Road to Gonder

Taxi picked me up around 4:45 at the guesthouse. Took me to Meskel Square where the Sky Buses are. Driver off-loaded my stuff, found the right bus for me & saw to it that my bag got loaded OK. Boys sold water and cookies. Hadn't eaten since around 4:00 p.m. yesterday- didn't know meal plan for today - bought two small packs of cookies (ghastly, btw).

It's about a 12-hour trip from Addis Ababa to Gonder.

Snippets along the way:

School children walking to school. In one town, students wore a blue shirt. In another, the girls wore a green top and green skirt while boys wore green shirts and green pants. Another town, maroon.

Saw children running alongside road; saw a couple of women running toward them. The women had anguished expressions on their faces. Then I saw the source - a man sitting up by the road, his face all bloody.

Cows - donkeys - goats - chickens - sheep dogs.

Wow! A modest version of the Grand Canyon! Beautiful.

Made a pit stop by the "Grand Canyon," which is actually the Nile Gorge.

All the men got off and then all we women saw were their backs. If you get my drift. All the women stayed on the bus. There was a wc on the bus, but it wasn't operational.

About the bus. SkyBus. Assigned seats. Bus leaves at designated time. Air conditioning. Tray tables and bottle holders. Seat belts. Hot tea or "milk" served along with a piece of cake for a continental breakfast. I was so happy I'd brought Nescafe instant coffee tubes + a one-cup container with lid. I asked the host for hot water and thus I enjoyed a not-bad-at-all cup of hot coffee!

After our breakfast, we each received a bottle of water and then a newspaper (in English). After the pit stop described above, the host started a movie. Produced by the Christian Relief and Development Association. In Amharic with English subtitles - very nice touch! A real tear-jerker about a stolen letter, the envelope lost, the contents from a dying sister to her brother.... man who took letter begins a quest for find this woman...

Ah, now we encounter a road blockage - a jack-knifed truck that we barely squeeze by.

After descending into the Nile Gorge and re-emerging on the other side, we presently came to a suspension bridge. We stopped and a soldier came on board to check IDs.

Another road blockage. Two trucks blocking road. A temporary impasse. The host got off the bus and attempted to guide us between the two trucks.

We seemed to be stuck, straddling a pile of rock debris. Men poured off a bus that was oncoming toward us, to investigate the situation, at the ready to offer consultation if asked.

Did I mention we were on the side of a mountain?

Eventually, all of the bus passengers disembarked. Enterprising locals appeared with papayas and mangoes for sale. I shared some of my Altoid wintergreen mints with the kiddos after asking an Ethiopian woman if she thought it'd be OK with their parents. [Note: Later in the trip, I wouldn't have done this, despite my innocent intentions of just sharing mints with others, which I was also consuming. It just sets up the next tourist for a begging experience.]

We stopped for lunch in some nondescript town; the host informed us we had 30 minutes to consume it. My primary interest was a bathroom. I followed two women from the bus across the street, thinking they might be honing in on the best bathroom in town. The cafe they choose didn't look promising, but I had set my course, and persevered.

I asked if I might join them. In very small English (and I was grateful for the tiny bit they had), they said this was a Muslim restaurant, and was I Muslim? I said no. The waitress asked if I spoke Arabic, and I said no. Then I added politely, "I can still eat here though, right? And where is the bathroom please?" The waitress pointed me to the back, where I walked out onto a porch then down cement steps, then into an enclosed backyard with a man, woman, child, and bleating goat. I swear that goat talked to me. Looked me in the eye and bleated at me. Anyway, I was shown the pit toilet and the woman very kindly gave me a teapot with water. Hopefully, I did with it what I was supposed to, which was to wash down the area around the cement hole after I'd finished my business. I emerged from the door-less, three-sided concrete stall, and all of us smiled at each other, and the goat wished me a good day while he escorted me to the stairs.

The two Muslim ladies generously shared their lunch with me. I was clearly at a loss as to what to order.

On we went.

The scenery reminded me of the old Flemish paintings. Beehive-shaped hay mounds. Farmers harvesting the hay by hand, crouched low to the ground using smallish scythes to cut it. Boys tapped cows with sticks to move them in uniform formation over hay spread on the ground - to do what, I don't know. Farmers using a rake to toss hay onto the mounds. Rocks placed at intervals to protect the mound from wind. Sometimes I saw children (and adults) tilling the earth between crop rows with centuries-old style hoes. [Note: I later learned this was not hay, but likely teff, the grain used to make injera.]

Women and girls, sometimes in groups and sometimes singly, carried loads of wood, grain or water on their backs. Barefoot usually. Donkeys carried bags - of what I don't know. But they seemed far lighter loads than those carried by women and girls.


As we passed the countryside, truly it was like observing oil paintings in motion. I could think this, but not without, in the same moment, recognizing the harshness of the farmers' lives. That they're not anonymous extras in a scenic movie.

We arrived in Gonder in good time. Within moments of stepping off the bus, a tuktuk driver approached me with a price, we agreed, the bus driver called out my name to retrieve my bag, the tuktuk driver grabbed it for me, and we chuck-chucked up the hill to my hotel.

It wasn't til later that I realized it was probably appropriate to tip the driver and host, but oh well, hopefully I will be forgiven.

Ethiopia: Part 3 of 3: The Glory Road, Elephant Ears, and the Culture Wars, Addis Ababa

The minutes ticked by while Girma and I awaited the guest house owners. I thought of how early I had to get up the next morning for the bus to Gonder.

I asked the on-duty manager to call the owners again to remind them I awaited their arrival. He did so, handed the phone to me, and the owner-wife promised they'd be there within the hour.

Finally the two did arrive, a young, pleasant-looking couple. I went through my concerns again: the quality of their affiliate guest house (D's) versus the quality of Z's (where I now was), though with the same room rate; and their tacit approval of Habtomi as a reliable character, though he engaged in inappropriate behavior that reflected poorly on their business.

In the beginning, the owners made no apology for charging me the same price for D's Guest House as they did for the superior Z's. I explained that the two were not even in the same class, and as far as I was concerned, I had already paid for tonight's room, as the other room at D's was worth half of what they charged.

The husband avowed that the happiness of his customers was more important than their profits (and I maintained an entirely straight face). Then he said he'd be willing to refund all of the money I'd already paid, and I heard an audible gasp from the wife; the appalled expression on her face as she looked at her husband was such that I could not help laughing out loud, saying to the husband, "Oh, no, you are in for a very uncomfortable discussion later!"

But then I said, "No, I want just what I said before, tonight's room free, with no need of a refund for the other nights." I added that I expected them to arrange a taxi for me for early the next morning so I could get to the bus station. They agreed.

With Girma present throughout, we addressed the "my brother" thing, and the owner corroborated what Girma had said - that they are "like" family.

I told the owners that Girma had acquitted himself in my mind, although he and I continued to disagree about how his behavior contributed to my assumptions about his role (e.g. standing mutely by while Habtomi took advantage) in this drama. I took responsibility, as well, for my role in cultural misunderstandings. Finally, I told the owners how appreciative I was that Girma had, on his own time, accompanied and assisted me on Saturday morning errands, without asking for anything from me.

So all ended well.

I retired to my nice room and entered the bathroom to take a shower.

The light didn't work.

Ethiopia: Part 2 of 3: The Glory Road, Elephant Ears, and the Culture Wars, Addis Ababa

I walked back to my hotel. My first tiny seeds of discontent at this place had been my very first night, when I was a little underwhelmed by my room and the guest house location, considering the $30 US per night room rate.

The seed grew the next day (Saturday) when I noted a condom and birth control pills in the drawer of my bedside table. (Their presence made me think this place was rented out by the hour in addition to the night.)

Then when Stephanie and Dawit came to meet with me yesterday, they were unable to reconcile the street address I had given them for my hotel, D's Guest House (provided me by my hotel's affiliate Z's Guest House staff before I left the U.S.), and where I actually was. It took a couple of phone calls between me and them for them to find me.

The guard for my hotel was at the gate when I arrived. I pulled out my cell phone and showed him the number from whence came the text, and I asked if it was Girma's. At first, the guard said no, then he said yes. I went to my room, saw that it hadn't been cleaned, though it was now early evening. I called out to the guard that I wanted to contact Girma. The guard said he wouldn't be back til 11:00 p.m. and I came to understand that Girma was the night manager at Z's Guest House (the owners' "flagship" hotel). What?!

Girma had referred to Z's Guest House's owner as "my brother." So what is this game he's playing, getting me involved with this Habtomi character, offering to change my money for me earlier, to take me to a relative's place who sold traditional clothing earlier??

I went back to the guard and said, "Take me to Z's Guest House!" I was livid. The guard demurred for a few moments, then he made a phone call, and off we went down the rocky dirt road to a three-story building with a pretty little courtyard. Nice!

I walked into the on-duty manager's office and said, "Show me a room here." If the reader of this narrative gets the idea that I was using the command form at this time, he would be correct. All of the little not-quite-right things, including the really big not-right thing from last night and the last-straw text message this afternoon had climaxed into a crashing crescendo of righteous outrage on my end. The manager could tell I was infuriated. We walked up to the third floor. Nice wooden door. Inside, a chifferobe! With hangers! In the other place, no way to hang anything! And this place had a rooftop terrace!!!!

I asked, "what is the price for this room'? Why, it was the same price as at D's Guest House - $30 US!

Whew! I was in high dudgeon now!

I demanded that the on-duty manager call the owner immediately so I could talk to him, which he did. He talked briefly with the person on the other end, then handed the phone to me. It was the wife of the husband-wife ownership team, and I launched right away into my complaint, something along the lines of: "I'm staying in D's Guest House. This guy Girma is saying he's your brother and I'm finding out he's your night time employee! He's taking $30 per night from me for that place. He put me together with this taxi driver Habtomi who took me to a place where the only woman there are prostitutes. This is a text that I received from Girma (and I related the text to the owner) and what the hell do you think this means? I can tell you what I think it means ...I need to change hotels and come to this one!"

In short order, the D's Guest House guard and I walked back to D's, gathered my things, and returned to Z's, where I was given that nice room on the 3rd floor. The owner promised she and her husband would come to talk to me about this whole sorry situation.

Then I called Habtomi and read the text message to him, told him I was completely offended by his behavior, and told him not to come the next morning to take me to the bus station.

Then I walked downstairs and settled down to wait for the owners in the pleasant little courtyard. Enjoyed an interesting conversation with a Sudanese businessman, who travels all over the world buying and selling things. (And by the way, the Sudanese are doing business in Ethiopia these days in a big, big way.)

And then the courtyard gate opened and in came Girma, very much distressed. He reported to me that the owner had called him in a fury! He proclaimed his innocence of any wrongdoing, disavowing any friendship with Habtomi, saying the owners directed him to use Habtomi as he did a good job of routing customers to the owners' establishment.

Girma asked to see the phone text I received; he told me the number was not his and he called the number and talked to the woman who answered, who allegedly reported that even she didn't send the text and that she had received similar inquiries from other recipients of the identical text.

I pointed out to GirmaZ's, acting (to my eyes) as if he and Habtomi were good friends (therefore bestowing on him a cloak of approval); the phone text, which jibed seamlessly with the fact that I owed for that night's room rental and with that offensive business from H. the night before (not to mention it was in English); and I even brought up the condom/birth control pills in my room at D's Guest House.

[Centuries ago, an Ethiopian king sent an ambassador to the French court of Louis XIV. The  Ethiopian king sent with the emissary gold and silver and other riches, including two baby elephants. He did this to express his gratitude to Louis XIV for sending his own doctor to Ethiopia to cure the king of an illness. Alas, the baby elephants died on the way to France, and the Ethiopian ambassador cut the ears off the elephants and wrapped them in cloth so he could show the French king the greatness of the gift intended by the Ethiopian king. Upon arrival at the French court, the Ethiopian ambassador presented the French king with the elephant ears, but when the French king opened the covering, all that remained were rotting flesh, maggots, and a terrible stench. Outraged at the disgusting insult, the French king threw the Ethiopian ambassador into prison despite the man's
protestations of innocence. Somehow, the ambassador finally convinced the court to look at the other things he'd brought with him, and only after seeing the gold and silver did the French court believe the man and release him from prison.]

Girma persuaded me that he was as much a victim as I, and though he and I didn't see eye to eye as to how he - inadvertently or not - contributed to the ultimate situation in which we found ourselves, I told him that I'd square things with the owners when they arrived, noting that I held THEM partially responsible for the current state of affairs, as well.

Girma and I settled down to wait for the owners to arrive.

To be continued .....

Ethiopia: Part 1 of 3: The Glory Road, Elephant Ears, and the Culture Wars, Addis Ababa

Breakfasted at London Cafe in Hotel Yelo. Indifferent breakfast; coffee rather bitter.

Cold! I think Addis Ababa is similar to San Francisco -- wonderful when sun out; chilly when not. Breezy.

When I was here in 2006, I don't remember being able to look out and see the surrounding mountains. But it is pleasant to do so now.

Today, my objectives are to:

- Check out an internet cafe
- Get money
- Get adapter with narrower pins than I got yesterday
- Find my way back to the D Guest House where I'm staying
- Call a hotel in Gonder to make reservations for tomorrow night

Later ... Am at Friendship Cafe on balcony. Was here in 2006. Coffee OK. Sat first on the side balcony, but sun brutal. Went to front balcony - shady and breezy - nice view of the mountains.

Quick thought: This is my now. So in my now, I look up from my book (Glory Road, by Robert Heinlein) and think, "Wow, I am sitting in this place that is literally halfway around the world from my starting point."

[In Glory Road, the protagonist almost gets himself and his companions killed due to a cultural gaffe when he refuses the offer of a chieftain's wife and daughters to share his bed. Refusing this offer
was a grave insult to the family's honor, and the protagonist, not understanding what went wrong with his visit, had to run for his life the next day as a result of the chieftain's ire the next morning.]

Though I've been to this precise place before, it is different by myself. Not better or worse, just different.

When I'm finished with coffee, I go downstairs and see a place to buy an adapter. Stephanie and Dawit (English Alive Academy), with whom I'd met yesterday, had said I might need one with narrower pins than the one I bought yesterday with Girma, for the rural areas of Ethiopia. Great! They have the other kind here! But, what's this? So much for Girma, "my brother," who found me the other adapter at the alleged non-faranji price. The one here is five birr cheaper than that.

Last night was rather a bummer. Habtomi, the taxi driver who drove me and the hotel rep, Girma, to my hotel from the airport on Friday night, had offered to take me to see traditional Ethiopian dancing. I had seen this last time I was here, and it IS wonderful to see, but I was ambivalent about going last night.

But I struggled with insecurities - am I being a stick in the mud? Being unfairly distrustful when he's just being nice (albeit being compensated for the transportation and his time away from taxi'ing)? Blah, blah, blah -- typical fuzzy, mullet thinking.

In the end, I did go, agreeing in advance on a price for the transportation and that I would pay my own cover charge. I viewed it all as a tour guide sort of thing. We went to what appeared to be a decent place, and I paid for my modest cover charge. When the attendant presumed I was paying for both of us, I said, no, I'm only paying mine. We went in and sat at a table. I ordered a water and H. ordered a soda. Not many customers here, but it was pretty early. To make a long story short, I came to see that all of the customers
except for me and one other woman, were men. There WERE other women there, but all seemed to be employees of the establishment. They stood against the bar or against a wall, or along some steps that went up to an interior balcony, dressed as if for a nightclub, beautifully made up, stiletto heels. After continuing to observe and consider this for awhile, I leaned over to H. and said, "It seems there are only men customers here." His response was noncommittal. In my desire to be fair and not distrustful (I was thinking, helloooo, I think all of the women are "working girls"), I continued to watch the dance performances and observe my environment. But over time, it became evident to me that all of the women in this place were prostitutes. In
effect, I was the only woman in the place who was not, which made H. .... what?

I said it was time to go. The waiter (male) brought the bill and presented it to me (!), and I pushed it angrily to H. and said, "You pay."

We got into his taxi for him to take me back to my hotel, and I demanded to know why he would take me to a place like that. I had been to traditional dancing places in 2006, and they were FAMILY places. No good answer.

If I were a different person, I would have walked out of the place, hailed a taxi, and gone home. Instead, with a lack of presence of mind, I allowed him to take me back in his taxi, and upon my arrival at the hotel, I paid him the agreed-upon fare. We'd previously arranged that he would take me to the bus station the next  morning very early (e.g. 5:00 a.m.), and I said I expected that transport to be at no cost to me, to which he agreed.

All of the above describes perfect "mark" behavior (mine) for a skilled manipulator.

Footnote: I had my suspicion, only recently confirmed, that some foreign women "of a certain age" come to Ethiopia to enjoy liaisons with younger men, for which the women pay. Even so, I exhibited nothing in my language or demeanor, other than a stupid naivete, to indicate my interest in such an arrangement, and H. made a really, really, really bad judgment call on his end. Jeez, even if I were interested in such a deal, please, some finesse!

So back to the present on this fine Sunday afternoon .... I walked about the city and I saw a wedding convoy fronted by men on horseback! White cars with flowers. Horns honking. Very cool.

I reminded myself to pay Girma for my hotel room when I returned later, as I'd be getting up very early tomorrow morning to take the bus to Gonder.

I stopped for an early dinner at a Turkish restaurant. I had a lamb sandwich, which was only so-so. The coffee was good, but nothing special. I loved the ambiance, though - tables on terraces; a separate, partially-enclosed are for the water-pipe smokers. A long, narrow balcony. Flowered archway at the entrance.

While enjoying my pleasant surroundings, I realized I had a text message on the phone I rented from Habtomi on Friday evening:

"Hey. Can u imagine, u didn't give me the money. Any way it's okay, I'll withdraw tomorrow. Enjoy ur meeting with ur fiance. Will talk to u later."

WHAT THE HELL?! I immediately concluded that this text must be from Girma, that the money he's referring to is the payment for tonight's room, and that, as Habtomi's buddy, he was aware of the presumed
"relationship" we must now have.

Be fair, be fair! I told myself. I called the number from which the text came. The sender's phone was shut off.

To be continued ....

Ethiopia: Addis Ababa: Mullet Phase

Full morning doing errands with the kind help of Girma and Habtomi (taxi driver). Girma helped me buy an adapter for the plugs here. (When I met with Stephanie and Dawit, of English Alive Academy, later in the day, they said I might need a 2nd one with narrower pins for the rural areas.)

Beautiful, sunny day.

Girma, Habtomi, and I had coffee at Kaldi's this morning. The coffee was spectacular and the oatmeal  surprisingly good. I regret this was my only coffee of the day.

Photo from Tripadvisor

When we finished our errands, Girma and Habtomi and I went our separate ways. I walked down the rocky dirt road that the guest house is on, then took a left onto the main paved road, and stopped for lunch at a little cafe. Saw a man eating what looked like a good pasta and I said to the wait person, "That looks good. What is that"? She said it was pasta with meat and vegetables - and it was good.

Photo from Skybus website

When Girma and Habtomi and I were together, we'd gone to the Skybus ticket office at the Taitu Hotel in the Piazza. Based on where Skybus goes, I made the decision to go to Gorgora first (versus Bale Mts, Lalibela, or elsewhere). To do this, I needed to go first to Gonder, then take a minibus to Gorgora. So I'll spend one night in Gonder, then push on to Gorgora. Gorgora is a tiny town on legendary Lake Tana.

I pulled cash out of a bank ATM, but I could only take out a maximum of 2000 birr, which is about $125.

Whew, Habtomi the taxi driver - he's been sucking my money away with taxi rates and phone rental. But I've agreed to this hemorrhage, so I suppose I can't complain.

My bathroom at D's Guest House

My bedroom at D's Guest House

I sense I am still in the "mullet" phase of my trip - where one's brain is kind of mush, thinking slowly and somewhat stupidly, as a tourist "fresh off the boat" in a new country. It doesn't matter how sharp you are in your own territory, there's this transitional period as a tourist where you just aren't quite up to par. The term "mullet" comes from some tourist-industry folks I met from a big tourist destination in Missouri. Mullets are fish that are known in this area to be so stupid and slow you can catch them with your hands. Ethiopia is not a good place to be a mullet.

Frankfort ... or Frankfurt ... whatever

When we were little, living in Louisville, Kentucky, we'd go occasionally to the state capital of Frankfort. I only remember two things about the trip --> flowers + a koi pond.

Well, I'm saying koi, but probably not. Probably big, giant goldfish ... carp. Ah, same thing pretty much. Nevertheless, we liked to look at them and feed them.

Well, I'm not in Frankfort, KY, today. I'm in Frankfurt, Germany.

As with Chicago, just passin' through.



This is a scheduled post, written prior to 1/20. 

Chicago!

The first day of my trip!

I've been here once before. Came to visit with Carol on the train.


But today, I'm just passin' through. Here's an excerpt from that December 2009 trip:

Mzuri's report

Brutally cold on Thursday!

Nevertheless, we sashayed out of the hotel and decided to turn left instead of the usual right, then got on a bus whose driver said, yes, she goes to the Chicago Cultural Center, only to take us out to east jesus by the Chicago History Museum. Wow, was it cold! We blew into the history museum and asked how to get to the Chicago Cultural Center (hereafter referred to as CCC), and the guy suggested that perhaps we'd just like to take a look around his museum. When I demurred, he gave me directions to the CCC, then asked, "why do you want to go there, anyway?"

Carol ventured the same question, to which I snarled "because it's a must-see for me."

So we entered out into the cold again, and lurched, shivering, for about a block (as it turns out we were practically on the lake), and got on the right bus.

Did I say how cold it was?

The CCC is the former Chicago Public Library. It has an immense decorative dome with a gigantic Tiffany chandelier. Or maybe the entire dome is Tiffany; I don't know. But it's beautiful. The CCC has musical, dance, or dramatic performances daily. There are art exhibits on several floors. There is also a visitor center. Carol, obviously nursing some kind of grudge, pronounced it "barn-like" as we left.

After the CCC, we walked three blocks to Daly Plaza (site of the Picasso sculpture). The kristkindlmarket is there this time of year, so it's filled with German vendors and wares. This includes the bratwurst and potato pancakes we enjoyed for lunch. We ate same in the Timber House, which is sort of like a beer hall. Picnic tables. Pretty well heated.

Our next destination was the Art Institute, a cavernous ("barn-like") building that housed, you know, like, art. We split up and joined together a couple of times as we perused the stock. Carol was most taken with the impressionists, particularly Monet's six versions of haystacks. She had just remarked earlier that day how she loved when an artist repeated a piece over and over and over again. 

Sated with culture, we returned to our hotel. Later, we went downstairs for dinner at the little Italian place. Carol enjoyed a Manhattan and I warmed up with a cup of coffee.

CAROL'S REPORT

As a Lady of a Certain Age times two I think I did extremely well - each of three days walking without complaint for miles before I slept.  Generally we forged out each morning around 9 AM, took numerous buses and a few memorable times the subway, walked briskly (me tottering gamely after the Guide) and both up and down many, many steps into the wonderful world of the tourist.  As the Guide once proclaimed "when a person is in an unfamiliar setting the brain turns to mush" very apt since at every bus that opened it's doors for passengers who knew where they were going
She would dart forward and ask the driver how to get to where she wanted to go...I held back and tried to look  like a knowledgeable native. 

The el

Microscopic creature from Natural History Museum

 

View from Hancock Building

In the Chicago Cultural Center

Carol perusing art in the Chicago Cultural Center

A fine example of art from the Chicago Art Institute

 This is a scheduled post, written prior to 1/21.

Ethiopia: Getting There

Adam and Matthew dropped me off at the airport - thank you!

Dunkin Donuts coffee at the St. Louis airport - ick.

Fast flight to Chicago - about 1/2 hour late due to weather (rec'd 12 inches snow overnight).

Got off plane in Chicago, went to bathroom, caught shuttle to Concourse C, and walked onto plane to Frankfurt - incredible timing. Thank goodness I don't smoke anymore - no more need to find a few minutes and a place to smoke a cigarette.

Had selected seat 43G on the Frankfurt flight, but was moved to 39C - I think 43 row for attendants.

Attendant gifted me a free bottle of wine because my seat moved. Actually, though, it was great seating - only two of us in row of 5 seats; the other person and I each had an aisle seat. Curiously, though, she was rather put out because she was "promised" to have the entire row so she could completely stretch out. Go figure.

Dinner on plane really forgettable. Nuts delicious.

Enjoyed a coffee with Bailey's.

I had an opportunity to use my flashlight on the flight when the woman at the other end of my row lost her pearl earring - she was able to really give her area a going-over with the flashlight. The woman found it on the route to the bathroom.

Coffee in Frankfurt - 2.70 euros +50-cent tip in U.S.

Flight between Chicago and Frankfurt went by pretty quickly. Was able to sleep for a few hours, so feel fairly sprightly for this final leg to Addis Ababa.

Flight from Frankfurt to Addis Ababa so unremarkable, I wrote down no notes.

And Here I Am, Almost

Unfortunately unable to credit the National Geographic photographer, as I no longer have the original pages from NG, and I didn't think to note the photographer's name.

This is a photo from the Bale Mountains. Loved it from the moment I saw it.

I'll check back in tomorrow with more details.





This post written and scheduled for posting prior to 1/21.

I Want to Go There

About 8 years ago, I was sprawled on the floor at the Jefferson City Salvation Army, going through old National Geographic Magazines for a project I was working on.

I came across this photo:

I bought the magazine and saved the photo. I told myself and others that I'd go there some day.

And I am. 

For today, I'm showing the doctored version of the photo. Soon, I'll show the original.


This post written and scheduled for posting prior to 1/21.

New Category: Too Smart For My Own Good --> File 2

In re: tech gadgets and those that required batteries, I'd made the call to stick with one size - AA.

This was partly predicated on my erroneous belief that two of my devices used AA batteries. I selected my new flashlight based, in part, on the fact it uses AA batteries.

Well, I gave one of those devices away and the other - I just discovered today - uses AAA! I guess I knew that at some point in the past, but it just slithered out of my brain.

Doh!!!

Good news is that I discovered this before my departure, so now I've added some AAAs in with my stuff.

File 1 of this category gets awarded to the password business here.

Must-Have Travel Item #2

Definitely on any packing list of mine:

Photo from Amazon.com

Truth is, I don't care what kind of salt it is. Could be this:

Photo from Amazon.com

'Course, that wouldn't fit into a carry-on bag.

Still Releasing Stuff

I had three beautiful dresses in a box. All were much-appreciated gifts, representative of traditional styles in another country. To do the gift-givers and the dresses honor, I sent them to an organization that is of service to people from that country. Hopefully, three women will enjoy the pleasure of wearing these beautiful things. In turn, I am relieved of their psychic and physical "weight."

Two embroidered shirts, both with sentimental value, but also laden with psychic weight. Sent them on lovingly to an old friend.
   
On my trip, I'm taking a daypack with me that has served me very well for years. It's finally starting to fail zipperwise, so I'll use it, then leave it behind.

My Second Solo Trip

Y2K.

Notwithstanding some experts' view that the new millennium started in 2001, in my view, it began January 1, 2000.

I wanted to celebrate it either on an ocean beach, contemplating the timelessness of waves in and waves out, or a under a canopy of stars out in the desert, contemplating our tiny blipness in the universe. Given the time of year, warmth was also a factor. 

Invited various friends or family members to join me. Although there were a few desultory noises of interest, in the end, it was go solo or not at all.

Went with the desert --> Organ Pipe National Monument, Arizona.

Took a modestly-priced bottle of sparkling wine that the NYT proposed to be a good one, which I intended to open at midnight of the Big Night.


Got a late start, as I had car trouble, and almost cancelled the whole thing. But after working that out, took off. 


Memorable points


The numbing count of roadside crosses memorializing fatal crashes along a long, flat, straight, secondary road between Tucson and Organ Pipe. 

Beautiful artwork of George Littlechild I saw on cards at a roadside artisan store. I bought this card of his, Winner of the Miss Hobbema Indian Princess Pageant.

 













How I had to be really ingenious at setting up my 15-year-old, A-frame tent. It wasn't possible to insert stakes, so I had to find rocks to make it work.

And everywhere in the campground, one saw "no" signs: "Do not do this, do not do that. Don't tie this to that ..."

I like to string a clothesline at my campsites, and it was a real brain-thumper to figure out how I was going to do that with all the "no's." Wait! I can tie the rope between the two cement parking posts! It was kind of low to the ground, but workable.

Along came the campground host. He popped out of his golf cart, and the words of admonishment were erupting from his mouth while his brain went through the lengthy "no" checklist, only to realize that there was not yet a "no" about tying rope to the parking poles.

It was kind of amusing to watch that mental-physical process. Like your brain knowing you're about to slam that car door on your hand, but the momentum of your hand shutting the door is already too great to stop in time. Oww.

It gets goddamned cold in the desert at night! So I went to bed early, to snuggle in warm sleeping bags and blankets and hat, counting on happy shouts and horns when midnight rolled around. I prayed I wouldn't have to get up to go to the bathroom before then. So cold outside.

.... and the next morning it was warm and sunny and I'd slept through Y2K. It was a quiet campground, apparently.

There were no shower facilities at the campground, so on my last day, I drove down to Lukeville, the tiny community on the U.S./Mexican border. I paid for a shower at the little motel and had an enchilada breakfast. Then I walked over the border, bought cigarettes for a really cheap price, and walked back to the U.S.
 
When I'd turned out of the park to go to Lukeville, I noticed a woman hitchhiking outside the park entrance.

When I returned from Lukeville, she was still there. After I broke camp and headed back out, she was still there. So I picked her up.

Don't remember her name, but she was probably in her 50s, from the UK. She'd come to the U.S. some months earlier with the intent to walk the Appalachian Trail. She did that for awhile, then found it wasn't for her, and decided to get a Greyhound pass across the country. She'd been trekking around the country ever since. But now she was headed back home and needed to get to the closest Greyhound station and commence to her take-off point. I think I took her as far as Why, where I'd veer east, and she'd get another ride going west.

On the way down to Organ Pipe, I stayed the night at a hotel in Tucson. In the parking lot was a car with government license plate ... from the CIA. I love the irony.

Oh, The Pre-First Solo Trip

1985. Ecuador.

I studied in Ecuador and Peru the summer of 1985. I made a few forays out on my own. An excerpt from my trip journal on one such journey:

Wednesday, Aug 7

…. Writing in a bus again, this time to go to the ruins near Cuenca called Inga Pirca.

… arrived in Cuenca after 5:00 this morning from Macas. The trip went fast and on the bus we had: a meowing cat in a bag, squeaking guinea pigs in a sak, a squawking chicken riding on top, the ubiquitous lumpy white sacks in the aisle, and we plowed through the night to the strains of Michael Jackson’s Thriller.  …

I’m not sure where or what I’m going to do after going to Inga Pirca. I might spend the night in Cuenca, or I might just hop a bus again to Riobamba. At some point I need to take a shower, though, and wash my hair. I also need desperately to get to a casa de cambio to change some money.

Later – I am in a hotel room in a small town called Canar. It is a hole; but at least it’s a bed that looks fairly clean. The bathroom, if you can call it that, is the pits. I don’t know how I’m going to take a shower and/or wash my hair. Actually, a shower is impossible, as there is no shower.

Inga Pirca. Photo courtesy of Cayambe

Anyway, I went to the town of Tambo, where I was then to catch a camioneta to the ruins. After some waiting around, I finally got up to the ruins by way of a truck with a tall and deep wooden bed. It was like climbing onto a very tall horse to get in. The ride was spectacular – a 9 km bounce up the mountain. I loved it. The ruins were very interesting – an old castle built by the supposed last Incan. Not as extensive (quite small) or as meticulously constructed as Macchu Picchu, but very picturesque. What really attracted me were the people and the scenery. My gosh, the people were so friendly … While waiting in a nearby village, 2 boys raced up the road on their horses, laughing and urging the animals on. It was great. In Tambo, before I left for the ruins, 4 little girls attached themselves to me and we had an exciting little conversation. They were so shy and giggly. One of the questions they asked was whether I had a kitchen.

I think Tambo and the ruins with its bordering village is probably the best place I’ve been in Ecuador. I’m so glad I decided to go!

At about 4:00 or so, the camioneta returned to pick up passengers and I was among a group of schoolchildren who had spent the day there. They shared candy with me, and on the way back, they sang songs on the truck. It was so bitter cold with the wind whipping and the mist covering chill above us – but how exhilarating and enjoyable the ride was!

On the way, we picked up another gringo – a guy from England. It turned out we were in similar circumstances – short on cash – and we hitchhiked to Canar. It was raining a little, and we had walked at least halfway, when a small camioneta picked us up …

The bank in Canar was closed, so the British guy (still don’t know his name) showed me his hotel and offered to lend me the money til we get to Banos. He said there’s definitely a place to change money there. So he’s given me 500 sucres til tomorrow. The hotel room I’m in costs 150 sucres. Cheapest so far – all the way around....

 

A note about Riobamba - my host family "mother" was originally from Riobamba. My host family "father" said that everyone in Ecuador joked about people from Riobamba. I wonder if that's still true.

Really, Really, Really Slow Travel

Photo from Columbia University, Earth Institute

Sadly, John "Jack" Oliver died this morning.   

He proved the theory of continental drift.















Back in the day, it was believed by some (the ISCDS) that the USSR had set continental drift in motion as a ploy to take over the world. More specifically, to get its nuclear missile bases closer to the U.S. I used to belong to the International Stop Continental Drift Society (ISCDS). There was a newsletter and everything, even a bumper sticker: Eschew Continental Drift.

A more current theory, illustrated by The People's Cube:

Although the above theories are seductive, I now believe continental drift is just one facet of slow travel.

My First Solo Trip

1995

All the stars were in alignment: An Important Birthday. Daughter visiting relatives in Ireland. Vacation time from work.

In preparation for my road trip, I had a cassette player installed in my 1980s-something Chevy Cavalier. I was still pre-CD.

Destination -> Black Hills of South Dakota. For the romance, the mystery, the history, the scenery.  As a child of Carlos Castaneda, it was the next best cool place for me to go in lieu of Sonora, Mexico. I could look quickly over my shoulder for a raven anywhere. Was it a raven over one's shoulder, or a little man? I forget.

Anyway, I told no one where I was going. That was part of the trip for me. To actually be on a piece of the earth without anyone knowing I was there. Freedom.  'Course, I started sending post cards and then it was out, but that was fine.

Photo from National Park Service

I played Vivaldi's Four Seasons on my newly-installed cassette player really, really loud while I got lost on a gravel road through the Badlands.

Umm, not this version, though. But I love it.

I got a speeding ticket on my birthday, on Interstate 36, before I even left Missouri. An inauspicious start.

Got a flat tire in Nebraska, in the Sand Hills, which I changed myself. This gave me the chance to enjoy a hotel room the size of a studio apartment (including the amenities) in Broken Bow, Nebraska, for about $35.

Stumbled on the great fur traders' museum in Chadron, Nebraska. One of the best museums I've ever visited.

Saw Carhenge.

Visited Mount Rushmore, about which, upon arrival, I thought, "Oh. Hm. Looks just like the postcards."

Learned that a little Sand Hills scenery is sufficient to get the idea, notwithstanding the inches-long progression of black dots on the AAA map to designate "scenic route." 

The wonder of trains that seem so long as to never end.

Noticed how the light is different in Nebraska. 

Saw that the beauty of the Black Hills didn't have anything on Missouri.

I concluded that solo road trips were fun and I'd do them again, which I did.

I don't remember if I saw any ravens.

A Must-Have Travel Item

Why don't I see this on any round-the-world packing list?

It should be. This is the eyeliner for dummies. It's not a liquid that you have to be steady as a surgeon to apply. Or a pencil that you might stab yourself with, or need to sharpen. Glides on like butter. Stays on.

And in the case of emergencies, you can use it to draw a map, write "m'aidez" on the mirror, and, if properly trained, use it as a lethal weapon.

More Unloading More Stuff

As my departure date looms, I continue to unload more stuff:

• More clothes
• A lighter
• AAA batteries (I'm a AA girl!)
• Framed mirror

There are a few items I'll take on my two-month trip and not bring back. A t-shirt or two. A pair of tennis shoes. Some jewelry, perhaps. 

I've taken two partially-used rolls of duct tape and re-fashioned them into travel-light forms, but I have an unopened roll of duct tape that I am curiously loathe to give away. What was I doing with three rolls of duct tape to begin with?  

I also retain a roll of masking tape. I like masking tape. I'll probably slip that into the drawer of an unsuspecting friend or relative some day. But for now, I may need it.

Speaking of Slow Travel

Carol and I did a road trip February 2010 from Missouri through New Mexico. We wanted sunshine and warmth, not cold and snow, so once we hit Amarillo, TX, we swerved far south of Interstate 40 and stayed there.

Butterfield Trail Rest Area, NM

Our route included Canyon, TX; Carlsbad, NM; Alamogordo, NM; Salt Flats, TX; Silver City, NM; and Truth and Consequences, NM.

One of the slow-travelingest places was the Butterfield Trail Rest Area en route to Silver City. Here's what I wrote about it then:

Stopped at the Butterfield Trail Rest Area on Highway 180, about 1/2 an hour south of Silver City. This rest area is in a desolate place, but you could tell as soon as you drove onto the grounds that someone takes pride - even love - in caring for this rest area. Someone had created a walking path on the area's perimeter, outlined in stones painted white. Along the way chunks of prickly pear (red this time of year) stuck into the ground to start new growth. There were painstakingly-groomed shrubs, and small tableaus of artfully arranged desert specimens, such as ocotillo, prickly pear and agave. Some of the shrubs were shaped into topiary-like forms. Actually, I was so taken with the personal stamp on this rest area that I sought out "the guy" who was present on the site. He was in a truck with another person. His story:

 

Name is Jo Jo. He's worked at this rest area for 9 1/2 years; he requested this stop after serving at a rest area on I-10 for a number of years. And it's taken 9 1/2 years to get the rest area to its current point, and he still has numerous plans for improvement. To make it more beautiful. A Deming, NM, native, he's a self-identified loner who hunts rattlesnakes in the summer (and makes various items for sale from them), hunts in the nearby mountains on weekends, and raises king and bull snakes for sale. He releases one of his bull snakes at the rest area periodically to keep down the rodent population and to squeeze out rattlesnakes. He had quite a few stories to tell us.

 

Cafe at Salt Flats, TX

Here's another slow-travel sorta place. The Salt Flats Cafe, in Salt Flats, TX.  Besides me, Carol, and the cafe owner, there was just the cat climbing on the roof. 

At Riverbend Hot Springs, Truth or Consequences, NM

What could be slower travel than watching the Rio Grande flow by while you're soaking in hot springs?  

Slow Travel

According to Slow Movement, "slow travel" is "the opportunity to become part of local life and to connect to a place and its people. Slow travel is also about connection to culture."

In the April 2010 Wall Street Journal Magazine article, Easy Rider, author Nancy Keates examines the term from several perspectives. "You settle in. You have to go to the grocery store. You get to know the people who run the cafe ... " says one interviewee.

Here is a slow traveler: 

Phil in the ______.  Don't start reading Phil's blog if you have an appointment to keep. You're sure to miss it, as you'll be completely sucked into such stories as:

• Handling the Urine of Women, aka Flying Urine
• A Day of Marriage - including a great song + videos + photos
• Explosive Diarrhea ... aka Pooping Out Your Cranial Fluid
• 3 Fun Ways to Deal with Hasslers, Hawkers, and Touts

Before I leave Phil, below is a music video from Phil's "Sonic Tour of Mali;" they're also on Youtube:

The New Hobos

Or, one sub-species of same.

Nora Dunn, The Professional Hobo

Meet The Professional Hobo: Adventures of a Girl With No Fixed Address. She is also a financial planner. Currently telling the story of her trans-Australia train trip.

Derek Earl Baron, Wandering Earl

Wandering Earl has a refreshing view of things. In a post called Has Travel Make Me Dumber, he writes:

Another truth about long-term travel is that the life-changing intensity of new experiences can easily wear off ... Sure, the first time you see an Indian holy man walk up to a urinating cow, cup his hands together, place his hands directly into the stream of urine and then drink it, your brain is forced to re-evaluate everything that it once thought normal and acceptable in life.

But the second time you see it, you just shrug your shoulders and finish your chai.

 I like his take on being an explorer. An excerpt:

During my six week visit to Pakistan in 2004, I found myself being ‘attacked’ by throngs of people everywhere I went. Yet these people did not wish to cause me any bodily harm. They simply wanted to shake my hand and tell me, and in some cases beg me, to inform all of my family and friends around the world that the Pakistani people are not terrorists, that they want peace and happiness just like everyone else. In every region of that country I came across the exact same situations.

On Minimalism

I touched on the topic of minimalism in an earlier post called Voluntary Simplicity. 

A guy named Jeroon defines minimalism (from the perspective of art, architecture, industrial design) thus:

Minimalism is the removal of all non-relevant elements in order to reveal the essence.

He pared this down from a larger conversation on the subject here.

Cafe, Tlaxcala, Mexico

Serena, The Everyday Minimalist, explains what being a minimalist means to her here:

A Minimalist’s Train of Thought

Less money spent means more money saved

More money saved means the longer you can live in financial peace and security

Financial peace and security comes from owning less

Less stuff owned means less to carry around, move or have to travel with

Less responsibility for your stuff also means less maintenance and more time

The more time you have, the more relaxed you will feel

The more relaxed you are, the less you will care about stuff

If you care less about stuff, it means you’ll care less about image

If you care less about image, you will care more about experiences and memories

If you care more about experiences and memories, you will be happier with less

If you are happier with less, you’ll never want or need for more

The less you want or need for more, the more you will feel free

- The Everyday Minimalist

Her story reminds me of a conversation I just had last week with someone whose niece travels so much on business, she has no need for an apartment. Therefore no need for utility bills. I'm not sure if she even owns her own vehicle. Most meals are reimbursed by her employer. Furthermore, the company flies her back home (to her extended family's base) every month. I think she's an accountant. Will she do that forever? Not likely, but for now, it's fun and probably enables her to save buckets of money for the future.

My Exclusive Vacation Homes on the Missouri Riviera

I have three.

At each, I enjoy expansive garden-level suites with full kitchen and public-room accommodations up on the terrace levels.

At Catrisse Bluff, I enjoy a serene, monastic bedroom in soothing southwestern colors, with a full, private bath across the hall and an adjoining living room that has a wonderful stone fireplace. Upstairs, through a wall of windows, I can look from "my" bluff, across the vast, picturesque Missouri River flood plain, to the distant bluffs on the other side.

At Pamela House, I sleep in an ornate, antique bed in a bedroom with an en suite bath. There is a cozy sitting area next to a large picture window that looks out on pretty foundation plantings. Upstairs, as I sip fresh  coffee, I step through the french doors onto the immense screened-in deck with fireplace. It opens into a friendly yard and garden.







At Chez Katherine, I am in a Parisian apartment, sleeping in a bed so high I need a stool to get in, with a dainty crystal chandelier in front of the garret-like window, and a huge map of Paris on the wall. Yes, I do need to traipse down a tiny corridor and across a roomy family room to get to my private bath, but, well, it is a vacation home, n'est ce pas? One makes do. Upstairs, I enjoy coffee in one of several sink-into-comfort upholstered chairs or couch, or I may walk out to the huge screened-in deck that overlooks a secluded wooded yard; the enclosed deck is reminiscent of a mountain lodge. And did I mention the outdoor shower? The hammock? The swinging, turquoise bench under the arbor?

And, of course, my current, main pied a terre is at Carol Cottage, a sunny yellow place highlighted with Dutch blues and whites, and black and white prints, which sits prettily on a small-town lane.

Carol Cottage

Being rootless does have its perks when one has friends and family who "keep the light on" for you.

Computer Guest Accounts

I like that I password-protected entrance to my laptop. I like that I don't have any site for which I'm automatically logged in.

However, until recently, I'd inexplicably overlooked the fact that if I lend computer access to a friend or relative, they have complete access to all of my files.  Gee, that's kind of a gaping hole.

I trust my friends and family completely. That's not the issue. It's that my files are private. No explanation or excuse needed for me to want to keep them that way.

Another reason to have a guest account is to keep guests from adjusting your settings and making other changes that will surprise or irk you when you get back on. It's like lending someone your car and when you next drive it, you find that the mirrors, seats, steering wheel, and radio stations have been adjusted.

So I felt a little stupid when a cousin was telling me about applications that help people catch those who steal their laptops. For some of these apps to work, you have to set up a guest account (if you have a password-protected account). 

Doh. Even if I don't invest in an application to catch a thief, it is still a no-brainer to create a guest account on my laptop. Which I've now done.

But here's some info on laptop retrieval applications. I already mentioned whereisjenny.com's excellent article on security back here. She mentions these four applications: 

• Undercover (Mac)
• Gadget Trak (Windows and Mac)
• Laptop Cop (Windows)
• LoJack (Windows and Mac)

Email Accounts Maintenance

Too many email accounts?


I dumped one email account today. Which brings me down to eleven. How'd I get so many email accounts? I've got:

1. The one with my real name that I use professionally;
2. The one I use for newspaper and other media registration so I can submit online commentary;
3. The one I use for a flickr account;
4. The two "stupid" accounts I set up with two different providers for when I am on the road;
5. The one I set up to join a listserv and maintain anonymity;
6. The one I had to set up with a particular provider so I could join a group related to the listserv;
7. The one I set up to replace the one google shut down, only to regain the earlier one just a few days after I created the replacement account;
8. The one I use with facebook
9. The one I use for administrative stuff; and
10. The one I set up for a genealogical archive, which I'll hand off one day.

It's absurd. Can I be rootless with so many email accounts? Does having 11 email accounts fall into the too-much-stuff category? I don't know  Probably yes Yes, but I'm not ready today to delete any more than the one I released today. Perhaps tomorrow.

Here's what some others have to say on the topic:

• From techspot.com, WOF: How Many Email Accounts Do You Use? I especially like the commenter with 79 accounts. 
•  A Mozillazine forum discussion here

You can also get a 10-minute email account. Genius.

Account maintenance today

I made sure every account had a designated password-recovery account the provider can send a password reset email to.

I reviewed all of the passwords to make sure they were strong, but still simple for me to remember. I changed many of them.

Or you can go here to find out how long it would take for a "brute assault," using computers, to crack your password. It's suggested you not enter the exact password you use or intend to use. The site's owner, Eric Wolfram, writes this interesting article about good passwords.[2020 update: Go here for what I believe is the current best practice for most of us - passphrases instead of passwords.]

From howsecureismypassword.net

Rootless: "The American Wanderer ..."

Michael Powell, in his 2008 article in The New York Times, The American Wanderer, in All His Stripes, thinks out loud about the American tradition of rootlessness, using rich descriptors like:

Wanderers.  Migratory.   Steinbeck.   Wanderlust.   Roamers.   Immigrants.   Romance.   Drifters.   Gatsby.   "Bound N'oth Blues."   Shallow-rooted trees.   Footloose.   Unanchored.