia.
Budapest drew the geographical short straw. The city was founded during the RomanEmpire and the ethnic Hungarians arrived in the 9th century. Their history has been rife with war, however, as that first settlement was pillaged by the Mongols in the 13th century, and spent 150 years under the rule of the OttomanEmpire.
Actually two individual cities separated by the DanubeRiver – Buda & Pest – were unified in 1873 and became the second capital of the Austro–HungarianEmpire, which wasn’t dissolved until the end of TheGreatWar in 1918. World War II arrived on the Hungarian’s doorstep, but the people were no strangers to strife. They originally allied with NaziGermany and when they tried to pull out of the war, their leaders were overthrown and a puppet regime was installed.
That regime was called the ArrowCrossParty. From the 15th of October 1944 until the 28th of March 1945, this socialist political party ruled over Hungary and murdered or deported 600,000 Jews (many to Auschwitz, other shot into the Danube). The Arrow Cross shared many similarities and ideologies with the Germans; even the symbol of the party (an ancient symbol of the Magyar tribes who settled Hungary) slightly resembles the Nazi swastika.
The Arrow Cross rose to power by signing treaties with both the Nazis and the Soviets, directly leading to cease-fires. Prior to the winter of 1944-45, the Party committed atrocities against its own people living in Budapest and across Hungary. The short-lived rule birthed death squads, deportations, slave labor, and forced military battalions. When historians mention the Holocaust, the Nazis remain front and center, but the vast majority of exterminated Jews happened in, or came from, Hungary – and were committed by the Arrow Cross Party.
Toward the end of the war, Soviet forces surrounded and laid siege to the city (the BattleofBudapest), squeezing the lifeblood out of the people and the Arrow Cross Party. In the spring of 1945, the USSR’s Red Army officially took control of the city (their rule lasted until the Revolutionof 1956), and during the ColdWar that followed, Hungary maintained ties to Russia. The country didn’t actually gain its true freedom from tyranny until 1991, after the fall of the Soviet Union and the BerlinWall came tumbling down.
This violent history is obvious when walking around the city. Most, if not all, has been rebuilt, but one can feel the undercurrent of suspicion rippling through the landscape. I suppose it’s natural for a people who were placed smack-dab in the middle of two ‘evil’ superpowers and had been attacked and pillaged by various ’empires’ for centuries to be a bit wary of life. I’m not sure how, but they still manage to smile to tourists.
As an artist in my own right, I think about leaving my legacy behind in my writing, music, and films. So it is with a heavy heart that I learned about the Catalan artist and architect Antoni Gaudi (God’sArchitect) who passed away tragically prior to completing work on his most famous of works: the Basílica i Temple Expiatori de la Sagrada Família, or la Sagrada Familia, for short. His magnum opus.
Gaudi’s thumbprint can be seen across the city of Barcelona from the basilica to CasaBatllo and to the works of his financierPalau Guell and Park Guell. Though, the structures do not dominate the entire skyline. During his life, he designed 19 buildings in Barcelona alone. His art defies traditional architecture and his style is often described as neo-gothic, moderniste, and even Oriental. He rarely drew up plans, choosing instead to mold three-dimensional models.
Perhaps one of the most interesting and appealing aspects of this designer’s method is how he used his creations to tell stories. Gaudi put relentless thought and consideration into each and every element of his design from the materials used to the way in which they would be used.
From the outside, the basilica facades tell the story of the birth and death of Jesus (on each side respectively). This can be seen in the statues that decorate the area surrounding the doors. The NativityFacade faces the sunrise while the Passion Facade faces sunset. By the time the church is finally completed, around 2026, there will be a total of 18 spires each representing a different person (12 for the disciples, 4 for the evangelists, 1 for the Virgin Mary, and 1 for Jesus). Currently, only 8 have been finished.
The exterior isn’t much to look at from a style standpoint, however, the interior will blow you away. The entire apse is designed as a geometric hyperboloid (I had no idea what this was, but it looks cool as hell). The pillars that hold up the entire structure are designed to look like trees (redwoods if you ask me) adding a natural element. The roof is so high, it appears these ‘trees’ reach up to heaven itself.
Interior of La Sagrada Familia (my photo)
Interior of La Sagrada Familia (my photo)
Interior of La Sagrada Familia (not my photo)
Interior of La Sagrada Familia (not my photo)
I suppose the fact that Gaudi is so well appreciated so many years after his death fills me with hope for my own creative works. Even if I end up destitute prior to my death, there is always that chance that my books are discovered and downloaded on Amazon.com in the next few hundred years.