tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32540629811297630772024-03-13T02:08:07.153+01:00Floundering NeatlyShe writes. He shoots. We travel.Flounderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17150062964800105436noreply@blogger.comBlogger33125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3254062981129763077.post-89118205006696734732018-07-08T23:33:00.000+02:002018-07-08T23:33:31.646+02:00Iceland, now including 24 hour daylight and snow in June<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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We expected Iceland’s summer to be colder than our Dubai
winter, we did not expect it to be as cold as a proper winter elsewhere. We
packed warmer than we thought we needed but was really glad the residency had
warm clothes that were left by previous residents. On our third day, the high
was 3C (37F), with gale force winds, rain, and SNOW. It snowed in the middle of
June at sea level. We were not prepared for this. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our signature pose, in front of icebergs<br /> (note how warmly we are dressed, this was usual)</td></tr>
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We were expecting 24 hours of sunshine, which we got, but
didn’t know how it would affect us. We basically slept whenever, woke whenever,
ate whenever, worked whenever, no real regard to the time on the clock. It was
interesting. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So many rainbows as well</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We had a friend from Dubai visit and we took a photo with her and my pet drone</td></tr>
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I was there to do an artist residency. There were several
other artists in residence as well but most of the spaces were filled with an
American film crew shooting a feature set in our little town, Olafsfjordur. I
helped on the first whole read through as well as was an extra in a pub scene (hard
to get into character for that one, ha).<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Collecting kelp for experimental art</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Part of my performance "Trying to find the best water to wash my hands of this"<br />also right before I dropped my phone in the ocean.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Making chlorophyll prints</td></tr>
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<br />Aside from the residency, I knew I wanted to see glaciers,
whales, puffins, and sit in lots of geothermal water. I did all the above
including seeing a whale breaching from a geothermal hot tub on a fjord! I also
swam in the Arctic Ocean (right before a hot tub) and crossed the Arctic Circle
for the first time. </div>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSzZJ9cOaQXv6ui0G5i-KUPL4tO5rvgZ9txyNiPYHFzTRfU-5jxknBhPNKZ0PQ978ST5454tG1HrwVOXjIl66C4b8zJylstTACdCS4zSJkRQYS02uiqp4NwQNfo2ta3dJ3P8bJniqmy2QX/s1600/2018-06-25+16.17.07.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSzZJ9cOaQXv6ui0G5i-KUPL4tO5rvgZ9txyNiPYHFzTRfU-5jxknBhPNKZ0PQ978ST5454tG1HrwVOXjIl66C4b8zJylstTACdCS4zSJkRQYS02uiqp4NwQNfo2ta3dJ3P8bJniqmy2QX/s320/2018-06-25+16.17.07.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">swimming in some geothermal lagoons</td></tr>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA4Pw0flsk68lZ1VOiRm7vf7bU4i1zgSImNoqdSyLEllivmBli6s7JYK8w7rXP-j5gQ1gv3TrfacD3weD5b43Pi1elLbS-RXvavTHqKJmozqdmTvoRTOdivvOM1kUS_Ngz2CN1hP8bMbyT/s1600/vlcsnap-2018-07-08-23h26m55s679.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA4Pw0flsk68lZ1VOiRm7vf7bU4i1zgSImNoqdSyLEllivmBli6s7JYK8w7rXP-j5gQ1gv3TrfacD3weD5b43Pi1elLbS-RXvavTHqKJmozqdmTvoRTOdivvOM1kUS_Ngz2CN1hP8bMbyT/s320/vlcsnap-2018-07-08-23h26m55s679.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">running into the Arctic Ocean for the first and only time<br /></td></tr>
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Getting to the Circle (and first puffin encounter) required
a 6 hour round trip ferry ride; the ride back was super rough and basically
everyone on board was throwing up (still worth it!).<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh50zAocy3exFcSo5WGSDT2c1MB1ii8ui4DCFWs0u_ziMeP61cL3QE5up_ZQPVOyhFWLib5DM8U3rNlrLfVojBrWzyhXQLP4EjoGjin0RPKEU-lwKjd_rcdvL-Xieq_pjdRiwEsoRkF-RHd/s1600/iceland3+SON00801.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1362" data-original-width="1600" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh50zAocy3exFcSo5WGSDT2c1MB1ii8ui4DCFWs0u_ziMeP61cL3QE5up_ZQPVOyhFWLib5DM8U3rNlrLfVojBrWzyhXQLP4EjoGjin0RPKEU-lwKjd_rcdvL-Xieq_pjdRiwEsoRkF-RHd/s320/iceland3+SON00801.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKUv6aLQ0fof2pYnavO4FEuMdIWCmw07tE34uFUJKIXh_JBaXJnAs6zMvqsW28TSK9qx7h1rvZs7tMU3iTwV50uDCRMmAXCspURKoJlekgvRl9_rop3hdFSsDfwdVaGoTiDIgRZP6pD4yk/s1600/iceland3+SON00566.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKUv6aLQ0fof2pYnavO4FEuMdIWCmw07tE34uFUJKIXh_JBaXJnAs6zMvqsW28TSK9qx7h1rvZs7tMU3iTwV50uDCRMmAXCspURKoJlekgvRl9_rop3hdFSsDfwdVaGoTiDIgRZP6pD4yk/s320/iceland3+SON00566.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikoHLdA2DplDKl-YfFA1VAzlR2cGD9Q85oWDpNShE8t62mhYx2kk2IpfbzM8QVlwYpCJAFdXgMRF0ItmzGYbcNiW9oPZ1RI4DZ6PSMMRpb2m6bK2qc3-tyO245BE1-5i2fdvh7fYSnqMcx/s1600/isl2+c0012t01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1144" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikoHLdA2DplDKl-YfFA1VAzlR2cGD9Q85oWDpNShE8t62mhYx2kk2IpfbzM8QVlwYpCJAFdXgMRF0ItmzGYbcNiW9oPZ1RI4DZ6PSMMRpb2m6bK2qc3-tyO245BE1-5i2fdvh7fYSnqMcx/s320/isl2+c0012t01.jpg" width="228" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgplHYsmaSy1snpnwSM8NAaKttkbim3b_V-_Dau9g1XEXkdrDplGrcyBz1KOZB4Q_8wIPWfH8VOe9a2z8N_Hx3OcgMRTpE_eV09nFxAGM8MbyjRvoW05wbg5VTdRk9ZslSLI6n22OaCngCo/s1600/puffin-landing.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1001" data-original-width="1500" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgplHYsmaSy1snpnwSM8NAaKttkbim3b_V-_Dau9g1XEXkdrDplGrcyBz1KOZB4Q_8wIPWfH8VOe9a2z8N_Hx3OcgMRTpE_eV09nFxAGM8MbyjRvoW05wbg5VTdRk9ZslSLI6n22OaCngCo/s320/puffin-landing.gif" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is not in reverse, this is how this puffin landed, the winds just pushed it into place backwards.<br />You can see another puffin take off at the end</td></tr>
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We knew Iceland was going to be expensive, but we really
weren’t prepared for just how expensive. Our 2<sup>nd</sup> day quickly taught
us that when a burger and fries in a fast food place in a gas station was more
than 20 USD! Luckily, we had a kitchen for most of the time, so we cooked a lot.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVFWP5g8PD1tjcSZzMN8cnLGqeUtvXRK1gc9SwzK6oMsZJSY2r6fE_8vWdQ2prt4gPj01er86OGn597LqUWoM7asZxjnAt6tRnfNdhg-6b4IV2fA-lBzgvNPYTkyaQW6Ts4aB9hHPO1RXe/s1600/isl2+son00084.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVFWP5g8PD1tjcSZzMN8cnLGqeUtvXRK1gc9SwzK6oMsZJSY2r6fE_8vWdQ2prt4gPj01er86OGn597LqUWoM7asZxjnAt6tRnfNdhg-6b4IV2fA-lBzgvNPYTkyaQW6Ts4aB9hHPO1RXe/s320/isl2+son00084.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arctic Circle monument. It moves 15 meters north every year.<br />I hope they push this into the sea in a couple of decades when it moves off of the land.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuSWb0tdsXpCYa6k_f9UcfM8r1QmhPN06aA6SL8-70sTEBqCySMkFks6endu2MtslySOKAn7WkfN6cXrDESX_vb6sKDUj0_XDK8yk5Ii7SzuvuPBCyOEezJi4hFLKsxZSImDFlzOeaNzV_/s1600/isl2+son09829.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuSWb0tdsXpCYa6k_f9UcfM8r1QmhPN06aA6SL8-70sTEBqCySMkFks6endu2MtslySOKAn7WkfN6cXrDESX_vb6sKDUj0_XDK8yk5Ii7SzuvuPBCyOEezJi4hFLKsxZSImDFlzOeaNzV_/s320/isl2+son09829.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">deceptively calm water on the way to the Arctic Circle</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9pF6wfgsCA1yeUff_RCHk2ygtUyDiFaiv-2gY8X-q9cmahe7mPoHehxE0Dtf90yHCfxS1KDoDGsJZHYccQfI4qyL3AVZiqVkjkU7yiA28kU56WEA709OtrPoEM4NhCSCy0MpnN4j1UD41/s1600/isl2+son00194.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9pF6wfgsCA1yeUff_RCHk2ygtUyDiFaiv-2gY8X-q9cmahe7mPoHehxE0Dtf90yHCfxS1KDoDGsJZHYccQfI4qyL3AVZiqVkjkU7yiA28kU56WEA709OtrPoEM4NhCSCy0MpnN4j1UD41/s320/isl2+son00194.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Birds cover the runway so much that the planes sometimes make a pass over to run them off before landing.</td></tr>
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We hiked around a bay filled with icebergs, hiked up to the
very edge (and barely onto) a glacier, saw so many waterfalls we stopped even
pulling over for ones that in most places would have been a major attraction.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeQc_WlPX7lLNHnZoIadaohyphenhyphen42SaTbGZJDjYcGVBgrzk7GALifEqsaMorwgijcYn9FOKTKFKBNWltM9jYdGUeppE3ahWbyCD6nYghPgHuLaaDZWLCup6xh-R9y7dA8aNq8RF_lr4bBDB_b/s1600/iceland3+SON01311.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeQc_WlPX7lLNHnZoIadaohyphenhyphen42SaTbGZJDjYcGVBgrzk7GALifEqsaMorwgijcYn9FOKTKFKBNWltM9jYdGUeppE3ahWbyCD6nYghPgHuLaaDZWLCup6xh-R9y7dA8aNq8RF_lr4bBDB_b/s320/iceland3+SON01311.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the glacier is "thisssss big"</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the first really impressive waterfalls</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">icebergs, it was hard to limit the number of iceberg photos to post</td></tr>
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Flounderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17150062964800105436noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3254062981129763077.post-52905310380204206162017-07-03T14:05:00.001+02:002017-07-03T15:43:39.018+02:00MotoLao (Flounder's stat version)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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We decided to rent a motorbike to ride around Northern Laos.
Sarah had been around the region on a motorbike that she bought a few years
ago, but I’d never been to Laos. We had to choose between a 150cc road bike
(with somewhat knobby tires) or a 250cc dual purpose (but much more expensive).
On the map, the roads looked paved so we went for the cheaper one. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNf5t-iUPvDkvkCOkN4PooCTvDj7rfR_Z-y2G07MPFqbCioaRL-WHnm2GxKl1ac86-TzDkw-mq7TE1HarlDJKPvj2FIlfhbba9NP8Yq2DuSfNOYzOESLYW0EBv4MY_fXVeL2r0YtaAv-a4/s1600/edit+lao+dsc01263.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNf5t-iUPvDkvkCOkN4PooCTvDj7rfR_Z-y2G07MPFqbCioaRL-WHnm2GxKl1ac86-TzDkw-mq7TE1HarlDJKPvj2FIlfhbba9NP8Yq2DuSfNOYzOESLYW0EBv4MY_fXVeL2r0YtaAv-a4/s320/edit+lao+dsc01263.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm glad Sarah made me turn around to get a photo in this spot</td></tr>
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We left a bag at the guest house and loaded up. I had to buy
more bungee cords to feel the luggage was more secure (I’ve had several break
while riding). The trip out of town was fine, the first roads were well
maintained and fairly straight. We stopped for lunch where Sarah ordered me
soup (like Laotian pho), by just saying one food (no menu here!) <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnDS2whUmn9Sl8YumIjK_LkVgR5uxG3Rd79yZAvackc9yYGeEw6yMS9UdgvEFwPH_xBbdeGFln_3MZ-ab7AyXixwpe_feckgWMsE-QG-1vzoV3jf1mu8fBr98In7StIlqh8GIHxlSeUhed/s1600/lao+dsc00602.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnDS2whUmn9Sl8YumIjK_LkVgR5uxG3Rd79yZAvackc9yYGeEw6yMS9UdgvEFwPH_xBbdeGFln_3MZ-ab7AyXixwpe_feckgWMsE-QG-1vzoV3jf1mu8fBr98In7StIlqh8GIHxlSeUhed/s320/lao+dsc00602.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Good soup</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPNZw4Q-MoQs0GPCzSzLJZajqKPlELqj5E2Tc25QlolDyKmtjR2L1pR_H3-kQXs58fot0p0c8FfKSDcYk-TuuV_7bdXLufoJ5x4i_4pkk7sILzVYC1I9b92xSNezCq9ueE12XsRzS1hZKo/s1600/edit+lao+dsc00638.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPNZw4Q-MoQs0GPCzSzLJZajqKPlELqj5E2Tc25QlolDyKmtjR2L1pR_H3-kQXs58fot0p0c8FfKSDcYk-TuuV_7bdXLufoJ5x4i_4pkk7sILzVYC1I9b92xSNezCq9ueE12XsRzS1hZKo/s320/edit+lao+dsc00638.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nong Khaiw, which is hard to capture</td></tr>
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Two-thirds of the way to our first destination, Nong Khaiw,
the roads got a bit worse—smaller, with potholes, and lots of curves. This was
the still better than the roads for most of the next few days. There were so many ups and downs (285m to
1600m) and hairpin turns. Overall, we travelled over 800 kilometers, our best
average speed over a longer stretch was probably like 50kph (30mph). Sometimes
we were averaging more like 20-25kph. I had to yell “BUMP!” often so Sarah
could prepare for a giant pothole. Our last day on the best roads, we went
260ish KM to make it back to Luang Prabang. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNGknWfQNX4voxiyXFc99CrmlN6anhW0PSV7tifiBrs1yuJeNYlULGO8rNpbXcqpPFOMbldGiLKVb35XkrR0L85D9uhGjnNUN_PgLja6UIk4u6-lpIMEajd4BxZlfgAk2eRX2dRILEHjmS/s1600/lao+moto+005242.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNGknWfQNX4voxiyXFc99CrmlN6anhW0PSV7tifiBrs1yuJeNYlULGO8rNpbXcqpPFOMbldGiLKVb35XkrR0L85D9uhGjnNUN_PgLja6UIk4u6-lpIMEajd4BxZlfgAk2eRX2dRILEHjmS/s320/lao+moto+005242.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The roads were too curvy for bikes, much less tanker trucks!</td></tr>
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The first day's bike ride.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kids at one of our stops</td></tr>
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Along the way we saw so many rivers, every river was
surrounded by a village. It is also how people commute, bathe, and wash
clothes. So many mountain tops, many of them also had villages. It seemed like
every sort of animal we saw had babies: pigs, ducks, cows, chickens, water
buffalo, dogs…humans <span style="font-family: "segoe ui emoji" , sans-serif; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol-ext; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: "Segoe UI Emoji";">😊</span> Kids waving and yelling hello (or bye) is a
common occurrence. Lots of adults did as well, which makes me feel more welcome
than the kids because kids do it everywhere.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivVyFkD7vmdyV9PgkonFU1xaaIqyzazYtle4-olKBIJHj4nTkO6rzoTFCcvaq-heAk47Gw2v6Rd5XXfwKHUMTu6oHjV9m6GtzN5lqO2XhPDeLlC5Vun6Qqk7XOMHaEVlpWZsUDGPQnFN_K/s1600/lao+moto+006613.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1180" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivVyFkD7vmdyV9PgkonFU1xaaIqyzazYtle4-olKBIJHj4nTkO6rzoTFCcvaq-heAk47Gw2v6Rd5XXfwKHUMTu6oHjV9m6GtzN5lqO2XhPDeLlC5Vun6Qqk7XOMHaEVlpWZsUDGPQnFN_K/s320/lao+moto+006613.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">some of the many animals we encountered</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rice fields and villagers working them</td></tr>
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There was a lot of slash and burn agriculture—corn, bananas,
rice. The valley bottom rice paddies seem more sustainable to me, but people
are trying to make a living. You can feel the presence of NGOs in many towns,
they are newer houses (although the mix of houses probably has as much to do
with ethnicity as money), schools, water sources besides the river. <o:p></o:p></div>
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One of our more memorable stops was on the Plain of Jars.
Thousands upon thousands of Neolithic stone pots over many sites. No one is
totally sure of the origins, but they are probably more than 2000 years old. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGqD3YepA5TuZKHcZ44WMiiuhAJauNi4V1WB5zFrsaeOmiZeBM1Y93Xrj0y7oAArpi7pr2jzEKK61murheEhEcATLVkHigTJuvAGstfRExa-lulFjPz8WU5GTELRrh3TyRwHr27YYks4SZ/s1600/edit+lao+dsc01148.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="994" data-original-width="1600" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGqD3YepA5TuZKHcZ44WMiiuhAJauNi4V1WB5zFrsaeOmiZeBM1Y93Xrj0y7oAArpi7pr2jzEKK61murheEhEcATLVkHigTJuvAGstfRExa-lulFjPz8WU5GTELRrh3TyRwHr27YYks4SZ/s400/edit+lao+dsc01148.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the biggest jar</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMxuYr8aLdTsaB23fTc_hKyo5HwT1KjdOivwg93MUaBId1UU3j8qofTq34shbiGpz5uGl9gYxiNgHRw5tRGVdc-J7dsQ3yStFC0I84leegjrn-8XeCitWuEwMtZBmiP4Vks8aN1GGTHbIl/s1600/edit+lao+dsc01181.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMxuYr8aLdTsaB23fTc_hKyo5HwT1KjdOivwg93MUaBId1UU3j8qofTq34shbiGpz5uGl9gYxiNgHRw5tRGVdc-J7dsQ3yStFC0I84leegjrn-8XeCitWuEwMtZBmiP4Vks8aN1GGTHbIl/s400/edit+lao+dsc01181.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">plain of jars</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0GWpZDlnaPKscy8zxFLLFB_snNYs2C5N8NcNQW9yqV1KSH0LXcjWejwi3cCpwVJyLmfqcgbO_qzO10H-BDvy5a5h3ZHv3b63DS7ZZ5xMaJKicCg7aEAj91emM6yKkKv8gRZmOggcT5Aum/s1600/edit+lao+dsc01179.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1582" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0GWpZDlnaPKscy8zxFLLFB_snNYs2C5N8NcNQW9yqV1KSH0LXcjWejwi3cCpwVJyLmfqcgbO_qzO10H-BDvy5a5h3ZHv3b63DS7ZZ5xMaJKicCg7aEAj91emM6yKkKv8gRZmOggcT5Aum/s320/edit+lao+dsc01179.jpg" width="316" /></a>The sad thing is that this area was the most bombed area in
the most heavily bombed country (per capita). The US had 9 years of bombing
runs, nearly 580,000 missions, every 8 minutes, 24 hours a day. This had to be
terrifying and many fled the country or lived in caves. Almost one ton of bombs
were dropped for every person in Laos at the time. Many of these bombs were
cluster bombs that broke up into hundreds of bombies that are still found all
over the country. Many people are injured and killed every day by these,
including children who mistake the small bombs for toys. Farming and
construction are especially dangerous enterprises. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Luckily, organizations like <a href="http://www.maginternational.org/where-mag-works/where-we-work/mag-in-laos/?keywords=laos" target="_blank">MAG (link)</a> have been working on
uxo (unexploded ordinance) removal for decades, clearing many areas. Please
consider a donation to them if you can.<o:p></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghpeEoiru6oDbg3dVqyqrLer68QeXwpg4d0ablPTJww56H7OeV23tZlcNEu69wNAEpqGsYOyDp7vBG_8pOllNI2bTt-UTayt4fverAJTCYdubdO9R9tKYBJS_89Cp0n2e55qhsD4WxozA6/s1600/lao+dsc01191.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghpeEoiru6oDbg3dVqyqrLer68QeXwpg4d0ablPTJww56H7OeV23tZlcNEu69wNAEpqGsYOyDp7vBG_8pOllNI2bTt-UTayt4fverAJTCYdubdO9R9tKYBJS_89Cp0n2e55qhsD4WxozA6/s320/lao+dsc01191.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">bombs and bomblets</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgx9J1FXfrUh-2gz4I7jerDAZYPu2eKW4nZhFwHF_We8mwSrmAunzzqDxCWDg3QaVz-36hs5VttV8a2nI4Qpp3PV7ByjkTQUKamoNJPrB3bo5LDGMqwmMSe4F9GZ6E6OZRL2KkqX55VmtE/s1600/Screenshot_20170627-204729.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgx9J1FXfrUh-2gz4I7jerDAZYPu2eKW4nZhFwHF_We8mwSrmAunzzqDxCWDg3QaVz-36hs5VttV8a2nI4Qpp3PV7ByjkTQUKamoNJPrB3bo5LDGMqwmMSe4F9GZ6E6OZRL2KkqX55VmtE/s320/Screenshot_20170627-204729.png" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The trip, minus side roads we also took </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0cnNHmdsuFplGS4JJQH1MJ0WtVeyFW7MsaaBRgh8BK7L9fGHFl6bD8RQmR5JsA48mNh5juF7zWjDOiO_FHw0FMSquNEhJUDfND2svDZ13p3AE6hwTk2EDBO3rgUg3_PpiRpufYkZ2rRVj/s1600/20170624_181307.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0cnNHmdsuFplGS4JJQH1MJ0WtVeyFW7MsaaBRgh8BK7L9fGHFl6bD8RQmR5JsA48mNh5juF7zWjDOiO_FHw0FMSquNEhJUDfND2svDZ13p3AE6hwTk2EDBO3rgUg3_PpiRpufYkZ2rRVj/s320/20170624_181307.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sarah's selfie with the bike</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVsQWMXiY5m8aQ28qItzenGRdw1HG3ajkU-vI2o8sU9y936vzZRrEjFFoV2xuClTGb4ZlI8-QOihyphenhyphenHhKczbMRBQOffVNyPxAoHG7XF-0sq4s2ASpDg98-cqI5C6my9-XK_zp3t804SDUp_/s1600/edit+lao+dsc01228.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVsQWMXiY5m8aQ28qItzenGRdw1HG3ajkU-vI2o8sU9y936vzZRrEjFFoV2xuClTGb4ZlI8-QOihyphenhyphenHhKczbMRBQOffVNyPxAoHG7XF-0sq4s2ASpDg98-cqI5C6my9-XK_zp3t804SDUp_/s320/edit+lao+dsc01228.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the roads will be straighter when this tunnel is complete (I assume it is a road tunnel)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQv_ozNQM0p2YulrSlSbnLHc3Vfd8JbbKXBL-grQiTSdRrnK6X6a3UZHlB_Jd3ohl8rxIfQmeFaDtJFIWePHTDT3OBgDZp1bnN9h_dQTkd0McA4b7nHaCatxtKy3mTbhTknN76JCM9brN4/s1600/edit+lao+dsc00980.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQv_ozNQM0p2YulrSlSbnLHc3Vfd8JbbKXBL-grQiTSdRrnK6X6a3UZHlB_Jd3ohl8rxIfQmeFaDtJFIWePHTDT3OBgDZp1bnN9h_dQTkd0McA4b7nHaCatxtKy3mTbhTknN76JCM9brN4/s640/edit+lao+dsc00980.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rain in the distance</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG-NFX2PVn00z-cHnDIXtmyebmsFwzUqCwEjuv3OKLhyphenhyphennrFKJrpNbh1U7OAh87OtceaPadG8XKc9_LyFR4ztk5DOE8xdJy6l7kpiYCxJJYvO-haEMZw6vlWgcrL14INNSMy_5O4LLhfWDH/s1600/DSC00913.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1070" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG-NFX2PVn00z-cHnDIXtmyebmsFwzUqCwEjuv3OKLhyphenhyphennrFKJrpNbh1U7OAh87OtceaPadG8XKc9_LyFR4ztk5DOE8xdJy6l7kpiYCxJJYvO-haEMZw6vlWgcrL14INNSMy_5O4LLhfWDH/s400/DSC00913.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Slash and burned landscape with bonus ant on the lens</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS-mGy2jZ6rkBtwcvvpx74gYkytrHoleOX2K5UAIazfy4Dsr4kVeI11ZJAZQu08lOv4fsvshZegaq7k8IKk5Mf8okZN7F2UumlWm6Ed-CWHnNvbrl7txXCPpBv2EAoAAcTYMynANxFCvuy/s1600/edit+lao+dsc00893.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="692" data-original-width="1600" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS-mGy2jZ6rkBtwcvvpx74gYkytrHoleOX2K5UAIazfy4Dsr4kVeI11ZJAZQu08lOv4fsvshZegaq7k8IKk5Mf8okZN7F2UumlWm6Ed-CWHnNvbrl7txXCPpBv2EAoAAcTYMynANxFCvuy/s640/edit+lao+dsc00893.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset over the rice paddies from one of our hotels</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Flounderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17150062964800105436noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3254062981129763077.post-35046765920084943272017-06-09T17:18:00.000+02:002017-06-09T17:22:43.166+02:00Should we get off the bike? The struggle to appreciate overwhelming beauty in Bagan.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
By Sarah<br />
<br />
My mission in Bagan was simple: find a good sunset spot. In an
area with nearly 3,000 temples, surely I could find one that was high enough to
see over the tree line, neighbored by interesting and varied temples, and
remote enough that we wouldn’t have to fight to find a perch from which to
watch the sun sink and the rusty orange of the surrounding structures glow.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqjKvuxJD8Kezj1CEvqp2mFRbrM4RknA1bQ0HKN8MnfRVGSoQxUk1MlCzxCfvrGNyzPMsnF1TzKd0LPTdClDBOazi93rw799jglCe0g6foEPUHql5eUaFRVPleIMVVM1Do-xnq9Nx3tmM4/s1600/edit+2+manbagdsc00067.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqjKvuxJD8Kezj1CEvqp2mFRbrM4RknA1bQ0HKN8MnfRVGSoQxUk1MlCzxCfvrGNyzPMsnF1TzKd0LPTdClDBOazi93rw799jglCe0g6foEPUHql5eUaFRVPleIMVVM1Do-xnq9Nx3tmM4/s640/edit+2+manbagdsc00067.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Through force of habit, I did a quick google search. The same
three temples were recommended over and over. Even some new friends we met by
the pool of our hotel told us they found a great sunset spot, then proceeded to
recommend the one listed prominently in Lonely Planet.<br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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But I wanted a 360 view from a quiet temple. I imagine
sitting on top, just Flounder and I, meditating in peace as the light faded and
the air lost its sticky heat.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPF_Y5r4VVnOx9X2tXHLmy5m_AHMR6-zS-BKjoEx2L_kMfXTT0FswG7gDTq1n_N1r7gehUM_AAfxPsi1Q9jusR7ua18lGg1VH8PWii69zAvKNZb2Hdv3Pf9rfE2d8r956N21LitDIHBbC8/s1600/edit+2+manbagdsc00119.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPF_Y5r4VVnOx9X2tXHLmy5m_AHMR6-zS-BKjoEx2L_kMfXTT0FswG7gDTq1n_N1r7gehUM_AAfxPsi1Q9jusR7ua18lGg1VH8PWii69zAvKNZb2Hdv3Pf9rfE2d8r956N21LitDIHBbC8/s640/edit+2+manbagdsc00119.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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So we set out from our hotel at a reasonable time in the
morning, for we are not sunrise people. “The only time I want to see the
sunrise is if I’ve been up all night,” Flounder says. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Within a minute, we began to see temples of burnt orange on
both sides of the road. Some were rounded at the base and pointy at the top
like stupas (or, for Fairfielders, like the kalashes atop the domes), others
were rectangular, or pentagonal. Some were carved and embellished, others were
plain. Some were overgrown, with tree trunks and vines, and some were pristine.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMvLzbwtNijvw44pHGgVZmpgId6UJs9ChDGr6FFPU2iIbWym6_TTzMP6ScZtOEsud6BLp5hdzRtFT5LjdUwfkhQDkNHWRh1eX7xPZ8lqvbH7doidbNGA7s1_1zDMiZC0PXXB6-cdKM6XE0/s1600/edit+2+manbagdsc00117.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMvLzbwtNijvw44pHGgVZmpgId6UJs9ChDGr6FFPU2iIbWym6_TTzMP6ScZtOEsud6BLp5hdzRtFT5LjdUwfkhQDkNHWRh1eX7xPZ8lqvbH7doidbNGA7s1_1zDMiZC0PXXB6-cdKM6XE0/s640/edit+2+manbagdsc00117.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBO5r7V0SAbCskzqZZZHu8KckHoB_WVldoaOperWj3uT5Oi6MfwJmpdokjaCXDAMjvWTUuzhPrOcckfuClTm7RQBmClK9z0mZnUB8ShR7kOU403ajM5UeoT55NYUUpn3gFr1J33S_Q22LA/s1600/edit+2+manbagdsc00112.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBO5r7V0SAbCskzqZZZHu8KckHoB_WVldoaOperWj3uT5Oi6MfwJmpdokjaCXDAMjvWTUuzhPrOcckfuClTm7RQBmClK9z0mZnUB8ShR7kOU403ajM5UeoT55NYUUpn3gFr1J33S_Q22LA/s640/edit+2+manbagdsc00112.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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I began pestering Flounder. “Pull over! I want to see if I can
climb up that temple!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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He went with me the first few times. We were full of
enthusiasm and awe. “Look at those ones over there!” we’d point, stop, and
explore.<o:p></o:p></div>
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When I found a temple that might fit my criteria, I’d mark
it on the map. ‘Possible sunset view?’ Then move on.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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But soon even I tired as we passed hundreds of perfect,
unique temples. Thus is sightseeing, the tragedy of being surrounded by the
most fascinating places and noticing how quickly that fascination fades.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“Another example of fine craftmanship? A bridge to ancient
cultures? The finest specimen of its kind? No, let’s not get off the bike, I can
take a quick picture from here.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS4E5PjSlORBxncIXOi9OZAa470JL2yHhzKqQTflDEtz5rNUX1kRPKbdVYdrWD1uYW4BtC10Fm8N_FbreN-WL0i0Js9Y7VyGRojm1jcl_eXzP9hvk54PXDk3xw1jx250Jq5QSBTO8kweuP/s1600/edit+2+manbagdsc00004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS4E5PjSlORBxncIXOi9OZAa470JL2yHhzKqQTflDEtz5rNUX1kRPKbdVYdrWD1uYW4BtC10Fm8N_FbreN-WL0i0Js9Y7VyGRojm1jcl_eXzP9hvk54PXDk3xw1jx250Jq5QSBTO8kweuP/s640/edit+2+manbagdsc00004.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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And as the heat mounted, the energy to leave our little
electronic bike, to poke my head into dark spaces and search for narrow
staircases up to a sunset view, that energy faded. So we got lost a little. We navigated
sandy paths, we startled scrawny, lithe squirrels and upset dozing birds trying
to hide in the bushes from the midday heat.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Soon we came across horses pulling tourists in wooden carts
and knew we must be near the “highlight” temples. We ducked into the large,
cool structures and I noticed about as many pilgrims as tourists. The area of
Bagan, a stop on every tourist itinerary in Myanmar, is also a profoundly
important site for the many devout Buddhists in the country. So I covered my
legs and shoulders, removed my shoes, and tried not to get in the way of the
worshippers praying, circling the inner shrine, or paying to apply another
square or two of gold leaf to the statues of Buddha.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwX3GN0XNBOrLC-085bilxO6T9PzsLvmzETGGQAL27VI1YTRl5-9Ii9LWoqeyEsWRjkdDMofk_tbcsPH79FY2jv-A5pIY_558LUZkSqgJ7_liNmVZV7P6QrMKO9EQSn1-_f0rTFHn9WXga/s1600/edit+2+manbagdsc00084.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1068" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwX3GN0XNBOrLC-085bilxO6T9PzsLvmzETGGQAL27VI1YTRl5-9Ii9LWoqeyEsWRjkdDMofk_tbcsPH79FY2jv-A5pIY_558LUZkSqgJ7_liNmVZV7P6QrMKO9EQSn1-_f0rTFHn9WXga/s640/edit+2+manbagdsc00084.jpg" width="426" /></a></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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In the afternoon, in the full heat of the hottest part of
the day, I found The One. It had a 360 view, was relatively isolated, and had
stairs big enough that Flounder wouldn’t need to crawl to get up them. It was
perfect and I knew immediately.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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So we went back to the hotel pool (side note: get a hotel
with a pool. During the 36 degree afternoons, there was nothing better than to
dip in and out of our pool, reading a book, and chatting with other travelers.)
then rode back out in the cool of the late afternoon to The One.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOcpws-f8TGspZeaz40qy78HHc5VjImGtkWNoRarafWW66OBxtwueK8Nw3tkuPzqTDyTU2jxhZTCBCr3aeSWAenPlirCZpE3bLxoYuiWDQZMrIihBNJyvGd24VQyn1MTwL1hS5jw1uH4Jo/s1600/edit+2+manbagdsc00032.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOcpws-f8TGspZeaz40qy78HHc5VjImGtkWNoRarafWW66OBxtwueK8Nw3tkuPzqTDyTU2jxhZTCBCr3aeSWAenPlirCZpE3bLxoYuiWDQZMrIihBNJyvGd24VQyn1MTwL1hS5jw1uH4Jo/s640/edit+2+manbagdsc00032.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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We had the temple almost to ourselves; it was just us and a
man selling paintings. But after we sat down to meditate, he started to pack up
and soon it was just us and a panorama view of the temples big and small
surrounding us, glowing softly in the setting sun. Their golden warmth was
offset by the green of trees and fields and the white of stubborn cows being
pushed by small laughing boys, heading to a home between temples built nearly a
thousand years ago.<o:p></o:p></div>
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That’s the thing about sightseeing. It’s easy to become blasé
about the most amazing things, to not even muster the energy to get off the
bike. But then, sometimes, you find yourself with a person you love watching
the sun setting over breathing history, and the beauty of it catches in your
throat.</div>
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Flounderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17150062964800105436noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3254062981129763077.post-81539320133806242392017-06-04T13:49:00.003+02:002017-06-09T17:23:03.461+02:00At loose ends in Mandalay<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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By Sarah<br />
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“So how do we get from the airport to the city?” I asked.</div>
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“I don’t know. I think there’s a taxi or a share taxi?”
Flounder answered, nonchalantly.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We were standing in the check in line at the Bangkok
airport, about 90 minutes before our flight to Mandalay, Myanmar.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8Bl4X-Rm5Sg5dG-2UATfLkYJePnbnEdk_ubKN7aqbGPe_tqURZPJ0B_UMHyRMvMA_FjJu_xr12w53cM1Y0pb9DxpZL7y-Y_Imiz3CMHZxCrN7F1RVgyq1DRl_Mjjx_ow3vAKnrbQ6eETk/s1600/manbagdsc09866+edit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8Bl4X-Rm5Sg5dG-2UATfLkYJePnbnEdk_ubKN7aqbGPe_tqURZPJ0B_UMHyRMvMA_FjJu_xr12w53cM1Y0pb9DxpZL7y-Y_Imiz3CMHZxCrN7F1RVgyq1DRl_Mjjx_ow3vAKnrbQ6eETk/s640/manbagdsc09866+edit.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beautiful teak monastery in Mandalay</td></tr>
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How could he not know? And then because I have no filter, I
asked him, “How could you not know? It’s your job to research these things!” I
smiled cheekily.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Yeah, I think I just don’t care as much. I know now that
things will just work out.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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This was a shift. A shift from our early days of traveling
together, when Flounder liked to plan every aspect of a trip—book every hotel,
know where we were going and how to get there. But also a shift in the
unassigned but assumed roles we’d fallen into in our relationship. He was the
planner, the researcher. And I was the on-the-ground communicator. He did the
work before the trip, I the work during.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Airports can be hectic, full of scams, and we were going to
a new country.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But Mandalay’s airport was a surprise—calm, organized,
plenty of agents. Our evisa was processed quickly, our customs form accepted
immediately, and there was no one waiting for departing passengers, trying to usher us
into their overpriced taxis. Instead, we took out money from the ATM, bought
two sim cards (for a total of $3), and booked a seating in a waiting van that,
for less than $4 apiece, would take us directly to our hotel.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMuABRGBGl9YkUZripR3xYOLHiBBpEdOMuLQDmNh3w4PGmzp5-70Rol46YCqpH30VdyPqEalMkvFWs2Ig1j_-n0_ZvF_hfN4nZfHYjhsg6GFTEVkAnx7hyohraZh8N7_-NcMcMMg6vQpA-/s1600/manbagdsc09812+edit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMuABRGBGl9YkUZripR3xYOLHiBBpEdOMuLQDmNh3w4PGmzp5-70Rol46YCqpH30VdyPqEalMkvFWs2Ig1j_-n0_ZvF_hfN4nZfHYjhsg6GFTEVkAnx7hyohraZh8N7_-NcMcMMg6vQpA-/s640/manbagdsc09812+edit.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beehive boxes on the side of the road</td></tr>
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The drive from the airport was lovely—about an hour through
mango groves and green fields dotted with palm trees and pagodas.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWUeUVwOlN4s6GrKafhPYKAXeDiGsYSrzzx400koCWOiuAMUMgoRK5ojqxThfJOLlb3SV7nQ_Ibkhk2NrhmrYxYnbjtIWbsMxwV4QF1bCaKlAZJi7Co586X6gMzJBgVnD9PpxHK8tZkeoT/s1600/manbagdsc09876+edit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1068" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWUeUVwOlN4s6GrKafhPYKAXeDiGsYSrzzx400koCWOiuAMUMgoRK5ojqxThfJOLlb3SV7nQ_Ibkhk2NrhmrYxYnbjtIWbsMxwV4QF1bCaKlAZJi7Co586X6gMzJBgVnD9PpxHK8tZkeoT/s640/manbagdsc09876+edit.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's mango season! Mangoes are everywhere</td></tr>
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When we arrived at our hotel, the streets dark and unlit
around us, I asked Flounder, “What do you want to do tomorrow?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I don’t know,” he said.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Neither of us had done the research.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMWEcHJ4xeG72cO7IDwTJpRd943lg7WywEuaupksaHOlJNW8SiW_snx5gODrVnpnhm70SjDQBDbBBtiFqPER-YjCbYrPctXIvgC79RxYdZ81hGTQM0VOcMKmkbExfY4LfwPCCRHx7lJSSv/s1600/manbagdsc09861+edit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMWEcHJ4xeG72cO7IDwTJpRd943lg7WywEuaupksaHOlJNW8SiW_snx5gODrVnpnhm70SjDQBDbBBtiFqPER-YjCbYrPctXIvgC79RxYdZ81hGTQM0VOcMKmkbExfY4LfwPCCRHx7lJSSv/s640/manbagdsc09861+edit.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I loved seeing spotting these symbols around town</td></tr>
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So we did what we love to do. We rented bikes and rode
around the city. We rode to the jetty on the shore of the Ayeyarwady river and
asked about boats (none in the wet season). So we ignored the early hour and
sat at a riverside beer station, Flounder drinking a breakfast draught while we
both watched the kids splash in the water below and the women wash laundry and
hang it from the ropes tying wooden boats to the shore.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSEphES4mA7AtQh3ODRzWSffdj8R_vdJL9MqumR0jYBRUBtR43-b1KCZBYC0n2pUs99JGOwrzOXjBCU6MKgZMPDqUf6eDfpuv-FNHl5JOa16sfPALLEZOqosTJS_IrUGWkHqPYmvaZoH_f/s1600/manbagdsc09817+edit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSEphES4mA7AtQh3ODRzWSffdj8R_vdJL9MqumR0jYBRUBtR43-b1KCZBYC0n2pUs99JGOwrzOXjBCU6MKgZMPDqUf6eDfpuv-FNHl5JOa16sfPALLEZOqosTJS_IrUGWkHqPYmvaZoH_f/s640/manbagdsc09817+edit.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Action on the Ayeyarwady River</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlwswbnC0nJ8pAlwpbS8quEzrMCAzR5IZXlKdsnei2BGS8FdWFZBtC6nSbRItQwXHGJTTnTUGjxIu0-X6oWi5hdbTl_I1NEgb_sszGkfJmHz-5MCJT4pdWX2Kzib_0H1PEW9ZychI4h1fP/s1600/manbagdsc09824+edit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlwswbnC0nJ8pAlwpbS8quEzrMCAzR5IZXlKdsnei2BGS8FdWFZBtC6nSbRItQwXHGJTTnTUGjxIu0-X6oWi5hdbTl_I1NEgb_sszGkfJmHz-5MCJT4pdWX2Kzib_0H1PEW9ZychI4h1fP/s640/manbagdsc09824+edit.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Flounder enjoys a fresh beer and pets a friendly kitty. A perfect combo!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG4TbpJDcToESHhtUbMB1u9Kk26dCI2F-UVCwBqKxgN_2PsXW1RNxTdXA_Abr7sRuJ9MeEKdq6vvytNituBC20bbT9LdHJULjWN_017415lIcy25th7IUIwUwOpl7xN5wrUzsilpeZH4ie/s1600/manbagdsc09840+edit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG4TbpJDcToESHhtUbMB1u9Kk26dCI2F-UVCwBqKxgN_2PsXW1RNxTdXA_Abr7sRuJ9MeEKdq6vvytNituBC20bbT9LdHJULjWN_017415lIcy25th7IUIwUwOpl7xN5wrUzsilpeZH4ie/s640/manbagdsc09840+edit.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Taking a break from cycling in the heat</td></tr>
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We rode on a teak bridge, struggled making left turns into
relentless traffic of all speeds and sizes, saw monasteries and temples,
searched for a buffet serving food from the Shan region of Myanmar, ignored the
Thai imported durian and bought local instead, ducked inside when the afternoon
rain started, rode along the moat and walls surrounding the royal palace, and
chuckled at the antics of roly babies (so many children!), their faces covered
in the soft thanaka paste so emblematic of the country.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9FmMr8GXU8YO1OP3VOiv7w2xlKfV8BUDUQ-JeB5ivcSh1082MMp_EGLWcqdBI-4MaQiTvjoYAeABmxiSxsfXyzo5g3eNWoc2qKJeKxlPptLX0amlpoGMZGbTejoVZOLImtV24KQi_tKCN/s1600/manbagdsc09855+edit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9FmMr8GXU8YO1OP3VOiv7w2xlKfV8BUDUQ-JeB5ivcSh1082MMp_EGLWcqdBI-4MaQiTvjoYAeABmxiSxsfXyzo5g3eNWoc2qKJeKxlPptLX0amlpoGMZGbTejoVZOLImtV24KQi_tKCN/s640/manbagdsc09855+edit.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Teak bridge</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuo1WjX1pUwwECtVW5icqbEmwsE-c8ur9OTeCfWdQ_KAK8S35kzYlMNGwJrF5GEY_Fxal914wSGVFzrMQIThKbzunAY5QogqV4gVYs4TeL6KGtkc0bvX0fay73L2Ygjiv-Ea4f3fYovI7d/s1600/manbagdsc09828+edit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuo1WjX1pUwwECtVW5icqbEmwsE-c8ur9OTeCfWdQ_KAK8S35kzYlMNGwJrF5GEY_Fxal914wSGVFzrMQIThKbzunAY5QogqV4gVYs4TeL6KGtkc0bvX0fay73L2Ygjiv-Ea4f3fYovI7d/s640/manbagdsc09828+edit.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An overloaded cyclist (is there any other kind in Southeast Asia?)</td></tr>
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There were many things that we didn’t do, and some things
that perhaps we could have done with advance research. But we ended the day
full, happy, and with a taste of Myanmar that left us excited for more.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Flounderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17150062964800105436noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3254062981129763077.post-51831243195980125442017-05-31T12:29:00.001+02:002017-05-31T12:29:55.059+02:00Tentacles (Bangkok residency)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF3hjkRfI2q-OU_SB5RnWUsHxX4panq6mnRk4BtBCWOZL0m5KPTmBEyKOVzUPOcGDoMch3fyUyZZ7bo-hkbnR1SAqwm1G_P789161ePuoCAPMUsd_EJjIfTZmOLWr5cDTc7gcPLbpCxVQA/s1600/IMG_20170504_120014_512.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="477" data-original-width="477" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF3hjkRfI2q-OU_SB5RnWUsHxX4panq6mnRk4BtBCWOZL0m5KPTmBEyKOVzUPOcGDoMch3fyUyZZ7bo-hkbnR1SAqwm1G_P789161ePuoCAPMUsd_EJjIfTZmOLWr5cDTc7gcPLbpCxVQA/s200/IMG_20170504_120014_512.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My studio space</td></tr>
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Summer is my time for residencies and travel. This summer I
had one in Bangkok. Sarah was in Thailand, but 4 hours away teaching a writing
course (I’ll let her write about that if she wants). I hadn’t been back to
Thailand since Sarah and my first 6 months together when I visited her in
Thailand. I was excited to go again. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixgIWrNNQvc9YqdfWUhanAZrkkODwTfY5eq99QqS7NsChA6i8YrmtVnl8eNPXUvbhy3uV2GdUsS6CILsXhZ18OJdGvn6d65E_mT4YP4iF6XLyCeqWY6RTwfayhxAE10dRKxEbqbfVMWrmh/s1600/IMG_20170504_120014_511.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixgIWrNNQvc9YqdfWUhanAZrkkODwTfY5eq99QqS7NsChA6i8YrmtVnl8eNPXUvbhy3uV2GdUsS6CILsXhZ18OJdGvn6d65E_mT4YP4iF6XLyCeqWY6RTwfayhxAE10dRKxEbqbfVMWrmh/s320/IMG_20170504_120014_511.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the gallery cafe/meeting area</td></tr>
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My residency got moved at the last minute and I ended up at
Tentacles Art Space, but there were several other residents so I was happy.
Maybe I should explain what a residency is for those of you who are unfamiliar.
It is basically time and space to just think about, research, and make artwork,
free of other duties (such as teaching and service). It is an amazing gift to
be able to do. I am lucky that this falls under professional development from
my university as well!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOsDrlJEm24lzc_5d6crSrd9UIv_LUIo6QarXs5mDBFFo2g_Q1HCfacpWSJrilo3oGQ-WxwK4nDlssvyR10fLKgHzTM6GnahyOt5KTNIolB87yvb7_jMlegGkAjewr16cXR4GDzq_i3UQY/s1600/bkk1+dsc08734+edit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOsDrlJEm24lzc_5d6crSrd9UIv_LUIo6QarXs5mDBFFo2g_Q1HCfacpWSJrilo3oGQ-WxwK4nDlssvyR10fLKgHzTM6GnahyOt5KTNIolB87yvb7_jMlegGkAjewr16cXR4GDzq_i3UQY/s320/bkk1+dsc08734+edit.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">gallery hopping</td></tr>
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I was busy finalizing grading before I left for Bangkok so I
hadn’t had much time to think about the trip. But I was picked up at the
airport by two interns, Christine (American) and Boyd (Thai who studied in the
US). These were the first of many helpful interns and gallery staff. Pretty
quickly upon arriving there were two art happenings around the city which were
nice, since the other residents and several gallery people went to each. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwNG_ijUP0OMyMsXiPS1lemrgIXx_33godaykhQX0FUCuJbQld8XRcCpn5DswHrT4hyphenhyphenrVrVbEaFqpf3nIrB2QD6CyEeLij0rZ1zHssaWqKKN0G1k77pWNiowHaBdIGIn7Sn9vewkG8twa7/s1600/20170505_213540.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwNG_ijUP0OMyMsXiPS1lemrgIXx_33godaykhQX0FUCuJbQld8XRcCpn5DswHrT4hyphenhyphenrVrVbEaFqpf3nIrB2QD6CyEeLij0rZ1zHssaWqKKN0G1k77pWNiowHaBdIGIn7Sn9vewkG8twa7/s320/20170505_213540.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">eating durian in Chinatown after TCDC opening</td></tr>
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Two residents, Ajoon and Zefan, were there for a month before we arrived, they were both Indonesian. Kate is Korean American and arrived the day after I did. Kate and I did an internal presentation to kick things off and show people what we’d be working on.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3RIS2DFyYOCZ3iGceXhRsa_UOMjkLLKNpTjwJGvN2PD4IpuIc8qRVRs-f51UBGD8hwe_pEEwiCE5vBGaOC4dJCQ2X93Jl8DP_1rMp0JQBNHzXc1ARCz6-Sk1WGi8jkOhD3asvACLTyWKK/s1600/20170506_170326.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3RIS2DFyYOCZ3iGceXhRsa_UOMjkLLKNpTjwJGvN2PD4IpuIc8qRVRs-f51UBGD8hwe_pEEwiCE5vBGaOC4dJCQ2X93Jl8DP_1rMp0JQBNHzXc1ARCz6-Sk1WGi8jkOhD3asvACLTyWKK/s200/20170506_170326.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">found object</td></tr>
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So, what was I working on? I brought my microscope to do some photo and video. I also brought my 3D scanner with the plans to make it mobile, but never did so it languished on my shelf the whole month. I collected items from an area of Bangkok that regularly floods. Basically, anything that I could find on the street that would fit in a small bag, I picked up and labeled. I also collected water from several places. Flooding is predicted to get worse in Bangkok as the climate changes and I was interested in looking at this through a scientific tool, but an artist’s mindset.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdO6bX_rdwbyl0TYjhD67tmqVc0vByloXTBqddBBkGrK8r-QGF4DI9mGHCGjs84L-5Bor4acshefEmM6lQXG0CXdecqlHm4Msw71EuQGiti9Srw5VC-w4Y9dKPRdfufssooovjR5CbSGRb/s1600/DSC08825.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1070" data-original-width="1600" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdO6bX_rdwbyl0TYjhD67tmqVc0vByloXTBqddBBkGrK8r-QGF4DI9mGHCGjs84L-5Bor4acshefEmM6lQXG0CXdecqlHm4Msw71EuQGiti9Srw5VC-w4Y9dKPRdfufssooovjR5CbSGRb/s320/DSC08825.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
The residents and gallery staff took a fun fieldtrip to another town, Ratchaburi. We visited an amazing ceramics factory/artist space. We also toured a local museum. One of the highlights (besides good food and company) was these small local shops that had been part of an exhibition that was dispersed throughout the city. We visited a couple of interesting artists who had a great space for projects as well as running a graffiti mural project in town. It was a really interesting and fun day!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm8nKERx9Z_0ukb42IoWCEtWBzHGz_Ow4Q4sy-sXvcDrij2fQxYpfE5vmIUeW_F0gwxSUnVIwffx0HsWRq64H8kRdk8JXSsTmpKy3P2M3gFgnfiZC7bdbKrb5Gyd3fWSth-MUhwYwkTfO0/s1600/bkk1+dsc08782.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm8nKERx9Z_0ukb42IoWCEtWBzHGz_Ow4Q4sy-sXvcDrij2fQxYpfE5vmIUeW_F0gwxSUnVIwffx0HsWRq64H8kRdk8JXSsTmpKy3P2M3gFgnfiZC7bdbKrb5Gyd3fWSth-MUhwYwkTfO0/s320/bkk1+dsc08782.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The ceramics factory and art space</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdxIU3D_wPWRhwcxWu3ikORmhzU31p9C3EjpUWoTgX5Z8t_ppXTuHsV_E81L7TrrH-XkEMrIxOyxFFN6v0CeLAtc9RlpUaHmvXZvD8mpELEtT1_e_1fBgWPCgwesEZeEccPM6VPrHW-b7K/s1600/bkk1+dsc08760.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdxIU3D_wPWRhwcxWu3ikORmhzU31p9C3EjpUWoTgX5Z8t_ppXTuHsV_E81L7TrrH-XkEMrIxOyxFFN6v0CeLAtc9RlpUaHmvXZvD8mpELEtT1_e_1fBgWPCgwesEZeEccPM6VPrHW-b7K/s320/bkk1+dsc08760.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Finally, I got to visit Sarah in Chanthaburi! We stayed in a cute hotel on the river. The next day we went to where she teaches so she could show me around. I’d only ever seen it in her photos. It was great seeing here after our longest separation since we moved in together almost 5 years ago!</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQXQmwvCkJ_6k0ikHCzTWZXYsWJ257I4y_AiulAmuxuHxewg6YsSG_Yo-WeE-zSWGJ7kwpf4AGan7rebQwHx4fr9-R0Ka6PuAs6IsAsq7ZSCxitcv9RcUDFn_nLGy9V_jAlsVvNM95nnq0/s1600/DSC09109.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1070" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQXQmwvCkJ_6k0ikHCzTWZXYsWJ257I4y_AiulAmuxuHxewg6YsSG_Yo-WeE-zSWGJ7kwpf4AGan7rebQwHx4fr9-R0Ka6PuAs6IsAsq7ZSCxitcv9RcUDFn_nLGy9V_jAlsVvNM95nnq0/s320/DSC09109.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Back with my love! (temporarily)</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk81LC_cgyv-20fmsKNu8THQAITvlzqPR_gdX3i5QOY-LqMAFo2dRN-msrqasIHFHykenAJIMpGH8lUSsgjnBa5BxJcf1Bk_8NFBu-9rM6zT6skbk2JsJVsH5X-310EQZvQztSStuV4d81/s1600/DSC09126.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1070" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk81LC_cgyv-20fmsKNu8THQAITvlzqPR_gdX3i5QOY-LqMAFo2dRN-msrqasIHFHykenAJIMpGH8lUSsgjnBa5BxJcf1Bk_8NFBu-9rM6zT6skbk2JsJVsH5X-310EQZvQztSStuV4d81/s320/DSC09126.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Basically Sarah's personal Durian tree</td></tr>
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Work progressed at the residency, although it was quieter with a couple of staff away and the residents doing their own thing. I started putting stuff under the microscope as well as trying many output experiments.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3VCYsyx3qchsxqOXoVHAOEHCn2YQFsl6BNLHqpHOYKlnJNUT0p1SIDILgL_WDoUn-AyJ7v0b-rOLfSJERP4FDQaev3OqHZukiSTI92ZgdVptY2yik3LN9qcQr5GIInlOsB80WdBDGD2U5/s1600/no+5+set+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1060" data-original-width="1600" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3VCYsyx3qchsxqOXoVHAOEHCn2YQFsl6BNLHqpHOYKlnJNUT0p1SIDILgL_WDoUn-AyJ7v0b-rOLfSJERP4FDQaev3OqHZukiSTI92ZgdVptY2yik3LN9qcQr5GIInlOsB80WdBDGD2U5/s400/no+5+set+1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">found plastic prayer flag under microscope</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFYElLD-XcRpv1TdCO4Hx6YMPwe9KtV7VmO2tnbZsPPameQwmjLO5et-voiNBAhlpwaxPiotYZPlHDxbFb3rtKC_vOvJcUzqgy_jnUeRXnLfJ7GuPk79G8c7AI9ljYAD_tzBerL2p6tqF6/s1600/20170523_153210.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFYElLD-XcRpv1TdCO4Hx6YMPwe9KtV7VmO2tnbZsPPameQwmjLO5et-voiNBAhlpwaxPiotYZPlHDxbFb3rtKC_vOvJcUzqgy_jnUeRXnLfJ7GuPk79G8c7AI9ljYAD_tzBerL2p6tqF6/s320/20170523_153210.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Polyurethane coating prints, epoxy resin was better!</td></tr>
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Eventually Sarah joined me in Bangkok and we celebrated my 39<sup>th</sup> birthday! I’d met some fun video game design from France and we went to a board game café. We went to a lecture on Art and Science by TeZ, had some pampering (massages and my first pedicure), finally some drinks with the residents and staff (including a new one, Catherine from New Zealand).<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVURsU0GhCVQn_NsXbuReXnywNo13v10rnK9WcA5NCh9jSFaejj1YxD7hBBhIs7sWg-M9kw5W_d-w-Ejaov3erJCjA6p9q19sE7lMLarAWaPRCR5AfI0lTljrKH0u120HkT8M0FBqVNm9U/s1600/20170524_224601.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVURsU0GhCVQn_NsXbuReXnywNo13v10rnK9WcA5NCh9jSFaejj1YxD7hBBhIs7sWg-M9kw5W_d-w-Ejaov3erJCjA6p9q19sE7lMLarAWaPRCR5AfI0lTljrKH0u120HkT8M0FBqVNm9U/s320/20170524_224601.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwel_Vbf4sgAyw7IqQRcj0gebaqDyRBjQgJuWgSgIaARinhAaXAQY-kRFN0fQieiqTk0AaKjYmJlq-bsn7qhJ-3E6_jeyKe4BGKSwmkxlkHYAQfhJxzTgSQx7EtvVcoDcxE6JXzMdaiBT5/s1600/20170524_174816.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwel_Vbf4sgAyw7IqQRcj0gebaqDyRBjQgJuWgSgIaARinhAaXAQY-kRFN0fQieiqTk0AaKjYmJlq-bsn7qhJ-3E6_jeyKe4BGKSwmkxlkHYAQfhJxzTgSQx7EtvVcoDcxE6JXzMdaiBT5/s320/20170524_174816.jpg" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">my birthday (I don't know what the fuss is with pedicures)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqQSNC94ovLBeMm2W-t9aWhZHAM0DZ55QGxu4P25I2QKVC6Irwtb6_mNaW-pB5r4-d_fTgGQ0oVyWXHx9sPSaOPe6QhLbNdkqF4GTPSW4qNATJacL_oi6DqK9OfLrUARlE_aHeIM5uAp3T/s1600/20170527_134606.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqQSNC94ovLBeMm2W-t9aWhZHAM0DZ55QGxu4P25I2QKVC6Irwtb6_mNaW-pB5r4-d_fTgGQ0oVyWXHx9sPSaOPe6QhLbNdkqF4GTPSW4qNATJacL_oi6DqK9OfLrUARlE_aHeIM5uAp3T/s320/20170527_134606.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">experimental video</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then almost too soon, it was time to have an open studio and lecture to wrap things up. It went well. I
am happy with my experiments. I don’t feel like anything was finalized, but I
learned some new software, learned some new resins, and continued developing
the microscopy work.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYGwFtV_rP0UgVUodHDQBlNgCUlBCqKItvhFhP9-R5PzJ7GQXVuYY6SteQoZ_gjl73E35abVCZuDBEDmxmMSpO_xlE1tfyoUC3dWBGZRwkgWzBnKeve-EchwtWwpfFKCzhSfMUB-t2ajbs/s1600/20170526_142445.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYGwFtV_rP0UgVUodHDQBlNgCUlBCqKItvhFhP9-R5PzJ7GQXVuYY6SteQoZ_gjl73E35abVCZuDBEDmxmMSpO_xlE1tfyoUC3dWBGZRwkgWzBnKeve-EchwtWwpfFKCzhSfMUB-t2ajbs/s320/20170526_142445.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">my open studio setup</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So many thanks to all the people that helped me at the
residency (hoping I don’t forget anyone or massacre anyone’s name): Bow, Henry,
Pon, Noll, Anna, Katie, Shanita…and, of course, my department chair--Woodman
and AUD for sending me!<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Flounderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17150062964800105436noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3254062981129763077.post-41097442549525027202016-08-11T18:56:00.002+02:002016-08-11T18:58:01.072+02:00Looking for Song Kol in the Mountains of Kyrgyzstan<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCBgTDTHdAdwEjL1kjoCxwH0OTY7jyMH6aj4OWavRyFubhhP6j6EhR3sf7mm_rhYWOAp3bK8SAWdPDcLGUKqf4qVVZIwoEsKhjdeN5aaoRKqUxt1pIdwzSHk94OpQhkiqZXoxVU5vn13ZZ/s1600/IMG_20160808_114438.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCBgTDTHdAdwEjL1kjoCxwH0OTY7jyMH6aj4OWavRyFubhhP6j6EhR3sf7mm_rhYWOAp3bK8SAWdPDcLGUKqf4qVVZIwoEsKhjdeN5aaoRKqUxt1pIdwzSHk94OpQhkiqZXoxVU5vn13ZZ/s640/IMG_20160808_114438.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Flounder is still feeling sick, though he slept through the
night so I am hopeful. I know, however that he needs another day to rest in
Kyzart, another day in the tiny village we’ve already been stranded in for
three days.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As for me, I want to glimpse this famous Song Kol, the
alpine lake we travelled to Kyzart to see in the first place, so I decided to
walk. Not to the lake. That’s 15 kilometers and over 1500 meters of elevation
gain then 500 meters descent away. No, I’d walk up to the ridge of the
mountains that separates our little village from the lake and get some exercise
and maybe a nice view of Song Kol and the yurts that surround it in the summer
months.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With the help of Flounder and google satellite images, I find
my starting point—a road that looks like it snakes into the mountains, passing
over the small but rushing and ice-cold rivers that run in the way.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEsbW-btNf0moBBZIbRLQ1LrbA3IciJFLfMrVtfui9EvYB45_e1jRl3ywwTGENMRXqeIh1c7rsYr-soQGb07BvfSdooF-gfS7ZMipmKfk340ZN7hbyS_VVFFZ0dMJJHs95jLtl4lg22eYF/s1600/IMG_20160808_101607.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEsbW-btNf0moBBZIbRLQ1LrbA3IciJFLfMrVtfui9EvYB45_e1jRl3ywwTGENMRXqeIh1c7rsYr-soQGb07BvfSdooF-gfS7ZMipmKfk340ZN7hbyS_VVFFZ0dMJJHs95jLtl4lg22eYF/s640/IMG_20160808_101607.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Over the river and into the mountains</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I head out around 8:45 am, optimistic that I can reach the
peak by noon. But I am soon surprised by the distance of things. It takes me
around an hour just to reach the road we’d scouted on google, and that was
walking on a level, cleared path. As I walk out of the village, the houses
behind me, I begin to scan the mountains for any sign of a path. I see a small
cluster of buildings on the gentle slope at the ridge’s beginning and I head
there, thinking I might at least ask someone if I’m going in the right
direction.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Salam alaykum,’ I call out the woman who just stepped out
of the house. She motions me toward her, tying up the madly barking dog at her
side.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p><br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Song Kolga kiteym. <i>I’m
going to Song Kol</i>,’ I say, hoping I’ve remembered the words right. I point
up and ask, ‘Mumkun mu? <i>Is it possible?</i>’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She nods, and the younger man who walked toward us also
confirms that it’s possible. She says a lot of words I don’t understand, but I am
able to make out her offer of chai, and after brief consideration, I agree. I
follow her into her house. There are two rooms—a kitchen and a multipurpose
room with a twin bed on one side and a low-to-the-ground table on the other.
She ushers me in and mixes me a cup of tea much in the way they do in Turkey: a
small pot contains strong tea and a larger pot contains hot water. You mix the
two to your desired strength. As we drink tea, I nibble on the bread she
offered and try to use the little Kyrgyz I can remember.<o:p></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVE4mEkaSa6Dye2nPdlstuK4uF9-YqnGRTdVM4-DXsKXkhESGXMgD6RqPr6WAtHrvtJU0t3yWbhwqzAOxEbKb_c7OMdf_u2ojga5WM7WszY1G6xGzvjYrhz4Ts1stwjnY0NUJ6onHlXj2E/s1600/IMG_20160808_104424.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVE4mEkaSa6Dye2nPdlstuK4uF9-YqnGRTdVM4-DXsKXkhESGXMgD6RqPr6WAtHrvtJU0t3yWbhwqzAOxEbKb_c7OMdf_u2ojga5WM7WszY1G6xGzvjYrhz4Ts1stwjnY0NUJ6onHlXj2E/s640/IMG_20160808_104424.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With the mother who invited me in for chai</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I tell her I’m American, but I live in Dubai. ‘Dubai’da
jashaym.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She asks if I have children and then I ask her the same
question.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She holds up four fingers. ‘Tort,’ she says, then quickly
corrects herself, ‘besht,’ adding a fifth finger as she speaks. She points to
the younger man outside, indicating he is her son. I wonder if he’s the fifth,
rather forgettable child.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She pours me a second cup and would have poured a third, but
I needed to get going, so I thank her and again confirm the correct direction
to Song Kol before I leave.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wave to her and her son and set off, following a small,
rapid stream and trying to stick to the horse path I found. Plagues of
grasshoppers jump in every direction as I walk, clicking and rattling as they
fly through the air. Soon I lose the horse path, then find it, then lose it
again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjInvMtn35uJX7_0JG1r43jvXYX64Bnfgr03rg00m4exvKsgdhXT5VSD7oyWEnIvpKt6_OFOJ7RdpKR90Hf6hHkK7aBT_KtZ_TSf9_I7P5L9GK0HC85ZxznSzDNLPPXpwFAGv426tSPfnbM/s1600/IMG_20160808_120253.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjInvMtn35uJX7_0JG1r43jvXYX64Bnfgr03rg00m4exvKsgdhXT5VSD7oyWEnIvpKt6_OFOJ7RdpKR90Hf6hHkK7aBT_KtZ_TSf9_I7P5L9GK0HC85ZxznSzDNLPPXpwFAGv426tSPfnbM/s640/IMG_20160808_120253.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I follow the stream</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I try to follow the stream, but the dry ground that was a haven
for grasshoppers soon turns lush, fragrant with clover and wildflowers of blue,
purple, red, and orange. Something underfoot smells spicy, like a wild cousin
of the more cultivated thyme. Soon the undergrowth isn’t so much under as it is
around me, up to my knees, then up to my waist, as high as my shoulder.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I push through, following the stream’s path up and up and
up. The slope is gentle, so I hardly need to stop, but the going is slow,
obstructed as my path is by the verdant riverside flowers and the unseen and
uneven ground.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwy5wtRLv8Z83y67OzSXPpYBz5aIUw4LZm22oWZqyEdfs56CHjPUwcxMfMKog_Soy1q6Cb0LZJhv_BUwOjQAIWXadq1bIEyKXEPjAYGQ-1zxzTmiwNjegCfchyphenhyphenyyWVRDseRnoQtD0rCcVM/s1600/IMG_20160808_123301.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwy5wtRLv8Z83y67OzSXPpYBz5aIUw4LZm22oWZqyEdfs56CHjPUwcxMfMKog_Soy1q6Cb0LZJhv_BUwOjQAIWXadq1bIEyKXEPjAYGQ-1zxzTmiwNjegCfchyphenhyphenyyWVRDseRnoQtD0rCcVM/s640/IMG_20160808_123301.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Through flowers up to my shoulders</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am making progress; for proof I need only to look behind
me at the tiny village of Kyzart below, but when noon comes and goes I can see
that my idea of reaching the peak by noon was clearly too optimistic. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Maybe 1 o’clock?’ I muse. But at 1 o’clock I round a bend
in the path and see, not the blue sky I hoped for, but rather a large green
mountain still looming above me. It’s time to change my plan.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRX8IKrlEq2pp0BfGk1XGRGG7MR3F-t7nmAX9g1b4JuhqFpL5_Xih6AVM0Wh7Cqetc45kmKaE6Y5eks-oFG3GA7Fmg6B7uKyV-dyFxZ_rFIBpsrG1wVvNngb_IAyvXkAn6GC2z6lL-VxyO/s1600/IMG_20160808_124930.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRX8IKrlEq2pp0BfGk1XGRGG7MR3F-t7nmAX9g1b4JuhqFpL5_Xih6AVM0Wh7Cqetc45kmKaE6Y5eks-oFG3GA7Fmg6B7uKyV-dyFxZ_rFIBpsrG1wVvNngb_IAyvXkAn6GC2z6lL-VxyO/s640/IMG_20160808_124930.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My view at 1:00 p.m. Still a long way to go.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I set a time limit of 2:00 p.m. If I haven’t reached the
peak and seen Song Kol by then, I would still turn around. That would be more
than five hours of hiking and I don’t want to worry Flounder and I definitely
want to be back in the guesthouse before dark.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I forge up, out of the gentle but overgrown riverbed, up a
steep slope, in the hope of lower growth, better footing, and a faster path to
the top. The slope is so steep I need to use my hands in places and I quickly
discover that the flowers and plants are taller than they had appeared. In
short, leaving the riverbed behind was a change, but perhaps not a good one.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1:15 p.m. I take as many steps as I can, before pausing,
counting my breaths and waiting for them to slow down. Progress is slow, but I am
gaining elevation.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1:30 p.m. I can see the rocky peak of the slope ahead of me
(but mainly above me).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlyyOTABOs0KJyVfKrfPIwmuNZuGddZafCwbfEcHgVlHvxQcfNYkE6VxVD-_CENdiHc4Me3yoBY3YKOZUROksbKVBaNrJWQsfaOxBjbfRVh9Ekqw99l6gZgPWSuRyr60oPFiorvPQhV8vH/s1600/IMG_20160808_134400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlyyOTABOs0KJyVfKrfPIwmuNZuGddZafCwbfEcHgVlHvxQcfNYkE6VxVD-_CENdiHc4Me3yoBY3YKOZUROksbKVBaNrJWQsfaOxBjbfRVh9Ekqw99l6gZgPWSuRyr60oPFiorvPQhV8vH/s640/IMG_20160808_134400.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beautiful view, but I'm still far from the peak</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1:45 p.m. I finally reach the top and suddenly can see the
valley to my left as well as mountains in the distance that had been hidden
from view. But no sign of Song Kol. Instead I see a higher peak wrapping around
my mountain and jutting far up above. 15 minutes left. Should I give up? Or try
to scale this new peak?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1:50 p.m. I forge my own switchback as the slope up the peak
is steep and my legs are feeling weak and wobbly from hours of hiking uphill.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgopf9ckdlE2kzF_CLNQwWQNyYII6y3mfUgM-frTPkqPh9_KXltFKZVo1lqjf-nFCiat_GVDubswgh6xHYcy1fF5hBrzMv2U61GvHMleFXiH_KUvOmyDIXcNQ8VXzN1FiEg-Ct118eAgCSf/s1600/IMG_20160808_140102.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgopf9ckdlE2kzF_CLNQwWQNyYII6y3mfUgM-frTPkqPh9_KXltFKZVo1lqjf-nFCiat_GVDubswgh6xHYcy1fF5hBrzMv2U61GvHMleFXiH_KUvOmyDIXcNQ8VXzN1FiEg-Ct118eAgCSf/s640/IMG_20160808_140102.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My final view. Time to turn around.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2:00 p.m. I reach the top of my peak, but instead of Song
Kol, I see yet another peak rising up. It’s time to turn around, to give up and
head back. Giving up is difficult for me; stubbornness often trumps safety. But
it’s made easier now by my worn-out legs and my worn-out husband waiting for me
back in Kyzart.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I take one last picture of the mountain that defeated me,
then put my small pack on and turn around.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘HELLLLLO!’ <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For the first time I hear a sound other than the buzzing of
bees and occasional call of birds. I look in the direction I think the sound
came from, but I see nothing. I scan the mountains around me, hands on hips.
Did I imagine it? Could it just be a bird?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘HELLLLLO!’ <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s definitely human, but I still can’t see the human
making the sound. Tired of looking and seeing nothing, I start my descent.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘HELLLLLO!’ this time I hear some other words, not in
English, and it occurs to me that maybe this voice is not speaking to me. Maybe
he’s hailing a friend. So I continue my descent with more confidence but not
more speed; the growth is so high that it makes walking downhill nearly as slow
as walking uphill was.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHW7lM7RzMlo6ZahudCz6tECQ3Ur3ewBlDEZwfQck6mlE7P-05iIRHTTgKE69cn2ZQfO8pefK3ooaqb7jGcIa1s7D8_jH91elefHpyZIVCl0zewpRYE5-HbMz_Pn69ltha_zc7O9-wFnEA/s1600/IMG_20160808_114303.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHW7lM7RzMlo6ZahudCz6tECQ3Ur3ewBlDEZwfQck6mlE7P-05iIRHTTgKE69cn2ZQfO8pefK3ooaqb7jGcIa1s7D8_jH91elefHpyZIVCl0zewpRYE5-HbMz_Pn69ltha_zc7O9-wFnEA/s640/IMG_20160808_114303.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking down at the village of Kyzart</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve forgotten about the voice and the unseen human attached
to it. I’m focusing now on each step, on the pressure in my knees from the
steep descent, and on the pain in my toes as my feet smush forward in my shoes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘HELLLLLO!’ <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This time the voice is closer and I turn around. I can see
him now. It’s a man on a horse, accompanied by a very shaggy dog. He motions me
to join him and I, not wanting to climb up the same hill again, make an
exaggerated shrugging gesture as if I don’t understand. He rides downhill
toward me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6AmwCcC1lBDEsr7E-s6Xp5sd9VOhs1KqtdH6HT1ZL4YG0N7PBih75FNx16b55PqZ9RsFizvgQvQwCxvMHWNeIjskeFf9lNFL6Js_qA-awvZ4kCyQwfKzQ2GfJoFjOeyl2EQqz9Mpq3W49/s1600/IMG_20160808_144236.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6AmwCcC1lBDEsr7E-s6Xp5sd9VOhs1KqtdH6HT1ZL4YG0N7PBih75FNx16b55PqZ9RsFizvgQvQwCxvMHWNeIjskeFf9lNFL6Js_qA-awvZ4kCyQwfKzQ2GfJoFjOeyl2EQqz9Mpq3W49/s640/IMG_20160808_144236.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As he comes closer I have some time to look at him and also
some time to think. I don’t mean to sound alarmist or untrusting, but as a
woman walking alone in a very remote place, my mind immediately tries to gauge
the threat and simultaneously map out my options in case something goes wrong.
He’s an older local man, wearing a wool skullcap and sporting a small
moustache. But more than these things, I notice the gun he’s carrying. It’s a
long rifle, likely for hunting and likely good only at long distances. Still,
it’s a bit of an intimidating sight.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He gets closer, dismounts from his horse, and smiles at me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Song Kol?’ he asks.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jok, Kyzart,’ I say. ‘Song Kolga kitbeym. <i>I’m not going to Song Kol,</i>’ I say,
hoping I’ve got the words right.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He sits on the ground, pulls out binoculars and invites me
to join him. I think he sees my trepidation because he says, pointing to
himself, ‘Hrasho. <i>Good.</i>’ And then,
pointing to me, he says ‘Hrasho. <i>Good,</i>’
and hands me the binoculars. I sit down and look through them, but I don’t know
what I’m looking at and I can’t focus, so after a polite interval I give them
back and get up to leave.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He points to a different buttress leading off the mountain,
just over one valley to the left, and indicates that it would be a better place
to descend. But I notice that to get there I would need to walk down into the
valley then back up a steep slope and I decide it’s not worth it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Again, I think he sees my trepidation, because he motions me
toward his horse and leads us, me astride the horse, shaggy dog at our side,
over to the next mountain buttress. The horse is surefooted, but not as
surefooted as the man leading the horse.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhATJiQrsGWJwAobDo08i5kA057EisnrFzh6MK8zqvIDjlgOyEFm9wVKO8dCpKnhRHp8YXGA4ZUqm2WYvh8tsj1uPAf9FOqGq1MSGIdUyTxi3EqQ5TG_6oAKcswvcVBrIBGM-oPCietN5w/s1600/IMG_20160808_145038.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhATJiQrsGWJwAobDo08i5kA057EisnrFzh6MK8zqvIDjlgOyEFm9wVKO8dCpKnhRHp8YXGA4ZUqm2WYvh8tsj1uPAf9FOqGq1MSGIdUyTxi3EqQ5TG_6oAKcswvcVBrIBGM-oPCietN5w/s640/IMG_20160808_145038.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My kind guide and I</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Along the way he asks the usual questions and I respond.
We’re using a mix of Kyrgyz and Russian to talk about where we live, our
spouses, our number of children (he has 8!). He asks if Flounder and I might
like him to guide us to Song Kol. I’m tempted by the option as he clearly knows
the way and seems like a kind man, but I know Flounder is too weak to make
plans.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the ‘path’ to Kyzart we stop. I take a few photos and he
joyfully poses with me. As I lift my backpack he eyes my water and asks if can
drink some.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Ich, ich. <i>Drink,
drink,</i>’ I say, encouraging him to have as much as he likes. I see now that
he doesn’t have any water with him. ‘Ich, ich,’ I say, repeating what the older
woman who offered me tea near the beginning of my hike had said to me. He
drinks and as he does I get out my little chunk of sunflower seed halva to
offer him. He nibbles the halva, has another drink, then asks if he can kiss my
hand before we part. I smile and laugh as he kisses my hand, then wave goodbye
as he swings up onto his horse.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Paka paka. <i>Bye bye,</i>’
I shout.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Paka,’ he calls out in return and I head down the mountain,
knees feeling the pressure and toes squished again into the fronts of my shoes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I turn around only minutes later and already the group of
three—man, horse, and dog—are so small against the immense green mountain that
I can barely spot them, slowly climbing up the pass to Song Kol.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I, I’m slowly descending toward Kyzart, my joints aching
and my toes bruised. With the monotony of the downhill hike and of passing the
same landscape for a second time, the disappointment of what I haven’t managed
hits me and rattles around in my bored brain. I was looking for Song Kol and I
didn’t even glimpse it. I didn’t even glimpse it. I didn’t even glimpse it. The
thought is stuck on repeat.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Perhaps it’s the snow-patched mountains in the distance, or
the green-covered mountains around me, or maybe it’s the tiny remote village
waiting below; something stops my rattling, repeating thought.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘No, you didn’t glimpse Song Kol,’ I interrupt myself. ‘But
you were invited in for chai, sampled some bread and Kyrgyz hospitality, you
breathed fresh alpine air, hobnobbed with wildflowers, surrounded yourself with
green mountain peaks, and you rode on a horse and shared your water with a
gentleman. And you’re heading back now to the sweetest gentleman of them all.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A pretty good day.</div>
</div>
bliss vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17415159622221679432noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3254062981129763077.post-75723544628909746212016-08-06T13:52:00.002+02:002016-08-06T14:40:55.205+02:00A taste of Kyrgyzstan<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="359" src="https://scontent-frt3-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t35.0-12/13977889_10155143378309816_302164637_o.jpg?oh=ff6774f96a725d9249bed178480822ff&oe=57A83874" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="640" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Osh, our first taste of Kyrgyzstan</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We tried to get to the border early, as we’d read accounts
of chaos, pushing and shoving, cramped tiny rooms and hours-long waiting. But when
we arrived in Dostyk at the Uzbek-Kyrgyz border we wondered if we weren’t at a
different place entirely.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We quickly passed through the first checkpoint, then entered
an almost empty room. There was only one group ahead of us, an Uzbek family. When
a border official saw us, hard to miss with our giant packs, he told us to fill
out the exit form, then come visit him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He asked a range of usual questions, all with a smiling,
friendly demeanour. He asked if we visited the Burj al Arab in Dubai.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘We’re teachers!’ Flounder exclaimed, ‘not businessmen. Just
having tea, chay, with biscuits costs $100!’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He seemed shocked by the price, and we later heard him
telling his colleagues about the outrageous chay in Dubai.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7xMm9jngfF9AwHFaTd5GiCCMthunYoD5EAQV4Ng42Y_Thhyp88stcnDhry-NZiRp3-Z8QPFQCF_M5SDrdxF-f1V8Z1O6ydCGs6emc7OUsfxIMNQ2kf7niUo-Pa4J4LDkSKs7-L2B2qkq0/s1600/IMG_20160801_103129.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7xMm9jngfF9AwHFaTd5GiCCMthunYoD5EAQV4Ng42Y_Thhyp88stcnDhry-NZiRp3-Z8QPFQCF_M5SDrdxF-f1V8Z1O6ydCGs6emc7OUsfxIMNQ2kf7niUo-Pa4J4LDkSKs7-L2B2qkq0/s320/IMG_20160801_103129.jpg" width="267" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">The entry and exit form. Note it's only in Cyrillic</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We x-rayed our bags and a couple of border officials looked
through them cursorily, asking me questions and about Michael Jordan and the
Chicago Bulls, asking me to turn on my laptop, but hardly looking at it. In contrast,
we met a traveller who, upon entering Uzbekistan from the Tajikistan border,
had photos deleted from her phone—photos of her in a bikini and photos of her
friends, a gay couple—and had her laptop searched for illicit pornography.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But our border officials quickly told us to repack our bags,
and smiled and waved to us as we crossed into Kyrgyzstan.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0cm 0cm 1.0pt 0cm;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 0cm 1.0pt 0cm; padding: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If I was looking for a signpost that we were in a different
country, I found it in Osh, the second-biggest city in Kyrgyzstan, just three kilometres
from the border. Along with the low, square or round skullcaps worn by many
Uzbek men, we suddenly saw dramatically tall, felt-embroidered caps worn by
Kyrgyz men.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘It’s like a 10-gallon hat,’ Flounder remarked, referencing
the cowboy hats that also add about a foot in height to the wearer.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0cm 0cm 1.0pt 0cm;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 0cm 1.0pt 0cm; padding: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The money was different (no more black market) and would be
easier to access here, there were more people of Mongol decent, but still, Osh
felt much like Uzbekistan had.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The hospitality, so much a part of our time in Uzbekistan,
continued in Osh.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When we couldn’t find our guesthouse, a young mother and her
two children tried to help us. She found a shop where we could buy a sim card
(about $0.50) and called the guesthouse owner to get the exact directions.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When we later wanted to add data to that sim, we asked in a
DHL office (after walking in search of the phone company for over an hour), and
Ulugbek, who worked there, insisted on driving us to the phone shop in the
official DHL car.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0cm 0cm 1.0pt 0cm;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 0cm 1.0pt 0cm; padding: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2H_Nn3bWpRXbjRX3KXYP69SivL3YKNl4_uaNdrwdb7jHxUhKRzQo2C3iocNZURoomczC-LhCz_D34IKqYILXU4I7itOu_9F815HitLBBj1H6GjlDWj7aJm_ququ5jpkBe-HyPxHnsY_R-/s1600/IMG_20160802_115509.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2H_Nn3bWpRXbjRX3KXYP69SivL3YKNl4_uaNdrwdb7jHxUhKRzQo2C3iocNZURoomczC-LhCz_D34IKqYILXU4I7itOu_9F815HitLBBj1H6GjlDWj7aJm_ququ5jpkBe-HyPxHnsY_R-/s640/IMG_20160802_115509.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our sweet ride</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 0cm 1.0pt 0cm; padding: 0cm;">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wish you could have seen the pure joy on Flounder’s face
when we were able to buy 8 GB of data for about $1.50. He was so excited and
became even more so when he discovered just how fast the 4G was.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I’m basically a cyborg,’ he explained as I chuckled at his
reaction. He didn’t look up though as he said it, too busy researching the
forgotten racist Disney movie Song of the South.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We were on our way to the rambling Osh bazaar, built largely
of shipping containers and straddling the central Ak Buura river. I like
bazaars (stay tuned for my post about the joys of bargaining) and the Osh
bazaar is a good one—bustling and frequented, the undisputed commercial heart
of the city.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB3XU5LsmYMM5xmg6wC3hDgoVTrvggDPEtc25qAE4ney00ym1LOXoaJy-KLyeUVaUkh6DberGpQsRR60kAKgsd5r-M30UK0zoJCDb4nzBBjYmff0az-buUdqMLAL9W6xi4xMCRd3PuClpS/s1600/IMG_20160801_191948.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB3XU5LsmYMM5xmg6wC3hDgoVTrvggDPEtc25qAE4ney00ym1LOXoaJy-KLyeUVaUkh6DberGpQsRR60kAKgsd5r-M30UK0zoJCDb4nzBBjYmff0az-buUdqMLAL9W6xi4xMCRd3PuClpS/s640/IMG_20160801_191948.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The sprawling Osh bazaar</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When you’re shopping in a new country, I recommend learning the
numbers. Every time I bargained using Kyrgyz numbers instead of the
more-often-used-by-tourists Russian, the sellers would smile and tell their
neighbours of the strange woman who spoke Kyrgyz, and those neighbours would
smile in turn.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I bought some dried apricots, eyed the pistachios and other
mounds of nuts. We passed by clothing stalls, candy shops, fresh fruit and
vegetables. I turned away from the butcher shop with the dismembered cow head
sitting in front, staring straight ahead with lifeless eyes. I talked Flounder
out of buying rope from the hardware vendors. (‘But you should always travel
with rope! I don’t know why I didn’t pack any,’ said my grownup boy scout.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We passed fabric stalls, saw a few spools of ikat, but
nothing like the selection and quality in Fergana and Margilon in Uzbekistan.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And while we walked, crossing the river, under shaded
stalls, past aromatic spices and rusted shipping containers now filled with
sundries, a soft, calming voice was broadcast over each speaker. It was a woman’s
voice, almost a whisper, speaking in Kyrgyz and then in Russian on a never-ending,
soothing loop. I couldn’t catch the meaning, but heard lots of numbers—25, 10,
80. Was it exchange rates? Exam results? Current market prices?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7vxsHAsbQR_ef-xjlnEUunbkWxBLKH_Oo8qGI0CUacGARvV9v4ebMRyedqxaQZ2FQ5fjdqwVBGkxSk4d7R9FTgWFf5IHwoczzXIvnsSKgGf8-uSQrUx7Z8bND0k6lOSAyKXakQldDykEy/s1600/IMG_20160802_143714.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7vxsHAsbQR_ef-xjlnEUunbkWxBLKH_Oo8qGI0CUacGARvV9v4ebMRyedqxaQZ2FQ5fjdqwVBGkxSk4d7R9FTgWFf5IHwoczzXIvnsSKgGf8-uSQrUx7Z8bND0k6lOSAyKXakQldDykEy/s640/IMG_20160802_143714.jpg" width="358" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Walking through the bazaar</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t know and probably never will. Travel is full of
mysteries and sometimes the mundane can seem sublime. The soothing number
whisperer is a mystery, but something sublime also happened in the Osh market. To
explain it, I’ll need to back up a bit.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m vegan. By all accounts, Central Asia is not an easy
place to be vegan as meat is in every famous dish from the region and eaten at
every meal, with the occasional exception of breakfast. In addition to serving
meat-heavy dishes, the area is also well known for yogurt, ayran, fermented
mare’s milk, and dried yogurt balls, eaten as snack. Now, after having travelled
for more than three weeks in the region, I can confirm this account. Being vegan
here is difficult. At many restaurants the only thing I can eat is what should
now be coined Sarah’s Salad—a fresh mix of cucumbers, tomatoes, and onions. Delightful
and very tasty, it nonetheless gets old after eating it every day for lunch and
dinner. If I’m lucky a restaurant might also serve french fries, a welcome
source of starch and fat in an otherwise lean diet. I supplement with nuts, but
have still lost a few kilos so far.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNwk3_XQlDy7ljmM8CRTe3A2xv4HiJ9Kr16-NaDieB3wMYgaQuN4MhaJOAjTXO1yc47307e2Bps0FM-qGDsdJMr7cbvPM9P9iZc7zGwWWZPiDSZOT__uZSD2vG4hC1NEcP_dHxWuR3ifWw/s1600/samarkand+DSC01061.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNwk3_XQlDy7ljmM8CRTe3A2xv4HiJ9Kr16-NaDieB3wMYgaQuN4MhaJOAjTXO1yc47307e2Bps0FM-qGDsdJMr7cbvPM9P9iZc7zGwWWZPiDSZOT__uZSD2vG4hC1NEcP_dHxWuR3ifWw/s640/samarkand+DSC01061.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Sarah Salad</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is dispiriting, for one who loves food as I do, to not be
able to eat <i>any</i> street food, to eat
essentially the same thing at every meal, to barely be able to engage with the
enormous cultural richness of eating and mealtimes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So when I found a dumpling (manty) in the Osh bazaar, a manty
that somehow, miraculously did not contain meat, was not even flavoured with
meat juices, I was overjoyed. (Something akin to Flounder’s 8 GB-of-fast-data
joy.) It was ravioli-like, stuffed with thin shreds of potato and topped with
paprika and raw onions, and I ate manty after manty, revelling in the unusual
sensation of full-to-bursting. The feeling was sublime.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
We were leaving the next morning for Arslanbob and entering
the mountains so much at the heart of Kyrgyzstan, and I wondered, my belly
gloriously stuffed, what other sublimities awaited us on our travels.<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
bliss vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17415159622221679432noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3254062981129763077.post-32860472160686218072016-08-02T17:39:00.001+02:002016-08-02T17:43:39.644+02:00Ikat in Bukhara: More hopped up than a kid in a candy store<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Bukhara’s
not the best place for ikat. I know this. Margilan, in Uzbekistan’s Fergana
Valley, is where most ikat is woven.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgBtk79dApdQRSniEwkypBqeVS0_HzndLPxiFpk6lK404xV3FzQr0QMEdTn9sYcoi9MC9Rs6Hrs90XW21iaT9yq1yYWHbCZgj_Q6tUo0yzeeE5jKLnXvxjSdxhPSRtskuDBad6V56NOrMe/s1600/ikat0005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgBtk79dApdQRSniEwkypBqeVS0_HzndLPxiFpk6lK404xV3FzQr0QMEdTn9sYcoi9MC9Rs6Hrs90XW21iaT9yq1yYWHbCZgj_Q6tUo0yzeeE5jKLnXvxjSdxhPSRtskuDBad6V56NOrMe/s640/ikat0005.JPG" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Standing in front of Feruza's shop, glorious ikat behind me</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">But when I
see the streaks of color hanging in Feruza’s window, the stacks of ikat,
brightly colored jewels lining the shelves and towering high on the tables, and
the flawless tailoring of the clothing she has ready made, I decide that my
first ikat purchase will be here.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip7P2iqUa6fcNcsX7K-I1s_eKwb89W79zLzmVwmTVq3ve0U_tlYxAxu8CeE89XyvFopsWP3L56keEc31JkC-WV8uJwhbfHLonbcmzu10Ohnyo8214DR0BqCfs5tlsK3CwWl1aJ8jlt5C_W/s1600/khiva+ikatDSC00685.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip7P2iqUa6fcNcsX7K-I1s_eKwb89W79zLzmVwmTVq3ve0U_tlYxAxu8CeE89XyvFopsWP3L56keEc31JkC-WV8uJwhbfHLonbcmzu10Ohnyo8214DR0BqCfs5tlsK3CwWl1aJ8jlt5C_W/s640/khiva+ikatDSC00685.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some of her ready-made garments</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I’ve loved
textiles for as long as I can remember. As a young child I admired the carpets
my parents had brought back from Pakistan, admiring even the mistakes that
showed the carpet had been painstaking made by hand. In my childhood bedroom I
had an embroidered wool wall hanging from Kashmir, and though it was covered in
animals, gazelles and elephants and birds, they were not the stylized, cuddly
animals that usually grace a child’s room.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img src="https://scontent.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/2779_69518554499_7616519_n.jpg?oh=ce5581b52f3e63e25df19b21021a7cad&oe=585CF0F4" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jumping on the bed (I'm on the left). Kashmiri wall hanging in the back, floral embroidered bed covering in the front :)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I saw ikat
for the first time in the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul, where I, a very frugal
traveler, lusted after the glorious antique silk robes that had come from
Central Asia. One robe cost more than I spent in a month of travel, though, so
I could only look on longingly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I found
ikat again in northern Thailand and Laos, in regions where each stilt house has
a loom under it and where, it’s said, a girl is only ready for marriage when
she has mastered weaving.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">In Laos,
riding on a soviet-era Minsk motorbike, I saw for the first time how ikat is
made—how the patterns are tie-dyed into the unwoven threads in a mishmash of
dots and lines that somehow, magically, turn into flora, animals, and bold
splotches of abstract design.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">There in Laos I bought my first ikat. I bought
a meter from the woman who had woven it. With a pair of scissors she had
borrowed from her neighbor, she cut the fabric directly off the loom.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">In Feruza’s
shop in Bukhara I saw hundreds of meters of ikat, more brightly colored and
abstract than in Laos, made of silk and cotton. I needed only to choose one,
tell her what I wanted, and it would be mine in 36 hours. I felt like a kid in
a candy shop, only much, much more excited. I felt like a kid in a candy shop
with $10 and permission from her parents to go nuts.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh5P9iXHqj0MLczklt5KegEwKZAIDSeip8d1Zrgm7ma8yi04526T_Ta27U5p1oZdmyR5xpuJxozk5QS-P7QWTyxnwr73ZmjHM7MzBExdnc4_nJiZQ1NMP25LYKYw7EA97opQp5h7IVInMS/s1600/khiva+ikatDSC00688.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh5P9iXHqj0MLczklt5KegEwKZAIDSeip8d1Zrgm7ma8yi04526T_Ta27U5p1oZdmyR5xpuJxozk5QS-P7QWTyxnwr73ZmjHM7MzBExdnc4_nJiZQ1NMP25LYKYw7EA97opQp5h7IVInMS/s640/khiva+ikatDSC00688.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just some of Feruza's fabrics</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I showed
Feruza pictures of the two designs I wanted—a fitted dress with a flared, 50s
style skirt, and a wide-leg jumpsuit. She took detailed measurements, reading
them aloud in Tajik to her mother, who jotted them down. All that remained was
to choose which candy to buy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I feared
the decision would be difficult, but it wasn’t. I picked cotton—cooler in the
heat and (vegan alert!) no silkworms needed to be boiled alive to produce—in
colors and patterns that looked different from anything I owned.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeJ4G7u5u87svTSnN8jhqAGyJo9Dy-ZfNPx1HzxHWRoV6uel9kW-c4vO7OqgSAiFCafzlSmYfKof37m92qny7c3wxI9kfSa9AZDgTxs8qkMEvZsH4pnRLXSJ1dViOaenEjULWyqPhyGKrL/s1600/khiva+ikatDSC00687.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeJ4G7u5u87svTSnN8jhqAGyJo9Dy-ZfNPx1HzxHWRoV6uel9kW-c4vO7OqgSAiFCafzlSmYfKof37m92qny7c3wxI9kfSa9AZDgTxs8qkMEvZsH4pnRLXSJ1dViOaenEjULWyqPhyGKrL/s640/khiva+ikatDSC00687.JPG" width="426" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4qHINtvx-VY7cHLwGRVFUjro5ReRY-18O7xQ-jqhgJqN2Vab-q1WkEv7M8p9JL7wIfGjXVYNWK1va_A91kpLMvSVfUBe8NlKZGf-48JcoGTU12aetkziVA_ZMQLn6_xNyDTItMHv9E72Y/s1600/khiva+ikatDSC00686.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4qHINtvx-VY7cHLwGRVFUjro5ReRY-18O7xQ-jqhgJqN2Vab-q1WkEv7M8p9JL7wIfGjXVYNWK1va_A91kpLMvSVfUBe8NlKZGf-48JcoGTU12aetkziVA_ZMQLn6_xNyDTItMHv9E72Y/s640/khiva+ikatDSC00686.JPG" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">100% cotton ikat on the shelves here. The colors tend to be more subdued than the silk or silk/cotton blend.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The next
day, Feruza came to our hotel and brought the rough, unfinished garments to get
an idea of the fit. I gave a few notes, we decided where to place the zippers,
and I promised to help her the with an English application to a craft fair she
wanted to go to in the US the next day when I came for my final fitting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Less than
12 hours later, I saw the finished clothes and felt a mix of excitement and
tremendous relief. The tailoring was professional—with hidden zippers and
finished seams—and as I was spending more money than I’ve allowed myself
before, I was enormously pleased to see this result.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzwNsUPlw7i-h2wZxO5SMrhSM1xKJmJyWIRidZIvEbacEwmHf_KoHj8tAif8IA-qFNSpCUlENFSrSj7JqnzRjrvhfm3ppQUK62D8jhtNwJsIE5o9O8o5N1B91pyAB405aOXQ78r1XMFhVF/s1600/ikat0002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzwNsUPlw7i-h2wZxO5SMrhSM1xKJmJyWIRidZIvEbacEwmHf_KoHj8tAif8IA-qFNSpCUlENFSrSj7JqnzRjrvhfm3ppQUK62D8jhtNwJsIE5o9O8o5N1B91pyAB405aOXQ78r1XMFhVF/s640/ikat0002.JPG" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The finished dress</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_OOuNvbWRC8Yuk3Mea0EgGDU43zts37GszE99wbyjweCy08KhdqJeCOBVKCkGDaX1RtQWYHgo7KmW5o56XEfsJC3myTomM5Uq0XtRxLhF4eLg6KoxBtYnuXC7eIxoyO3Nt5H9C8P7b2qE/s1600/ikat0004.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_OOuNvbWRC8Yuk3Mea0EgGDU43zts37GszE99wbyjweCy08KhdqJeCOBVKCkGDaX1RtQWYHgo7KmW5o56XEfsJC3myTomM5Uq0XtRxLhF4eLg6KoxBtYnuXC7eIxoyO3Nt5H9C8P7b2qE/s640/ikat0004.JPG" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The jumpsuit before a final minor modification</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL5xHhRLVX4M1XOYbDv6EBrZiRfSi7tcCQkCA_nONtahIfkwaOa-LNnpfOmct4UWybKKTAdVUDBNsIL8eT9YBvcVU2mRl_OBFs3R26KEIJIQtT6fSKYUNnoj4-DAtHW6CjU6B_kz28c9rc/s1600/ikat0003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL5xHhRLVX4M1XOYbDv6EBrZiRfSi7tcCQkCA_nONtahIfkwaOa-LNnpfOmct4UWybKKTAdVUDBNsIL8eT9YBvcVU2mRl_OBFs3R26KEIJIQtT6fSKYUNnoj4-DAtHW6CjU6B_kz28c9rc/s640/ikat0003.JPG" width="426" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The dress
and the jumpsuit fit well, with only a minor modification needed. But before we
sent them back to the tailor, Flounder and I did a little photo shoot in the
historic area around Feruza’s shop with the idea that she could use the images
as advertisement or in her applications to craft/art shows.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsWxiO-_JqfTf5WEaLnggMwWJVZJiuY8gD6Bfa3n9-P2SLWakLA97R0NyOIqeYQRmV99T-YnueWsGAmDBRv2SZ1EYTHhHHGObCC9K2uwRdDcWpDlFQ1RgqDmiI8KD1SH07YVOHKH5nsaUV/s1600/ikat0001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsWxiO-_JqfTf5WEaLnggMwWJVZJiuY8gD6Bfa3n9-P2SLWakLA97R0NyOIqeYQRmV99T-YnueWsGAmDBRv2SZ1EYTHhHHGObCC9K2uwRdDcWpDlFQ1RgqDmiI8KD1SH07YVOHKH5nsaUV/s640/ikat0001.JPG" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From our photo shoot in historic Bukhara</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">To take a
look at one such application, Feruza invited us to her family’s home, a
beautifully restored house in the old Jewish neighborhood of Bukhara, where we
were welcomed by her mother, plied with tea and sweets, and attempted to make
sense of the convoluted application process and demanding English-only
questionnaire.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Two hours
later we parted, having only made a small dent in the process. I picked up my
garments after their final adjustment—jewel-like and perfect—and knew that
could Feruza only get direct access to more American and European buyers, both
she and those customers would be richer for the exchange.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Until that
day, if you travel to Bukhara, stop at Feruza’s shop and, like that kid with
$10 at a candy store, go nuts.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPidG5At5uZPxOnpfQvgs3i9gs56nbGna-fa8wstViXLbe2AJ_YoZMicMjKpmD-zeJ3GybG8ynxmRT-GxZgiEnce3xPV1MRdEVZKPPymoHLdcOFITfkwruLo5BcAQMhxB8G81g0gnJIIV5/s1600/ikat0006.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPidG5At5uZPxOnpfQvgs3i9gs56nbGna-fa8wstViXLbe2AJ_YoZMicMjKpmD-zeJ3GybG8ynxmRT-GxZgiEnce3xPV1MRdEVZKPPymoHLdcOFITfkwruLo5BcAQMhxB8G81g0gnJIIV5/s640/ikat0006.JPG" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another photo from the photo shoot :)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Feruza’s
shop is located near the archway just southwest of Lyabi Hauz. Approximate
opening hours 8am – 8pm.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Str. B.
Naqshband #78<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Trading
dome ‘Toki Saraffan’<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: x-small;">(+99865)
224 15 70<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: x-small;">(+99891)
413 97 37<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: x-small;">(+99890)
715 99 99<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-size: x-small;">feruzaikat@mail.ru</span></span></div>
</div>
bliss vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17415159622221679432noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3254062981129763077.post-86074062181823684912016-08-01T05:04:00.001+02:002016-08-02T17:39:54.484+02:00Glimpses of Samarkand<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg0ikKLUfiY3iys16MsrXRwSxFKRrXOPrRwQQqe3HaZgjfrB_2lMxb8FeLKZugmDc7tslv_sEYWy0L1jy_1y7DMySVqCAOxd6AlwrTOpZEe-0_JpCacasoAtAbWy3CzCiCvbxtPnU18PkL/s1600/samarkand+DSC01030.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg0ikKLUfiY3iys16MsrXRwSxFKRrXOPrRwQQqe3HaZgjfrB_2lMxb8FeLKZugmDc7tslv_sEYWy0L1jy_1y7DMySVqCAOxd6AlwrTOpZEe-0_JpCacasoAtAbWy3CzCiCvbxtPnU18PkL/s640/samarkand+DSC01030.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Unique geometric patterns on a mausoleum in Samarkand</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Where are
you from?’ a man in a white Daewoo slows down to ask us this question as he
passes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘America,’
says Flounder.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘How is my
country?’ he asks, the car now past us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Great!’
says Flounder.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Beautiful!’
I chime in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The man
drives off smiling.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 0cm 1.0pt 0cm; padding: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">We’re in
Samarkand now, our sixth stop in Uzbekistan, and we’ve been met at every turn
with warmth, curiosity, enthusiasm, and kindness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0cm 0cm 1.0pt 0cm;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 0cm 1.0pt 0cm; padding: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Hours
later, in the relief of the evening, we walk down the same small street—barely
wide enough for one car—passing a mother with her two small children. The boy,
toddly and a bit uncertain on his legs, greets us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Hello how
are you I’m fine thank you!’ he squeaks, the words sliding together to make a
single sentence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Next his
sister, not older than five, takes her turn.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Hello how
are you I’m fine thank you!’ Again the words slide together, this time in a
melodic song, one that’s stuck in my head through the next day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0cm 0cm 1.0pt 0cm;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 0cm 1.0pt 0cm; padding: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivB2m7TNBbl2Hp5PE2-t9gRhhsmzw1qqdXbTitaJM-Z9fnoQDeM1pTNNLHspYXBIA4kjtgNfHQPBA4kbXF5cqI8T_wnz_YBLsESTN-nb9J7F0wfR5ObwuV-hzmmsy_QnoK6nZm1m4cD0QG/s1600/samarkand+DSC00994.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivB2m7TNBbl2Hp5PE2-t9gRhhsmzw1qqdXbTitaJM-Z9fnoQDeM1pTNNLHspYXBIA4kjtgNfHQPBA4kbXF5cqI8T_wnz_YBLsESTN-nb9J7F0wfR5ObwuV-hzmmsy_QnoK6nZm1m4cD0QG/s640/samarkand+DSC00994.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He asked Flounder to take his photo</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 0cm 1.0pt 0cm; padding: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It’s hot in
Samarkand. It’s been hot everywhere in Uzbekistan, but somehow I feel it more
acutely. Maybe it’s the wide, shadeless lanes and the grand, sun-beat plazas.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The majesty
of the city is unmistakable, and even for one who’s not a history buff, it’s
impossible to remain unmoved by the history of Samarkand. Situated firmly on
the Silk Road, visited by Alexander the Great, by Chenggis Khan, ruled by Amir
Timur (a venerated hero in Uzbekistan) and educated by his grandson, the
renowned astronomer Ulugbek.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8W1IaIevEBMZsBfdtahrNahziPrlY3wuc833Ce132ID85qx72Hl8i-d1Z0Wu7ND0Sp0v0sKqzDc0zOdxboSA9FrqEY490gRY_Xs3ODMA9mq1dtRrpPZlhorXCWCwBTcrpxxXvVvNden7L/s1600/samarkand+DSC00997.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8W1IaIevEBMZsBfdtahrNahziPrlY3wuc833Ce132ID85qx72Hl8i-d1Z0Wu7ND0Sp0v0sKqzDc0zOdxboSA9FrqEY490gRY_Xs3ODMA9mq1dtRrpPZlhorXCWCwBTcrpxxXvVvNden7L/s640/samarkand+DSC00997.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Registan at night</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Much has
been written of the Registan, a collection of gloriously tiled medrassas facing
each other and somehow still standing through the buffeting of hundreds of
years of earthquakes. There’s nothing new to say. Indeed, facing the fluted
domes and the glittering tiles of the lion-tigers of the Sher-Dor Medrassa as
the sun set and the colors shifted and glowed, I sat content in a wordless
state. I couldn’t find the words, but in that moment I really didn’t need any.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7eDXRPm4hyeBfrIK6ZHKAlgVCpqlBrPu5SyLj89xVIvlDpujFruMIClK-b8IL69sucKklf_gfoTeB4PDbswL1qgzrA1c_YMlpkBoe2l5GMpJlUVjLdWNIK9u6kICMsWfmMx8WypGMd2Ms/s1600/samarkand+DSC00970.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7eDXRPm4hyeBfrIK6ZHKAlgVCpqlBrPu5SyLj89xVIvlDpujFruMIClK-b8IL69sucKklf_gfoTeB4PDbswL1qgzrA1c_YMlpkBoe2l5GMpJlUVjLdWNIK9u6kICMsWfmMx8WypGMd2Ms/s640/samarkand+DSC00970.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Sher-Dor Medrassa</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">We’re
sitting in the precious shade near the Bibi Khanym Mosque. It’s midday and the
air is starting pick up heat. Two teenage boys stand near us and it’s clear
they want to approach. I smile and they come over, gesturing to their camera
phone. Flounder and I stand up to pose for a few photos with the younger boy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Rakhmat,’
he says.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Thank
you,’ the older boy translates.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0cm 0cm 1.0pt 0cm;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 0cm 1.0pt 0cm; padding: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ01TSfSbo8s_orRbojkVchz1_OoNd0RNjU8kk_Z9QOQB4IOGkU0rIb7s4oXgQIf-eDso8xULxHnmWDAIBZnDmq2JvxaTKthPaPZfFMDqTa1KXI5eauqX0iiS1CaRlgX9-_9HsEShkrbCl/s1600/samarkand+DSC01052.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ01TSfSbo8s_orRbojkVchz1_OoNd0RNjU8kk_Z9QOQB4IOGkU0rIb7s4oXgQIf-eDso8xULxHnmWDAIBZnDmq2JvxaTKthPaPZfFMDqTa1KXI5eauqX0iiS1CaRlgX9-_9HsEShkrbCl/s640/samarkand+DSC01052.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Commotion as the market closes</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">We’re
walking past the Bibi Khanym Mosque when we spot a commotion near the Siob
Bazaar. It’s 15 minutes past closing time and the sellers are keen to unload
their wares before the trip home, while the buyers are looking to score a bargain.
It’s whirl of activity, with changing money and bundles of herbs changing
hands. We walk closer and the vibrant smell hits us. First a wave of dill, a
high note above the medley of parsley, cilantro, mint, and basil. There are
green onions too, small and pungent.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnpyKkypeWmwtj4sLRkIJBqvvE7UZlOqTF7kUKp6zNW94cyLfunRjifmceh5_AVujiHmvVMMlwBE-VQAjjoo09oJo86O4a9UgvPWb5n4a9CzZ2eUR10LSt7SGENrLaWIxcaImVEA0y_zk2/s1600/samarkand+DSC01058.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnpyKkypeWmwtj4sLRkIJBqvvE7UZlOqTF7kUKp6zNW94cyLfunRjifmceh5_AVujiHmvVMMlwBE-VQAjjoo09oJo86O4a9UgvPWb5n4a9CzZ2eUR10LSt7SGENrLaWIxcaImVEA0y_zk2/s640/samarkand+DSC01058.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The fluted dome of the Bibi Khanym Mosque</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Behind us
the sun sets on the fluted dome of the mosque, tiled in designs and Arabic
writing in shades of blue, and I turn away from the bazaar to admire the
gleaming majolica of the dome and to notice the stock-straight weeds that have
somehow burst from between the tiles of the 600-year-old and some 40-meter-tall
dome.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">From the
dwindling din of the bazaar, a halvah seller calls out to tempt me. I bargain
for a chunk of the fresh, flaky halvah made, unlike the more common sesame
variety, from sunflower seeds.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0cm 0cm 1.0pt 0cm;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 0cm 1.0pt 0cm; padding: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The day is
ending and we’re quickly losing heat and light as we climb a hill northeast of
Samarkand. We pass through a modern cemetery, haunted by the etched portraits
of the deceased looking down on us from each gravestone. Then, without warning
the cemetery shifts from modern to centuries old. We’ve entered the
Shoh-i-Zinda street of mausoleums, a row of beautifully tiled mausoleums from
the 14<sup>th</sup> and 15<sup>th</sup> centuries. It’s a revered site and
there are locals praying around us. As we walk, we hear the somber and melodic
singing of a priest reverberating through the street while the pious gather
around him, cupping their hands in a gesture of receiving blessings.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0cm 0cm 1.0pt 0cm;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 0cm 1.0pt 0cm; padding: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhetLJdmpPlBzMSF5sZ9tULx8RcyhPPOLdr7XyEN4V_kNS7URB5nazyhivpzh_cWDOmOa4UrW5Tk_T1DePTMOogfrJ9OMJ6VLGuq9l-_qivP1y6Dvufbhm19c0NOvNB6F-qw_S-ArejWMVv/s1600/samarkand+DSC01025.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhetLJdmpPlBzMSF5sZ9tULx8RcyhPPOLdr7XyEN4V_kNS7URB5nazyhivpzh_cWDOmOa4UrW5Tk_T1DePTMOogfrJ9OMJ6VLGuq9l-_qivP1y6Dvufbhm19c0NOvNB6F-qw_S-ArejWMVv/s640/samarkand+DSC01025.JPG" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The doorway of a mausoleum</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 0cm 1.0pt 0cm; padding: 0cm;">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Walking
back through the old city, we stop for two glass-bottle Cokes, the kind you
drink in the shop because the small bottles are collected, sterilized, and
reused. I don’t really like Coke, but I like these tiny, eco-before-it-was-cool
bottles.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">It’s our
last night in Samarkand and we’ve spent the day among ancient ruins of the
eleven-cities-deep Afrosiob and among young curious teenagers of Samarkand,
excited to hear about our impressions of their city and country.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd7WJM7u7JRDYMNoiSE3yYrQgeLYHVK0Hp25y8L0TXGdJ5zUumlWtZQtcqKD1W8EmJwYwyQvNLAH5FMuwVRaWsFXskNsgxZ0EPqMBCF7OpelAuWNSr73T7kfAST6GP6etPwX6XgaHe5RZj/s1600/samarkand+DSC01067.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd7WJM7u7JRDYMNoiSE3yYrQgeLYHVK0Hp25y8L0TXGdJ5zUumlWtZQtcqKD1W8EmJwYwyQvNLAH5FMuwVRaWsFXskNsgxZ0EPqMBCF7OpelAuWNSr73T7kfAST6GP6etPwX6XgaHe5RZj/s640/samarkand+DSC01067.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cotton candy sellers in the fading light</td></tr>
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After dinner, the light has faded by the time I walk back to the guesthouse and pass dozens of families, strolling and chatting, enjoying the night air. As I walk, I can feel the heat break and, at last, release its choke hold on the city. The clouds darkly roll in and for the first time during our travels in Uzbekistan, the sky opens, rain pours down, and I feel shiveringly, happily cold. Flounder, gone ahead to our guesthouse, somehow finds me with his umbrella and we walk back arm-in-arm through the narrow, dark lane.<br />
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bliss vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17415159622221679432noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3254062981129763077.post-34197985576042930082016-07-21T19:37:00.002+02:002016-07-21T19:47:57.610+02:00Khiva Dance Festival<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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It’s a surprise to no one when we blow a tire on the drive
from Nukus to Khiva. We’re in a share taxi after a long day driving off road in
the desert near the Aral Sea and our driver has been driving primarily in the
oncoming lane at far too high speeds given the condition of the road.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We laugh (what else to do?) and figuratively kick the tires.
It’s not a comfort to see zero tread and sizable cracks in each of the other
(as yet) intact tires. We point these out to the driver; he shrugs unconcerned
and, blown tire replaced, we tear off at the same speed as before.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We’re driving at dusk, past donkey carts loaded with green
hay, past solitary women waiting on the side of the road to hail a ride, and we
drive past rivers, lifebloods in this arid climate. At each river without fail
I see boys and men, young and old, swimming, bathing, and splashing about. In
the oppressive heat that lingers well into the evening, it’s easy to imagine
this as the joyful end to a long, hot day.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6rSsjloBWnABB0Pu3usUykbvOQqIPrmbKcdvO5v6vDrfqH1TBM4lXRJI13rofF1zKemKPvIbkbvLVcnJb5DDWWT5UZqDbXxSzthM38QzyNQLe3fWGeip4u9yTXnw2kLWvSHqvbRXb_fHg/s1600/khiva+ikatDSC00616.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6rSsjloBWnABB0Pu3usUykbvOQqIPrmbKcdvO5v6vDrfqH1TBM4lXRJI13rofF1zKemKPvIbkbvLVcnJb5DDWWT5UZqDbXxSzthM38QzyNQLe3fWGeip4u9yTXnw2kLWvSHqvbRXb_fHg/s640/khiva+ikatDSC00616.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Khiva at night</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5Fc0fAlAzbfHvSjzXFoFn9-0xOWZeqAr9ssigz76ikJJRr1u6zUDybHBahlSnuLWbJS9rL_Dwlj0NJp0Z9yMXr8Qwg1RECkqJWsBSrUJZ7S9i_8P995Kn2x7NvZJIlsOdMgmiB2Q_vmCY/s1600/khiva+ikatDSC00571.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5Fc0fAlAzbfHvSjzXFoFn9-0xOWZeqAr9ssigz76ikJJRr1u6zUDybHBahlSnuLWbJS9rL_Dwlj0NJp0Z9yMXr8Qwg1RECkqJWsBSrUJZ7S9i_8P995Kn2x7NvZJIlsOdMgmiB2Q_vmCY/s640/khiva+ikatDSC00571.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Khiva at dusk</td></tr>
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As we near Khiva and neighboring Urgench, the landscape
changes from agrarian with small, one-room baked mud huts to rows of
suburb-like new houses and broad, smoothly paved avenues.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Khiva itself is something from Disney’s Epcot—all baked mud
traditional buildings, the inner city surrounded entirely by formidable
turreted fortress walls. And every few hundred meters the small tan buildings
are peppered with cerulean and azure tiled minarets or square-shaped madrassas,
lined with classrooms and centred with trees and garden-filled courtyards.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We’d read that some people find the extensive restoration
and the spotlessly clean inner city of Khiva bland and overly manufactured. And
I might have agreed, except that our visit coincided with the Khiva Dance
Festival.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHi2toABAQgxxr_U5sASO7tybQaDPUGhmRu_vz9luhhymebt3S95t1ihCbW4sZ3poykyFHVnjr3KtepQIWxUmrvTM2d3qNJE47H3C-6J8mRaMoO5fXEw0grVOF8e5vc2huOc7MOkQecNUi/s1600/khiva+ikatDSC00634.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHi2toABAQgxxr_U5sASO7tybQaDPUGhmRu_vz9luhhymebt3S95t1ihCbW4sZ3poykyFHVnjr3KtepQIWxUmrvTM2d3qNJE47H3C-6J8mRaMoO5fXEw0grVOF8e5vc2huOc7MOkQecNUi/s640/khiva+ikatDSC00634.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The unfinished minaret in the middle of the old city</td></tr>
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As such, the small city was flooded with local tourists and
singers and dancers from all over Uzbekistan. Like us, many of them were seeing
Khiva for the first time, photographing the preserved buildings and poking
their heads into myriad little museums.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsfX8UbOievEXZEL-dlSEvpZ0GmoHVcn9gfU7yi7VTlFS7YZr_3XS_gj-rfIP84xS5LN4yzj0KspT83tPRtsgnCX6fzJdIA_UbGOm7RzIEwTv_eS4S2E4Q9pqax_2qv8J3vm71bK3q1Gf8/s1600/khiva+ikatDSC00580.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsfX8UbOievEXZEL-dlSEvpZ0GmoHVcn9gfU7yi7VTlFS7YZr_3XS_gj-rfIP84xS5LN4yzj0KspT83tPRtsgnCX6fzJdIA_UbGOm7RzIEwTv_eS4S2E4Q9pqax_2qv8J3vm71bK3q1Gf8/s640/khiva+ikatDSC00580.JPG" width="426" /></a></div>
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On our first morning, we entered the inner city to the
singing and dancing of two different brightly dressed troupes, many of whom
seemed lost in the music they were singing and caught up in the frenzy of their
own joyful dancing. We found ourselves outnumbered by Uzbek tourists, holding
up their smartphones to record the dancing around them. Many of them came from
small towns or provinces and seemed as interested in us and they were in the
sights around them.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We happily posed for dozens and dozens of photos, though I felt
aware of shabbily I was dressed; many of the domestic tourists came dressed in
coloful finery and the dancers, decked in exuberant traditional costumes, also
asked to take photos with us. We obliged, exchanging smiles and a few shared
words of English, Uzbek, and Russian.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8AxZmc-HiN3SpvXxY_tcsb8eM5bZaxrY6ifvu7LYUL0ae7sQq1sxqbo1aqIjW4BPcWolHPLm472BgEbCp2YZTgtooMZqtFYCCQcHJ1-IlPTmKZtZBVLp1jXsHd4mwBgt3fWyAl0_-u00k/s1600/khiva+ikatDSC00418.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8AxZmc-HiN3SpvXxY_tcsb8eM5bZaxrY6ifvu7LYUL0ae7sQq1sxqbo1aqIjW4BPcWolHPLm472BgEbCp2YZTgtooMZqtFYCCQcHJ1-IlPTmKZtZBVLp1jXsHd4mwBgt3fWyAl0_-u00k/s640/khiva+ikatDSC00418.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I take a photo of some Uzbek tourists shortly before they ask Flounder and I to join them in their group photo</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuEcWFGneE1GQ_TrOUFpOJxz8GN0RDQmW_qbQ6Ot5F9r-zXS0kzzvDZ0f9VjD3oDi8HCDVtpsK9tGhzmWUkhIub8IRbrzSwdc-nb8xIbguL-LD52JkUwkNJdQUJgbQVc66HhUzHgbTEVNa/s1600/khiva+ikatDSC00615.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuEcWFGneE1GQ_TrOUFpOJxz8GN0RDQmW_qbQ6Ot5F9r-zXS0kzzvDZ0f9VjD3oDi8HCDVtpsK9tGhzmWUkhIub8IRbrzSwdc-nb8xIbguL-LD52JkUwkNJdQUJgbQVc66HhUzHgbTEVNa/s640/khiva+ikatDSC00615.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another group of Uzbek tourists pose for photos with us</td></tr>
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Young students approached us, including a girl from Nukus
whose face, already bright and smiling, lit up even more when we told her where
we were from. She confided in rapid, excited English that she wanted to go to
the US to study. I sincerely hope she gets the chance, as her enthusiasm and
radiance would only benefit any place she chose to visit. We chatted for a few
more minutes and as we parted she told us a phrase we would hear many times
that day, even from Uzbeks who spoke almost no other English. <o:p></o:p></div>
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With a glowing and wide smile she said, ‘You are welcome to
Uzbekistan!’<o:p></o:p></div>
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More photos of dancers and singers at the Khiva Dance Festival:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH2rUosKA_rikV5OhYMlIHUl2sfAhXivYRa3sY5jniJcZugHJPwhu1WpYm3ARxM1S_0KI_P-10idQ0U2luc_KZ0vByyBwWwiO5be4J2-SvHAHAd12VoWDtLYADCnoueaQSlFDuy336lvEX/s1600/khiva+ikatDSC00608.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH2rUosKA_rikV5OhYMlIHUl2sfAhXivYRa3sY5jniJcZugHJPwhu1WpYm3ARxM1S_0KI_P-10idQ0U2luc_KZ0vByyBwWwiO5be4J2-SvHAHAd12VoWDtLYADCnoueaQSlFDuy336lvEX/s640/khiva+ikatDSC00608.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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bliss vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17415159622221679432noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3254062981129763077.post-34190438849432451102016-07-19T14:17:00.000+02:002016-07-19T14:23:06.582+02:00Swimming in the Aral Sea<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘You weren’t
worried about swimming in the Aral Sea?’ our fellow travelers, a group of three
from Poland, asked us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLQCk3gr5pHfNA5flRfAZY4bnJm35Yzc6A1sT-Ct-JPwLSmsoctGblWgsxNRaO8XE2pfJ0IdOnxdqXgz6FlcUz5nYu3KXVU_dD-7wmgSEG-5_ob6bA11pXNlCAYnvwUMHKb3iowCZNLlTc/s1600/nukus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLQCk3gr5pHfNA5flRfAZY4bnJm35Yzc6A1sT-Ct-JPwLSmsoctGblWgsxNRaO8XE2pfJ0IdOnxdqXgz6FlcUz5nYu3KXVU_dD-7wmgSEG-5_ob6bA11pXNlCAYnvwUMHKb3iowCZNLlTc/s640/nukus.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wading through the muck</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">At first I thought
they referred to the knee-deep stinky sludge we waded through to get to
swimmable, clear and buoyant water.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘It wasn’t
that bad,’ I told them. ‘Besides, when else will we get a chance to swim in the
Aral Sea?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Not much
longer,’ Anya said. ‘This part of the sea will be gone in three years.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw-_LeYq_dM7mXZi4vby2qu2fhG_IDGMlziDpQQnPICSoueKD62pEeuX-qwMSWUM7sHnfRqM6YuSUUtdtbcOViBbXKUglMVynWTl6uPotahiyKDqsNh8cXbHaKMcyucSwmKeaOo5bSM90j/s1600/nukus+DSC00055.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw-_LeYq_dM7mXZi4vby2qu2fhG_IDGMlziDpQQnPICSoueKD62pEeuX-qwMSWUM7sHnfRqM6YuSUUtdtbcOViBbXKUglMVynWTl6uPotahiyKDqsNh8cXbHaKMcyucSwmKeaOo5bSM90j/s640/nukus+DSC00055.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You can see the sludge along the shore</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The Polish
group, especially Anya, knew more about the sea than I (not a notable
accomplishment given my tendency to wing it, i.e. avoid research) and even more
than Flounder, an accomplished and relentless researcher.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">I soon realized that, far from referring to
unpleasant muck, the group was concerned about toxic chemicals in the water. During
soviet times, an island in the Aral Sea had been used to test anthrax and other
chemical weapons. Now, with the rapid and unprecedented shrinking of the sea,
that island is gone. What’s more, with evaporation, the toxic chemicals have surely
concentrated. No one knows how much, as the government is not keen to allow
testing nor to bring more publicity to what is often called one of the greatest
ecological disasters of all time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Swimming in
the Aral Sea is a bit like swimming in the Dead Sea in Jordan and Israel. Even Flounder,
who finds floating difficult, could sit back in the water as if relaxing in a
recliner. See, along with (theoretical) toxicity, salinity has concentrated and
will continue to do so until what’s left of the Uzbek Aral Sea is gone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm4eYF6ShPAGDTRgt5V5lQrCRWBKlLDV3oLpqu5VK4OKogwvitRo0d5UbG-2rdatPjvhya1RSL1p3xpnyEieDWtORr5xi5xeyir9aGVn2F-NLaDDgrCw2U-sMSNDisEC0jzrIjpvMf2_Ku/s1600/nukus+DSC00345.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm4eYF6ShPAGDTRgt5V5lQrCRWBKlLDV3oLpqu5VK4OKogwvitRo0d5UbG-2rdatPjvhya1RSL1p3xpnyEieDWtORr5xi5xeyir9aGVn2F-NLaDDgrCw2U-sMSNDisEC0jzrIjpvMf2_Ku/s640/nukus+DSC00345.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You can see how much is gone in just three years</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">To get
here, to the western, deepest edge of the rapidly shrinking sea, we took a caravan
of two SUVs on a smooth road that turned into a pothole-filled road that turned
into dusty tracks through low shrubs populated by twittering birds escaping the
heat of the desert sun. As we drove we approached a broad expansive plateau—the
Ustyurt plateau, a tectonic plate that was thrust upwards about 150 meters,
causing the Caspian Sea to separate from the Aral Sea.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD8SIYEGpOH-m_Fkeh1HBYJJW_L-4fWuAI6zzGT-DuoVVi4-_HEKwz_n9TJDCLH8vJcxHif8_CnW2IiJ56GJWHkp9obp5oHy6tUdt8SzsZbe33l77JDW6el5UM7KytYh9z6Ady4tCfVarw/s1600/nukus+DSC09958.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD8SIYEGpOH-m_Fkeh1HBYJJW_L-4fWuAI6zzGT-DuoVVi4-_HEKwz_n9TJDCLH8vJcxHif8_CnW2IiJ56GJWHkp9obp5oHy6tUdt8SzsZbe33l77JDW6el5UM7KytYh9z6Ady4tCfVarw/s640/nukus+DSC09958.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">We drove
onto the steppe, on dirty, dusty tracks cutting, crossing, forking, branching,
and rejoining across miles and miles and miles.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4084_Ih_M7qQ514nKsgOoa9Z5lCXLjnbVRS11aNL0mgeWI7iMypjqdb9JgnlK233ZIhEoKZRvWXuJt29AZtn1Q8jZbyd0a3KQEyAA5mU_JQoTHagJV79087SO74vpPPejoYLjHw8Hc9oH/s1600/nukus+DSC09924.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4084_Ih_M7qQ514nKsgOoa9Z5lCXLjnbVRS11aNL0mgeWI7iMypjqdb9JgnlK233ZIhEoKZRvWXuJt29AZtn1Q8jZbyd0a3KQEyAA5mU_JQoTHagJV79087SO74vpPPejoYLjHw8Hc9oH/s640/nukus+DSC09924.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The plateau</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">For hours
we saw no one and the landscape, flat and sage green, changed little save for
the hastening birds and the occasional glimpse of glimmering grey-blue water in
the distance beyond and below the plateau.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisCDmxOXvP8-ZTT4qCqzHG45ocryTZhcqkkpHJHkZD4hUtPGp3X3BXnAtVdARw9djY-8Kgwye98pchygQIqbpWCvNY-YcYpsYv7tQ5fnsgTvxbZAhdjAEsoFJh3x4J52b031qBR3trvtcZ/s1600/nukus+DSC09921.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisCDmxOXvP8-ZTT4qCqzHG45ocryTZhcqkkpHJHkZD4hUtPGp3X3BXnAtVdARw9djY-8Kgwye98pchygQIqbpWCvNY-YcYpsYv7tQ5fnsgTvxbZAhdjAEsoFJh3x4J52b031qBR3trvtcZ/s640/nukus+DSC09921.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Flounder near the edge of the Ustyurt plateau</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The first
structure we passed, and indeed the first sign of human life aside from tire
tracks, was a cluster of ancient-looking low buildings and a smattering of
graves. The buildings, our driver told us in a staccato of Russian, Uzbek, and
English, had been a fish cannery only 70 years ago and the graves were occupied
by Poles and Russians who had worked and died in this desolate place, once a
soviet gulag.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3mmAARmOan3HLY-tQn63k_ySXfBhp4wwh3Jn0cPL-0aFRBtCIcS3-hljiNo1TLIPr8PThZHBBunXmHw00LWiB1iNTQ-3gJ1RK6z5vp5nZWMZ3oKBGMKYGVj7iv6cAf3Sok2SJgUz3umQL/s1600/nukus+DSC09974.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3mmAARmOan3HLY-tQn63k_ySXfBhp4wwh3Jn0cPL-0aFRBtCIcS3-hljiNo1TLIPr8PThZHBBunXmHw00LWiB1iNTQ-3gJ1RK6z5vp5nZWMZ3oKBGMKYGVj7iv6cAf3Sok2SJgUz3umQL/s640/nukus+DSC09974.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Graves, our fellow travellers, and our SUVs</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">We descended
further down the plateau and saw a hulking army green truck parked near a smoky
fire. Next to a concrete archway attached to nothing was a row of cots upon
which slept a few men, shaded from the brutal sun by a thin cloth draped over
them. They were fisherman (balıkçılar in Turkish and Uzbek, our driver
confirmed) who slept during the day and fished at night. They came to this
remote spot, once near the Aral Sea, now near a small isolated lake, for ten
days at a time before returning to the nearest town, some hours away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The next
signs of life we passed were two trailers, one belonging to an Uzbek petrol
company and the other belonging to Malaysia-based Petronas. An economic upside
(and yes, I know that’s a contentious and complicated statement) to the
devastation of the Aral Sea mismanagement was the discovery of gas- and
oil-rich deposits beneath the now arid land. The economy, once dependent on the
sea, is now dependent on oil, though the profits seem spirited away with precious
little money staying in the depressed region.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOnP3XrMihvap8eKD5wE39ukczN3UNxeu7CWSBBf9ec3Z0BrVd3AcaNRHCXE0TFlqsWrEHiYXlVvdbM8AUaemgsu70Ya8yhLXsabDiOPrbCsXXesA9qFNMS4AxfnQcCnNDSNKXfehOI3Av/s1600/nukus+DSC09910.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOnP3XrMihvap8eKD5wE39ukczN3UNxeu7CWSBBf9ec3Z0BrVd3AcaNRHCXE0TFlqsWrEHiYXlVvdbM8AUaemgsu70Ya8yhLXsabDiOPrbCsXXesA9qFNMS4AxfnQcCnNDSNKXfehOI3Av/s640/nukus+DSC09910.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">When at
last we reached the western shore of the Aral Sea, flat and shining, the sun
setting behind us, an American in our caravan who had just finished his military
service looked out and declared, ‘The soviets really fucked that up, didn’t
they?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">No one responded.
The question seemed rhetorical after all, but I wondered if anyone else was
thinking what I was: Will not some future generation, looking at the
environmental wreckage of pollution and climate change we're enacting, ask rhetorically, ‘We
really fucked that up, didn’t we?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibqTkHdjFYPW7p747FWRvTJHTsxbd0xd0bBqAf0XiHPdsp0ulwabvee4OmIEJgVC_TnYyjsIvAPrJka9l0lgw2RTKvUq8Yc3vzKRvm01K5tcQUR2yk5dTxAciuJ8yNB_RDsyEjHz5yFXnN/s1600/nukus+DSC00339.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibqTkHdjFYPW7p747FWRvTJHTsxbd0xd0bBqAf0XiHPdsp0ulwabvee4OmIEJgVC_TnYyjsIvAPrJka9l0lgw2RTKvUq8Yc3vzKRvm01K5tcQUR2yk5dTxAciuJ8yNB_RDsyEjHz5yFXnN/s640/nukus+DSC00339.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A ship sits where the shore of the Aral Sea once was</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1RCzIuki_XnQvWZwyFPTTHbey2ZISIVgmSwiOR_GyHxzsIAsg8FgSWrZKxIwLJxRcIuM1y2j3wwVfNzBrC9aG0-ApKRsMbWiZ8NYzfMOK8vqLKPVwlwcwJ8r7RmFI88KTsWhd29zMzNro/s1600/nukus+DSC00362.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1RCzIuki_XnQvWZwyFPTTHbey2ZISIVgmSwiOR_GyHxzsIAsg8FgSWrZKxIwLJxRcIuM1y2j3wwVfNzBrC9aG0-ApKRsMbWiZ8NYzfMOK8vqLKPVwlwcwJ8r7RmFI88KTsWhd29zMzNro/s640/nukus+DSC00362.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">We camped
that night near the western shore of the sea, under a clear sky and an umbrella
of stars.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">As we sat
around a dinner of plov, salad, bread, and french fries, the Polish friends
asked us if we weren’t worried about swimming in the Aral Sea.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">No, I wasn’t
worried about swimming in the rapidly disappearing sea. But the trip through a
swiftly altered and devastated landscape, caused by human choices, left me
worried about a lot of things.</span></div>
</div>
bliss vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17415159622221679432noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3254062981129763077.post-36021531778746974472016-07-13T18:46:00.000+02:002016-07-13T18:58:42.654+02:00Royalty, luxury, and a day without modern amenities in the far west of Uzbekistan<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Royalty in the western frontier</b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Is this what royalty feels like?’ Flounder asks me as we
sit alone in a spacious restaurant, being served a three-course vegetarian meal
by an unassuming but solicitous waiter. ‘Eating alone in a large dining room,
our every need waited on?’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV9gpeTFKed7IoV9iYDEj-1C6bEym567Fz4h0bxsNo0Iw0mHvLeQHOlkS1OfCmrOWLfHvdsOf8kHdXJn9l-vouTyNBPeuqxQ5a_rgoFG357dPrg99Z0_bhRoSVppel_p5TNaN9sJjOsDHT/s1600/DSC09853.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV9gpeTFKed7IoV9iYDEj-1C6bEym567Fz4h0bxsNo0Iw0mHvLeQHOlkS1OfCmrOWLfHvdsOf8kHdXJn9l-vouTyNBPeuqxQ5a_rgoFG357dPrg99Z0_bhRoSVppel_p5TNaN9sJjOsDHT/s640/DSC09853.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arrival in dusty Nukus</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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We’re sitting in our hotel restaurant in Nukus, Uzbekistan,
enjoying a complimentary dinner in exchange for an oversight on the hotel’s
side, but feeling quite awkward in the otherwise empty room.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Is anyone else staying here?’ I ask rhetorically, but
Flounder confirms the presence of another couple, including an intriguing description
of a woman in a bowler hat and striped scarf. I lose the plot for a minute and
wander down this train of thought: Who is this girl? Where is she from? I should
meet her, right?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Back to the meal: our responsive waiter pokes his head from
the kitchen door, sees we’re still eating, then disappears. We sit long after
finishing our meal (a little heavy on the cabbage and potatoes, but filling)
waiting for him, but eventually decide to awkwardly leave. Not before I,
over-friendly American that I am, open the kitchen door and call out ‘thank
you!’ to anyone who can hear.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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As far as I can tell, the takeaway from this experience is
that being royalty is just plain awkward. Clearly I need more practice ignoring
the presence, feelings, and opinions of others.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipnccVxw6qjmQeF5FqZJa5NH2TldaEqxMgkelHs-nEWkdyvhateQIoT3rS9sBDRqK9lAE0oN0evMyAaQtuAr7Jk3wvHXJMs2ecIu_2z1nQkvpQCYRzKMp0Q8GQ2TL51XJKDbsDHmLnFkm2/s1600/DSC09811.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipnccVxw6qjmQeF5FqZJa5NH2TldaEqxMgkelHs-nEWkdyvhateQIoT3rS9sBDRqK9lAE0oN0evMyAaQtuAr7Jk3wvHXJMs2ecIu_2z1nQkvpQCYRzKMp0Q8GQ2TL51XJKDbsDHmLnFkm2/s640/DSC09811.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Landscape near Nukus</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<b>ODOLNWTAOTDW</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our opulent hotel (by far the most expensive of our eight-week
trip through Central Asia) seemed slightly less opulent when we learned from
the receptionist that we wouldn’t have power from 6:00 a.m. the next morning –
the day I had planned to catch up on writing and maybe map out the next few
days of travel. But now, with no fan, no air con, no internet…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I advise you to wake up at 5:00 a.m. to shower,' the
receptionist said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
…and apparently no water, what would we do?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘And when will the electricity be back?’ I asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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‘It depends on when they are finishing. Maybe as early as
6:00 p.m. but definitely by 10:00 p.m.,’ she brightened as she finished the
sentence, but somehow the prospect of 16 hours without electricity in a
desolate desert town didn’t make me feel any better.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Savitsky museum was still open. We’d wanted to go there.
And what was that on the map? Was that an aquapark? (Or should I say аквапарк in this former soviet town?)<br />
<br /></div>
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‘Ooh, maybe it will be creepy and concrete and rundown!’ I
said excitedly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Maybe it will be full of children,’ Flounder rejoined.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Maybe!’ I responded with enthusiasm. ‘Let’s go and find
out!’<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
The morning of Our Day of Living Normally, Without the
Amenities of the Developed World (ODOLNWTATDW for short) arrived.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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We slept as late as we could, something we had become
practiced at during our 48-hour train ride from Almaty, Kazakhstan to Nukus.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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We started ODOLNWTATDW with a walking tour of the town – a place
truly unlike any other I’ve seen. The streets are broad, the blocks long, and
the official buildings have the oversized grandeur of a much larger, much more
important city. There are spacious plazas, each incomplete without a grandiose,
heroically posed statue in the center.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNqG8H3TKNGptPx-g2aO2v7Cq9YGBGFWGN6mw05CNwMVsSzI4sXz8Rfswlkg7alRubh_y41A6ukDOStCsSLWlhE2Ia5w-KPQfsFnGjlrCJYUhWXZ6pg2EPESHpvdcKgHNV-ZcOwRQEg8DA/s1600/IMG_20160713_163501.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNqG8H3TKNGptPx-g2aO2v7Cq9YGBGFWGN6mw05CNwMVsSzI4sXz8Rfswlkg7alRubh_y41A6ukDOStCsSLWlhE2Ia5w-KPQfsFnGjlrCJYUhWXZ6pg2EPESHpvdcKgHNV-ZcOwRQEg8DA/s640/IMG_20160713_163501.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A spacious plaza, this time with a fountain!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
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In fact, the place has the aplomb and irony-free spirit of a
soviet-heyday town, plopped down in a dusty, wind-strewn location at the edge
of anywhere, populated by kvass-drinking, cotton-farming, Uzbek-speaking,
Turkic people.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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As we walk, we see surprising signs of economic boom for a
region desolated and devastated by the Aral Sea, let’s say, mismanagement (unprecedented
economic disaster is a phrase more commonly used). New buildings, stylish
condos, Chanel knockoff stores are being built.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyy9J9VGLf7DjCd-D0PSBBSQ1k2naMJ0tkoYiHz7H49kktE_0lsa2OrfQ8jmoVHxz1FE3MJz8fLR8uMjN6S-APKuKwB-W0WWEH-nTFmv4Y-7efFM_Vw_pPrtjiVBdtikBitypkcnLlUvqF/s1600/IMG_20160713_133334.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyy9J9VGLf7DjCd-D0PSBBSQ1k2naMJ0tkoYiHz7H49kktE_0lsa2OrfQ8jmoVHxz1FE3MJz8fLR8uMjN6S-APKuKwB-W0WWEH-nTFmv4Y-7efFM_Vw_pPrtjiVBdtikBitypkcnLlUvqF/s640/IMG_20160713_133334.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">New buildings</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiexNccGqb0bRdgeBLuuVtlB70PqIxIdhTx1zmCZiqn0GeDE1PIaf_18wLksyL-e4Zxdkoe6YBMIygjqJRDnKPHWCy45Howm5wITaY-NUWkVUgMVfOth7jYZjrIE4oCQStPDzimzqNzFOjo/s1600/IMG_20160713_133306.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiexNccGqb0bRdgeBLuuVtlB70PqIxIdhTx1zmCZiqn0GeDE1PIaf_18wLksyL-e4Zxdkoe6YBMIygjqJRDnKPHWCy45Howm5wITaY-NUWkVUgMVfOth7jYZjrIE4oCQStPDzimzqNzFOjo/s640/IMG_20160713_133306.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">More new buildings</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
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Meanwhile, the aforementioned aquapark was everything I’d
hoped for – bizarre concrete mushrooms, tiled twisty slides shaped like snakes
and other unidentifiable animals, decrepit structures – except it was clearly
long abandoned.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEg61UYwOy5f9liyLUoycVwQF9qTz0_6UqAj4SUeo_SmHcnoeX76tyC5ar_h_QTL6BEgxBneMJZ91uE62-3PCNOTdqi6rfiQYp7_sQXakNMGlVNWXFXPtVnI1YkiqFmRGS1Mtzy0mQC7T0/s1600/IMG_20160713_131545.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEg61UYwOy5f9liyLUoycVwQF9qTz0_6UqAj4SUeo_SmHcnoeX76tyC5ar_h_QTL6BEgxBneMJZ91uE62-3PCNOTdqi6rfiQYp7_sQXakNMGlVNWXFXPtVnI1YkiqFmRGS1Mtzy0mQC7T0/s640/IMG_20160713_131545.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gotta love those mushrooms</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCyVZ7unZCh52f5Pq0pp5d4UsBoSK-6iY93FLubUUUaf2gh5JHCHP3j990r_wyEmrAvQ2eChOAhzQy4FUknvN59cFpz53s9f0IQMd4Bwz6bR1kyp5deu5qxSgnobzFkuibuRaotgr9d8GS/s1600/IMG_20160713_131742.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCyVZ7unZCh52f5Pq0pp5d4UsBoSK-6iY93FLubUUUaf2gh5JHCHP3j990r_wyEmrAvQ2eChOAhzQy4FUknvN59cFpz53s9f0IQMd4Bwz6bR1kyp5deu5qxSgnobzFkuibuRaotgr9d8GS/s640/IMG_20160713_131742.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The twisty slide thing!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Undeterred, we pushed on – to the central market, where
despite the recent boom of small minimarkets, most citizens of Nukus still did
their shopping. It was also where the marshrutkas, a system of miniscule
intercity buses, and share taxis to other destinations left from.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
First of all, the market was hot; most places unshaded,
receiving the full brunt of the midday sun.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Second of all, who doesn’t love a market? Yellow carrots? Football-shaped
cantaloupes? Tomatoes, dill, green onions, beets, parsley, peaches, and purple
grapes? Yes please. Cheap plastic clips, flyswatters, and chemical hair dye of
dubious origin? I’ll pass.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDN4mZPEh3Mw2PxD1if2aWQKjPtv06sD3gtE3qGCkS4kJbfdBzr9CZ-1eKjuYNK10rgjLyemqXkK2yhjOsHOqXyGTYCu5z9SuImOPtbM0CpmzoELOZcUfCCJ-AwFCMlove9kCLAuyWAhet/s1600/IMG_20160713_135339.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDN4mZPEh3Mw2PxD1if2aWQKjPtv06sD3gtE3qGCkS4kJbfdBzr9CZ-1eKjuYNK10rgjLyemqXkK2yhjOsHOqXyGTYCu5z9SuImOPtbM0CpmzoELOZcUfCCJ-AwFCMlove9kCLAuyWAhet/s640/IMG_20160713_135339.jpg" width="358" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Precious shade in the central market</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
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Third of all, despite being the only tourists in the place
(and though we dressed modestly, we very clearly were not from around there),
we were the opposite of a spectacle. Unlike in some other countries (Vietnam, I’m
looking at you) where children wave, smile, and greet incessantly while adults
shyly look, not wanting to stare, here in Nukus the children seemed unimpressed
by us and the adults avoided my gaze. It certainly made walking through the
market a relaxing and unhurried experience. As long as I kept out of everyone’s
way, I could take my time and feel thoroughly unrushed and unpressured to buy
anything.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFk8Y4uDosvpK3y-Ui_QPSjSaojyRCQLk8_4Mohd8saJjVmBT3-KoumaNmiCiENoQhizQhRo87YeFPvB3-GfVG-OcyhsUmgx-toUvaTDGg67fv5E9-BbwvPf7qDVQp9iAG8MLtec-b8VZd/s1600/IMG_20160713_135303.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFk8Y4uDosvpK3y-Ui_QPSjSaojyRCQLk8_4Mohd8saJjVmBT3-KoumaNmiCiENoQhizQhRo87YeFPvB3-GfVG-OcyhsUmgx-toUvaTDGg67fv5E9-BbwvPf7qDVQp9iAG8MLtec-b8VZd/s640/IMG_20160713_135303.jpg" width="358" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lots of these brooms for sale</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Fourth of all, that heat though. I simply don’t do well in
the heat. It’s the pitta dosha in me :) <a href="http://www.eattasteheal.com/ayurveda101/eth_bodytypes.htm" target="_blank">(Read on for a glimpse into my childhood! My family doctor was an Ayurvedic physician.)</a><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fifth of all, counting in Turkish and Uzbek are basically
the same. Joy!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Next on ODOLNWTATDW, we visited the Savinsky museum, an
impressive and important preserver of avant garde soviet art to which I surely won’t
begin to do justice.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The story goes, more or less, like this: Savinsky was an
refined Muscovite who, after a visit to Nukus in the 1960s, thought, ‘This
backwater, middle of nowhere town would be the perfect place to preserve and
hide all the illicit and illegal soviet art that is banned everywhere in the
USSR. No one would think to look here!’ And he was right. It was the perfect
place. So he applied for permission to start a museum of Ethnographic Art from
Karakalpakstan (the region encompassing and surrounding Nukus) and used that
museum as a front for his real purpose—preservation of otherwise lost soviet
art.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://www.discovery-uzbekistan.com/archive/2005/images/3-1.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the most famous works from the museum. I read, but can't confirm, that the artist was forcibly placed into a mental institution as a result of this painting.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
And here I must admit that I actually enjoyed the
ethnographic section—with beautiful embroidered headdresses, silk ikat robes,
and a fully intact Karakalpakstan yurt—more than the scores of paintings that
were the real draw of the museum. But I decided long ago to travel for love,
not for the should-sees and must-sees. So I lingered by the ikat (and also by
the gloriously cool air conditioning).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://www.karakalpak.com/images/femalecostume.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fabulous ikat! Image from karakalpak.com</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So what did we learn from ODOLNWTATDW? Modern amenities are
awesome? Soviet-inspired aquaparks should never shut down? I don’t know, man,
not everything’s a lesson. I’m busy thinking about tomorrow—when we leave on an
expedition to the Aral Sea.</div>
</div>
bliss vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17415159622221679432noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3254062981129763077.post-19270506064095472532016-06-27T11:55:00.000+02:002016-06-27T11:55:01.454+02:00Barcelona Impressions<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Start up the blog again. Dust it off. I'm darting around a lot in time and place, so bear with me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9f74FmFCFLjMwiW1xsuJ9pWGo3qGWUsuwBUMiyQkzWG6A_C3vSkywZ0kxA1T5SWh79Gjo0zIXDIln_eGIevlXP2z9DLdGGoT44_LwajfQTDPnMsRUJEsw4pVW-n-7U9QpcIxGX-3uPM6_/s1600/DSC08048.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9f74FmFCFLjMwiW1xsuJ9pWGo3qGWUsuwBUMiyQkzWG6A_C3vSkywZ0kxA1T5SWh79Gjo0zIXDIln_eGIevlXP2z9DLdGGoT44_LwajfQTDPnMsRUJEsw4pVW-n-7U9QpcIxGX-3uPM6_/s640/DSC08048.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At a vegan bar in Barcelona, Flounder tries to teach me to use manual focus. I fail repeatedly.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And now, in Barcelona for a month.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
First impression: My how things have changed! I thought this
of myself, not the city. You see, we took a taxi from the airport to our
apartment for the month. A taxi is an extravagance I simply never would have
allowed myself in my past travels. So yes, things have changed. I’m willing to
exchange money for convenience now. In the past, with my restrictive budget,
the idea of taking a taxi when two metro rides were available would never even
cross my mind.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGKut3CUfkOWRox1fEDISPI5X0EQMxe9_E9lWCVCZ6RQdc3-ddsgpJ8nNzfpA8Oh4iJl_q9u2Na0ptEFB86mYt9OUrK8bQv1rTJsoYX2MI53N0OSR9bIl7fYxfXKFYQ87_ijZUOG9HXx1S/s1600/C0003T01.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGKut3CUfkOWRox1fEDISPI5X0EQMxe9_E9lWCVCZ6RQdc3-ddsgpJ8nNzfpA8Oh4iJl_q9u2Na0ptEFB86mYt9OUrK8bQv1rTJsoYX2MI53N0OSR9bIl7fYxfXKFYQ87_ijZUOG9HXx1S/s640/C0003T01.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Out the window of an extravagant taxi</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Second impression: Ah yes, Barcelona is Mediterranean. Not
the lush green of Alabama nor the dusty gold of Dubai. Rather, rocky cliffs
dotted with stubborn shrubs, flowering cacti, rosemary growing to tree
proportions. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyj8v9JyXQMfOc-akCozoOgKT9VUXXIh4XEWVnLpM2hKHNH_XgGrhnIJJAAj9LE-ZuMNNYrDsGc2YKm1trl5_GULcLzj1qfTmr1n1PhV94xFfdCpVvePneB7wPU_OzRoInz1kcZkk6f62q/s1600/DSC07796.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyj8v9JyXQMfOc-akCozoOgKT9VUXXIh4XEWVnLpM2hKHNH_XgGrhnIJJAAj9LE-ZuMNNYrDsGc2YKm1trl5_GULcLzj1qfTmr1n1PhV94xFfdCpVvePneB7wPU_OzRoInz1kcZkk6f62q/s640/DSC07796.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I need that sweater and hood. I blame acclimatization. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAGBJ7rEDwTQjBSqIMO9G9HP5ZkRQ2pwecvKCkApvFq3zYjMCchhtyZ8CMLT0nkgf1RPKZ9KMyY9jOe9bytS-tUAskxklBZcTOs9QCHypIKLEoX7dXNOC99aoA29sJNILB0eUITPn248po/s1600/DSC08261.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAGBJ7rEDwTQjBSqIMO9G9HP5ZkRQ2pwecvKCkApvFq3zYjMCchhtyZ8CMLT0nkgf1RPKZ9KMyY9jOe9bytS-tUAskxklBZcTOs9QCHypIKLEoX7dXNOC99aoA29sJNILB0eUITPn248po/s640/DSC08261.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Flounder suns himself for warmth.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Third impression: It’s cold. I’m cold. Where are my pants?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpDARUp7HNP8STUYKklP6bMX4xaPPm9r0gwKemiYNGP3isjBa1ks3PAuZAEf4XtisQpgqRyFutJUWvRcnqV3GfgkP15aLWGWzkLJEcbAa8xWSN0mnHoYctrKjzHD0-SuZYNBGFvpR4RIis/s1600/DSC08039.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpDARUp7HNP8STUYKklP6bMX4xaPPm9r0gwKemiYNGP3isjBa1ks3PAuZAEf4XtisQpgqRyFutJUWvRcnqV3GfgkP15aLWGWzkLJEcbAa8xWSN0mnHoYctrKjzHD0-SuZYNBGFvpR4RIis/s640/DSC08039.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Walking! Everywhere!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fourth impression: I can walk everywhere! Walkability!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv1TY7a9W9lYJ_HdA7a90sMnAalPhMxwXdoklmLzxMreppc88x05A0TCkIfZsVigECQ9DfTETTHk4NWwGtFhjQMRHES2VxtdMQ9yvxf1TYlQjingrGPtn5nj68r6De84-PLcYt0osxzzbX/s1600/DSC08008.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv1TY7a9W9lYJ_HdA7a90sMnAalPhMxwXdoklmLzxMreppc88x05A0TCkIfZsVigECQ9DfTETTHk4NWwGtFhjQMRHES2VxtdMQ9yvxf1TYlQjingrGPtn5nj68r6De84-PLcYt0osxzzbX/s640/DSC08008.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Broad, tree-lined sidewalks</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fifth impression: In addition to the constellation of stars
on my google maps, denoting the choicest vegan restaurants, I’m constantly
walking by cafes and restaurants and bars advertising vegan options. Praise!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHdtdEV_3FA9gh6i_iyEIrdoV9Y3XzkRhj54hK8zrUeyKOAW7_BEj2KCoBSbD-D4X0p1hk-Wk5XNTmkAtzF8sI9iHrH5bX7QzoreTvnRJWQwdVawzhWKNFXVORFRw-wX_09DxiheEFDMS2/s1600/DSC07777.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHdtdEV_3FA9gh6i_iyEIrdoV9Y3XzkRhj54hK8zrUeyKOAW7_BEj2KCoBSbD-D4X0p1hk-Wk5XNTmkAtzF8sI9iHrH5bX7QzoreTvnRJWQwdVawzhWKNFXVORFRw-wX_09DxiheEFDMS2/s640/DSC07777.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sign in a random bakery we walked by</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyky13ibSH7MD1v-ght8s3IG_ymDTEzkirLnyLQ0uNLYF1kWmbT0jDG0afVrjZlIzD-H-Cs0B8009JkeuPqnZvNhTzhIHAeB3QodZk_LIFWMbGCuqE05nWG4gQ6P8PAEhLQzrqB-9q-SZX/s1600/DSC08043.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyky13ibSH7MD1v-ght8s3IG_ymDTEzkirLnyLQ0uNLYF1kWmbT0jDG0afVrjZlIzD-H-Cs0B8009JkeuPqnZvNhTzhIHAeB3QodZk_LIFWMbGCuqE05nWG4gQ6P8PAEhLQzrqB-9q-SZX/s640/DSC08043.JPG" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Many restaurants here are Happy Cow approved :)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sixth impression: Gracia is the hipster neighbourhood. And
to me, <i>hipster</i> is not a pejorative.
Because Gracia is where I find two shops selling food in bulk—committed to
eliminating packaging and waste. It’s where I find a plethora of tattoo shops
using only vegan ink, thankyouverymuch. It’s where the art gallery that is
hosting Flounder’s month-long residency is (the reason we’re here, BTW). It’s
where I find a vegan bakery and the cheapest vegan restaurant—the one that
sells an <i>eat pussy not meat </i>tote bag
that I’m pretty sure I have to get.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik2MyIk1DbbGS9OKkJ7LYA327eF_klBWfBjCFRtV_33T7GNpFhAJKD1c1FBfO-5Kh8HcGoAWevv_D3s_O_9nEaKxl1NnkbIh05_0-8NNjNQxUivZNhrKuyDvs9SFF25xneBORqzZ1W4elj/s1600/DSC08184.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik2MyIk1DbbGS9OKkJ7LYA327eF_klBWfBjCFRtV_33T7GNpFhAJKD1c1FBfO-5Kh8HcGoAWevv_D3s_O_9nEaKxl1NnkbIh05_0-8NNjNQxUivZNhrKuyDvs9SFF25xneBORqzZ1W4elj/s640/DSC08184.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Watching a street festival in Gracia</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Seventh impression: Dogs! Not only is our apartment cat
named, contrarily, Dog, but literal, actual dogs are everywhere. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHW7o6b2PQmWO-_SgwJIYDMj1c05w5N2DsRcMd2w2LJokEtgaSR61-RlUZDFL-eilk7p0ysDHK8jcdtYlpfQ9Mcs-3siihVzegL5O7DKNO4OGs8Vup1G3IEx_YeSRUAoy5csdtRoR-z7t3/s1600/DSC08077.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHW7o6b2PQmWO-_SgwJIYDMj1c05w5N2DsRcMd2w2LJokEtgaSR61-RlUZDFL-eilk7p0ysDHK8jcdtYlpfQ9Mcs-3siihVzegL5O7DKNO4OGs8Vup1G3IEx_YeSRUAoy5csdtRoR-z7t3/s640/DSC08077.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dog</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is a city
that loves its dogs. We see dogs of all sizes walked on leashes, set loose in
numerous dog parks throughout the city. I yearn to pet each adorable dog as it
passes, but they’re all so damn well trained that they cannot be distracted
even by promises of behind-the-ear scratches. Some dogs are so behaved that
they walk through the busy city street sans leash, following a delectable scent
here and there, but sticking close to their humans.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilMnOJu6RxRbMdfTEOFarpIJY7rfth6zUHHK8ewlm9jrjBcuIhGxUGipycj7o1isyRI0zJfjXiouJLAIfMVvbmDqQx9l_XEXEzmmKtzTzoK_hzfMPFG9wm-z-FZIsWdKIec6co_belmu3c/s1600/DSC08037.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilMnOJu6RxRbMdfTEOFarpIJY7rfth6zUHHK8ewlm9jrjBcuIhGxUGipycj7o1isyRI0zJfjXiouJLAIfMVvbmDqQx9l_XEXEzmmKtzTzoK_hzfMPFG9wm-z-FZIsWdKIec6co_belmu3c/s640/DSC08037.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Puppy, part 1</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQz9dX-cvP4QRJlaKvXTwrAdLBohVjyBKjMrTzO2UqBGk0_gGLfpoWLDATq8zzBgKHNSEW5ISL__exOQaHmg0BZB478ZhoP9JODahvdeOBFJgA7YuMlZqW1fFBKNRYPohZ0ywGEtBWKKjk/s1600/DSC08148.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQz9dX-cvP4QRJlaKvXTwrAdLBohVjyBKjMrTzO2UqBGk0_gGLfpoWLDATq8zzBgKHNSEW5ISL__exOQaHmg0BZB478ZhoP9JODahvdeOBFJgA7YuMlZqW1fFBKNRYPohZ0ywGEtBWKKjk/s640/DSC08148.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Puppy, part 2</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Eighth impression: Breakfast at noon. Lunch at 4 pm. Dinner at
9:30 pm. Café con leche all day long.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ninth impression: Bottles of cava (Spanish sparkling wine
made in the same way as champagne, but legally not allowed to be called champagne)
for 2 euros. Glass of wine at lunch = normal. Yet I see very little drunken
debauchery. For debauchery, head to a Friday all-you-can-drink brunch in Dubai.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSImGUG55WzA21D5ApomKpCWrbiZi-sX-arV2EfsXmZ7RqdRIGp2pmmkYrUGt1XrHVCWp3xwhx5t7gZj4i0okIG-bNkzK_in2Nx2pNP9zCrRcZwbZVdOzIzyMiYOpuQV1irRPE3UL4AMkj/s1600/DSC08245.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSImGUG55WzA21D5ApomKpCWrbiZi-sX-arV2EfsXmZ7RqdRIGp2pmmkYrUGt1XrHVCWp3xwhx5t7gZj4i0okIG-bNkzK_in2Nx2pNP9zCrRcZwbZVdOzIzyMiYOpuQV1irRPE3UL4AMkj/s640/DSC08245.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sangria on tap.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tenth impression: Lots of beaches. Lots of crowded beaches. Good
lord, is anyone swimming? The breeze is cold and the water colder. I think
living in Dubai, where the water approaches bathtub temperatures in the spring
and pools are refrigerated in the summer, has dampened my excitement for
cold-water swimming. Not when we live so close to a beautiful white sand beach
where dipping into the water feels like a relaxing spa visit, not a cold shock
that triggers an autonomic panic/survival response in your body.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Eleventh impression: This Gaudi guy designed some strange
stuff. I snapped some photos as I walked by on my way to Spanish lessons.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="360" src="https://scontent-lhr3-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t35.0-12/13548850_10209597177267441_983797652_o.jpg?oh=53fe467cc9a2287291984dc975cf1879&oe=5770B667" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="640" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">La Pedrera</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="360" src="https://scontent-lhr3-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t35.0-12/13499770_10209597178947483_1295699216_o.jpg?oh=1250b836f8b41299fc4a28ae59789bef&oe=57719E36" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="640" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Casa Batllo</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
bliss vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17415159622221679432noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3254062981129763077.post-71727618803246027772016-06-22T13:13:00.003+02:002016-06-22T13:18:33.266+02:00Alone in Sri Lanka. Or: Can a codependent married person be alone for 6 days?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
The bus driver started the engine and we scrambled to get
Flounder and his two bags on the bus from Kandy to the Sri Lankan airport.
Whatever lingering and meaningful goodbye I had imagined was out of the
question now. We hugged awkwardly as he tried to balance his bags and get on
the bus, and then he was gone and I was alone in Sri Lanka.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Travelling separately when our schedules were different
always seemed like a good idea, but when it came time to say goodbye, even for the
span of a few days, I felt surprisingly sad.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘My sweet Floundie,’ I thought, as I wheeled past dozens of
buses and through crowds of people. The city seemed different now than it had
five minutes ago. Men who had ignored me with my husband by my side decided now
would be a good time to strike up a conversation. I kept my head down, checking
the map for my hostel. Maybe if I looked at this map I wouldn’t feel so lost,
as if it could tell me the location of my hostel and also what to do with
myself now I was alone.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t use to feel so disoriented, did I? I travelled alone for three and half years,
for 40-something months, navigating with paper maps, without hostel bookings,
and, for the most part, without clear direction or plans. I used to love that
solitary travel. Was I so different now? Had love, a constant companion, and
extension of my best self changed me?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe these six days alone in Sri Lanka would help me find
out.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="640" src="https://scontent-lhr3-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/941011_10154528009329816_8163820938981140345_n.jpg?oh=2012ec3402f333f1c30c92069793ca22&oe=57C71C53" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="640" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sri Lanka</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My phone wasn’t working, wouldn’t bring up the map, no data
connection. The crowd around me swelled and slowed as I held up traffic. All
this technological stuff this was Flounder’s domain. For a moment I imagined
sheepishly telling him about this first failure, about having to ask passersby
for directions to a hostel they had likely never heard of. I restarted the
phone. No luck. I stared at it. It remained unmoved.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Neurons fired in my brain. I remembered I had turned data
off. First obstacle: conquered.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I found the hostel in a central, if slightly shifty, side
street, and was greeted by a sweet and irony-free young man. He showed me
around and gave me a hand-written list of tourist attractions in Kandy. The
temple of the tooth (housing a tooth from the Buddha, likely the most sacred of
sacred places in Sri Lanka), traditional Kandy dancers and performers (at this
mention, the receptionist modelled juggling, fire-breathing, and
sword-swallowing, with more enthusiasm than talent), botanical gardens (the
largest in Sri Lanka, a well-maintained leftover from British colonial times),
the Kandy lake (a dammed lake, and one whose creation in the nineteenth century
had been protested by local leaders, until the king of Kandy killed them all
and staked their bodies as an example to others who might disagree with him;
the lake project went ahead unimpeded), and an elephant orphanage (aww).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hadn’t the heart to tell this enthusiastic young man that
my plans for my last day in Kandy were a bit more gustatory in nature.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I drank soya cappuccinos at a local coffee shop that uses
only Sri Lankan coffee beans. The country is, rightly, known for its tea and
produces very little high-quality coffee, but a few small producers are looking
to change this.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Next I caught a bus to a little town eight or nine
kilometres outside of Kandy. I had passed this road the day before (when
Flounder and I went for Ayurveda treatments) and my finely attuned eye had seen
a few durian vendors. I had, naturally, partaken at the time. And I was,
naturally, back for more today.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img src="https://scontent-lhr3-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/384252_10154489607369816_2600719051785444814_n.jpg?oh=7e60b1b0e692593a35f0b812db4052f7&oe=57C2F502" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Enjoying some durian at a roadside stand</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I won’t bore you with my durian rhapsodies here (I’ve
written volumes about durians before). Suffice it to say, durian is my death
row meal, it is a large (embarrassingly large) part of the justification for
moving to Malaysia, and travelling eight or nine kilometres for a lunch of
durian was a no-brainer.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next day I said goodbye to my friendly hostel host and
took the bus from Kandy to Colombo. I sat next to a smiling older woman. I
smiled at her. When travelling alone, I was always look for older women to hang
around. No man, young or old, would dare bother me when I’m near an old lady.
They’ve seen it all, don’t take shit from anyone, and hopefully feel protective
of me. Fact: the most badass person in any room is always an old lady.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Once in Colombo, I decided to take a three-wheeler (better
known as a tuk-tuk or rickshaw) instead of walking the two kilometres to my
hostel. This was new. This was a slightly new Sarah—one who considered her two
bags, the heat of midday, and the less than $2 fare and chose to spend the
money and embrace comfort.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I prepared myself to bargain, but the three-wheeler driver
pointed to the meter. OK then. I pulled up the map and told him the nearest
landmark. He zipped off with the all the stunning dexterity of a
three-wheeler—this thing could do some tiny donuts, I tell you. He went
straight where I would have turned and I thought for a moment that he was going
to go a longer, slower route to get some extra rupees. I contemplated saying
something, but remembered another guideline of Sarah travel: be smart, but
above all be trusting.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Travelling with your guard constantly up is exhausting.
Guard yourself against serious dangers, and then let go. Smile at people you
meet. Believe your driver. Strike up a conversation with fellow passengers. Ask
questions. Be open.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I sat back in the three-wheeler and relaxed. He quickly
got on track and seemed to know where he was going. We conversed and he spoke
with such gentility and kindness. He helped me find my (hidden) hostel, and
wished me a pleasant stay in Colombo. I rejoiced, a small victory, for choosing
trust over suspicion.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="505" src="https://scontent-lhr3-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/12494959_10154522282759816_4653336574968663975_n.jpg?oh=3013185e3e3167948337b66fbecaeceb&oe=57C53C40" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="640" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reclining Buddha from Dambulla Cave, Sri Lanka</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was finding my groove again. Not quite the same way Stella
did. No, instead I was remembering what it was like to travel alone and what
had made that kind of travel so rewarding.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Openness. Connection. Trust in humanity and trust rewarded.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In small ways, my journey continued. I made imperceptible
choices, choosing to talk instead of be silent, to ask questions instead of end
the conversation, choosing to trust instead of be suspicious.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
I met other travellers this way (an easy prospect in a hostel),
but I also met some lovely locals, including a couple who invited me into their
home, who asked me about my life and about Sri Lanka (‘Beautiful! Wonderful!
Great food!’), and who wanted me to look them up and stay with them next time I
was in the country.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Travelling alone is great—great for meeting people, for
being open and vulnerable and the small acts of magic that result. But after
six days, I was glad to be going home to Flounder. Ultimately, small acts of
magic are simply more magical when you have someone to share them with.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="640" src="https://scontent-lhr3-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/12376016_10154476500994816_1516065311346345399_n.jpg?oh=23cec71afbb1f493b9c48b19c42d3baf&oe=57C391AA" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="589" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Travelling with this guy! The best!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
bliss vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17415159622221679432noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3254062981129763077.post-55513893842404430502016-06-16T19:55:00.001+02:002016-06-20T18:43:29.634+02:00Dressed all in black: Our new life begins in Malaysia<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Our
apartment is not ready,’ Flounder told me via Skype. ‘I will stay in someone’s
spare bedroom, but no one seems to have the key.’ He was sitting in a car in
the heat of Malaysia, having just arrived after a 24-hour trip.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">I was still in Hawaii with my parents. Just a day earlier Flounder had been with us, bodysurfing, snorkeling, lazing in the sun. Now he was in a kind of limbo in our new, dropped-everything, sold-everything, packed-everything to be there home. He would start work for a university that I had helped him find in a position I had encouraged him to take.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">He
continued, ‘I have to wear all black at the university and I have to punch a
time clock. And I only get two weeks of vacation a year.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">My heart
dropped into the gurgling, acidic pit of my stomach, for the first time that
week but not the last.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US"> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizjoqVoyCxhZrMNBK-AAdmkI5fWBGVdlYxV8gD4wxT7d5zExXehO_Z7Gr5gCuK4Iwwos27-6-Gu_JkAIAyj3DJ113mUi3dYuRg5nPHc4i7VTmOL0EhDaHwbOsyz9Cbqca8YxVP7dsWXI8U/s1600/2014-01-10+17.43.18.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizjoqVoyCxhZrMNBK-AAdmkI5fWBGVdlYxV8gD4wxT7d5zExXehO_Z7Gr5gCuK4Iwwos27-6-Gu_JkAIAyj3DJ113mUi3dYuRg5nPHc4i7VTmOL0EhDaHwbOsyz9Cbqca8YxVP7dsWXI8U/s640/2014-01-10+17.43.18.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking out the window</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">Expectations
are a funny thing. Does anything ever go exactly as <i>you</i> anticipated or planned? No? It doesn’t for me either. And yet,
somehow, I was surprised when upon arriving in our new home in Malaysia,
nothing went as expected.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">The
apartment wasn’t ready, no one could direct Flounder to where he should be, he
received no orientation to his new job he had moved halfway around the world
for. But what was worse was that the job was not what he expected.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">Expectations.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">He
expected to be valued, to be treated with respect, and to be oriented to the
university and the campus. At every front instead he was met with chaos.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">We
expected to live here, in Malaysia, for two years, ‘maybe more,’ we would add
optimistically, ‘if we like it’. But in Flounder’s first week at the job, we
were simply deciding if we would stay at all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US"> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwuaZFPFkYhyphenhyphenY9kh5KqZ_31PL5cy-IIAjTPqwMbA92iN5gu9226ljoPuZ_Oejkz3-vVA5CDs_-q1v8MU-RqVvhuUW23alderfKHbPf8HKlC7dpGrbNKvWxcsus9uTU9TITgBJy2bwRPBjK/s1600/2014-01-11+10.11.36.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwuaZFPFkYhyphenhyphenY9kh5KqZ_31PL5cy-IIAjTPqwMbA92iN5gu9226ljoPuZ_Oejkz3-vVA5CDs_-q1v8MU-RqVvhuUW23alderfKHbPf8HKlC7dpGrbNKvWxcsus9uTU9TITgBJy2bwRPBjK/s640/2014-01-11+10.11.36.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The lake near our apartment</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">He sat,
ignored, for most of his first days, occasionally meeting with this head and
that administrator, wrestling with HR to get the simplest of things—a passcard,
a parking spot—assigned to him. He was taken to the wrong department,
Communications, told he would be teaching there, then the Fashion department fetched
him and this is still where he is perched now. Not in an office (almost no one
has a private office), not even in a cubicle, but in a row of desks, with four
or six people behind him looking at his screen as he waits for someone, anyone
to help him find his place in the university.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">And so,
just three days ago, when Flounder went to work, I searched for options. I could
teach English in Taiwan or in Korea. They would pay for my flight and
accommodation. We could move almost immediately.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">While he
sat at his desk, Flounder searched for other jobs, perhaps in Malaysia or
Singapore. He even checked job listings in the States, though neither of us was
keen to tuck tail and move back only days after we had left and said goodbye to friends and family.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">Could we
move to Chiang Mai (in northern Thailand)? I wondered. Flounder had been
offered a residency there. Or we could rent a cheap place in Vietnam, where
cost of living is lower, while we sorted out our next step.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">I looked
over our finances. Maybe we could afford to ride off on our newly purchased
second-hand motorbike and go for a few months. From the peninsula here, we could ride
through Thailand, Cambodia, Laos, China. We could ride through central Asia and
into Europe!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLkKtopTaArJVp3jk88MA24gh70X2UeZUJKpXmSoU0tJCpfemC0KPiFaNJADIy2zbZdTBCWirHwD7SEbqhZ17UAy2at_14Pz4NB6UjeZ7obf0Jd-QeXkSFkucnB3TkNbscAI2NG1lInH5Z/s1600/2014-01-16+08.16.56.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLkKtopTaArJVp3jk88MA24gh70X2UeZUJKpXmSoU0tJCpfemC0KPiFaNJADIy2zbZdTBCWirHwD7SEbqhZ17UAy2at_14Pz4NB6UjeZ7obf0Jd-QeXkSFkucnB3TkNbscAI2NG1lInH5Z/s640/2014-01-16+08.16.56.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our little motorbike, affectionately named Wimp</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">I tried
to rally at this idea, but I couldn’t stop thinking of the money we had spent
getting here, which would not be reimbursed, and the apartment we were staying in, which would be snatched away immediately. I thought of the savings we would have to spend
and the uncertainty of income we would face.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">Worse than all that, though, is the guilt I feel--</span>hand-tremoring, can’t-eat,
random-crying-spells guilt.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-GB">This is Flounder’s career, something he has been working towards, molding and growing for more than a decade. I feel responsible for this move;
he wanted it, but <i>letsbehonest</i>: I was
the driving force. The guilt burrows deep, deeper than any misery I've yet felt in my bright, bold life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And that is how things are left now. My heart devoured, torn apart by guilt. And Flounder, sweet Flounder, standing straight, tall, and smiling at me. And, as required by his contract, dressed all in black.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpyelqxZuJBNekqW3IZ8LcRpE4zlis1KxtudQAs6fQfly_-bSAA7KiAEiPWJMZssoNr39_0jAtVACKMM6niLI9RsoVO_DFgyqForzVJJGjfvckMQz0HZGzQPmwfSNlNIjTcsgsSXNQE7zt/s1600/2014-01-11+13.27.08.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpyelqxZuJBNekqW3IZ8LcRpE4zlis1KxtudQAs6fQfly_-bSAA7KiAEiPWJMZssoNr39_0jAtVACKMM6niLI9RsoVO_DFgyqForzVJJGjfvckMQz0HZGzQPmwfSNlNIjTcsgsSXNQE7zt/s640/2014-01-11+13.27.08.jpg" width="308" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">All in black. A requirement for the job that would have been nice to know <i>before</i> we moved.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>Postscript: Finally enough time has passed since our time at [redacted] University in Malaysia in 2014 that I have the sanity and ovum required to write about it. This is the first in a forthcoming series. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>A few points I want to make clear: Malaysia is a beautiful country, full of fabulous, funny, big-hearted people, gorgeous landscape, and salivatingly delicious food. We LOVED the country. We also loved our colleagues, many of whom gave us both the motivation and desire to keep working. What we didn't love was the university we worked for and our jobs there. As we both signed non-disclosure legal paper thingys, I'll be redacting and changing names, etc.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>Post-postscript: In case you, like my sweet Flounder, don't like surprises, let me clue you in on the ending. We're super happy now and eventually everything worked out. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>xx</i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>Sarah</i></div>
<br /></div>
bliss vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17415159622221679432noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3254062981129763077.post-8940370075317711652016-06-13T19:29:00.000+02:002016-06-15T11:38:03.076+02:00The kindness of strangers, or: Why I suspect the world is a nicer place than it sometimes seems<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">Why hitchhike? It’s a question that
Flounder has asked me, friends and family have asked me, and I have
occasionally asked myself too. After a tense ride in which the driver, despite
my repeatedly changing the subject, asks about my sex life and then grabs my
ass as I leave the car, it is easy to forget my motivation for traveling this
way in the first place.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span>
And I could tell you what I tell
everyone, that I like not knowing where I’ll go exactly or how I’ll get there,
that I like meeting people, inserting myself into their world and leaving my
assumptions at the door (of the car), and I like stepping outside (way outside)
of the tourist zone.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTb-xOFtBnGUnNd42L5rVIimZEUGv6NiyB-QBTITmaNKf3hKACS8RQkkc6IGgl47E6SZgSmXmwGFfJSZA2-beWi7Ki0mkFx9JwbU33W7oZpDqsqHNDcgVZMlp5tOW-NsTuf3cI4YN7puWy/s1600/IMG_4432.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTb-xOFtBnGUnNd42L5rVIimZEUGv6NiyB-QBTITmaNKf3hKACS8RQkkc6IGgl47E6SZgSmXmwGFfJSZA2-beWi7Ki0mkFx9JwbU33W7oZpDqsqHNDcgVZMlp5tOW-NsTuf3cI4YN7puWy/s640/IMG_4432.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Can you take us to Istanbul? <br />
BTW, Flounder made this sign 'laminated' with clear tape so that we could use dry erase markers and reuse it.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">But as my writing professor, Nynke,
always reminded me, specificity is universal. So let me show you what I mean.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">After a ride to Alanya, one of my least
favorite beach towns in Turkey, Flounder and I walked to the edge of town. We
stood on a busy street corner, just after a traffic light. Cars had barely any
space to pull over for us and not much time to see us and then stop.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">‘We should just keep going,’ I said.
‘We’ll never get a ride from…’ but before I could finish my sentence, a car had
stopped for us.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Nereye gidiyorsunuz?’ I asked, as I
always did. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Where are you going?</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Antalya’ya,’ he responded. And we were
off.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhBVY7UaXeQ0Jh5hywHRUEG5xazUVyUXvfFC8BIG4455iisE9v5jI8Dm6m_Bhb0aWIQerxJh-uLyR1H2v3aDufigds5eWVAu4Lld7JLPAVRqB3kTTIXIHydQ4ypqnzwFE9hzFGhl-Lh1nT/s1600/IMG_4172.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhBVY7UaXeQ0Jh5hywHRUEG5xazUVyUXvfFC8BIG4455iisE9v5jI8Dm6m_Bhb0aWIQerxJh-uLyR1H2v3aDufigds5eWVAu4Lld7JLPAVRqB3kTTIXIHydQ4ypqnzwFE9hzFGhl-Lh1nT/s640/IMG_4172.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These guys picked us up in Turkey and we ate breakfast with them by the sea.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">It was a long ride, at least 120
kilometers, so we had a lot of time to talk. And he spoke English so I could
ask slightly more insightful questions than ‘Where are you from?’ and ‘How many
children do you have?’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">Korhan worked as a model scout,
basically, and he lamented the fact that none of his girlfriends trusted him
because of this. Indeed, during our car ride with him, at least 15 girls called
his phone, desperate for a job. His fondest wish was to have a baby girl, but
his job seemed to be interfering with this goal.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">He wondered if Flounder, being an
attractive man who taught young college students, mainly girls, could
sympathize. But I told Korhan that I trust Flounder, and indeed this is the
only way forward unless you can find a partner who is willing to be sequestered from
the lascivious eyes of all women everywhere, spending his life locked in an
anti-cheating cage.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp2yVJ-vA81xf2rLZI06N4yOMV1RHSrXgpXrM07PMV-e61KqcMrH5gneL5l9UEp06H9eA5oqJnzRz-QV6UeWXZV0Y9PiX-JklwT9IZN32chm7t8o3J1boRqhGY4wGCuIxHC7FCQXfxCmHf/s1600/IMG_4184.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp2yVJ-vA81xf2rLZI06N4yOMV1RHSrXgpXrM07PMV-e61KqcMrH5gneL5l9UEp06H9eA5oqJnzRz-QV6UeWXZV0Y9PiX-JklwT9IZN32chm7t8o3J1boRqhGY4wGCuIxHC7FCQXfxCmHf/s640/IMG_4184.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A view out the window from a ride in Western Turkey</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">And Korhan told us about his time in
Belgium, when he arrived knowing no one, with almost no money at all. He
couldn’t find a job and took to sleeping on a park bench because he was weak
from hunger. After nearly eight days without eating, a man, Musa, stopped and
asked Korhan what he was doing. Musa was from Turkey but had lived in Belgium
for 30 years. He had seen Korhan sleeping in the park day after day and took
pity on him. Musa fed him, clothed him, and found him a job.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">‘He was my angel,’ said Korhan. ‘He was
a second father to me and I owe him my life.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">Musa took a chance on a homeless
stranger, sleeping on a park bench, and now that man is successful,
hardworking, and is supporting his whole extended family. Inspired by this,
Korhan pledged to help those that he could, and since we were in his car, that
included us. We were his guests and we shouldn’t think twice about accepting
his hospitality, he explained.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">He offered us a place to stay for the
night. Tired, we happily accepted.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">The next day, Korhan dropped us on the
road to Fethiye and Kaş. We were picked up by Doğan, a large man with a large
laugh and an obsession with Alaska. In fact when he spoke of it, he spoke in
all caps. ‘ALASKA!’ he boomed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOjVzkqJcg6DN46jDNiLiCeRu7InnoinGyGyr3Z28A2o6GHrS6pWYL3ptdbHNwgfnxC9r_LR_2wISSsHxZ_0a5lUtMkmHCUjH19YP3nkKP3XgUq-96cv-4dbCxMoT_g9Auz983oVPyilB4/s1600/IMG_4221.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOjVzkqJcg6DN46jDNiLiCeRu7InnoinGyGyr3Z28A2o6GHrS6pWYL3ptdbHNwgfnxC9r_LR_2wISSsHxZ_0a5lUtMkmHCUjH19YP3nkKP3XgUq-96cv-4dbCxMoT_g9Auz983oVPyilB4/s640/IMG_4221.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Doğan and I near a cove he stopped at for a swim</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">He was delighted when we gave him a
postcard with a photo Flounder had taken in Alaska. He pinned it above his
seat, looked at it, and said ‘ALASKA!’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">Doğan also spoke English and that’s how
he was able to tell us that he was married to the most beautiful woman in the
world, a woman more than twenty years his junior. And he could tell us that he
was afraid to take her many places because he was sure she would be discovered
by a talent scout and be whisked away to model or act in movies. And he said
that when they walked down the street together, both men and women would stare
at her and so to alleviate the negative energy from their jealousy (the evil
eye or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">nazar</i>) they would pinch each
other constantly.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">But the most interesting thing he told
us was about how he had lost $900,000. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">‘I played a game,’ Doğan said, ‘and I
lost almost a million dollars.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">We thought he had gambled, but no, he
had invested in the stock market shortly before the 2008 financial crisis. And
then, instead of selling when he had a chance, he held onto the stock and lost
everything.</span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCzgQ-CXfhgXIdOuAWlj7uV4TVmQBypxyTgq9EgtfBHugB1a-AoqPn-km4dNN3QPyA8213iJ-IqrmEexyLt7yBEOrKXeb9VnXBlrFGCUvql4uoSrLX8MxquQkmq4PZSzE-0opZWu_z_nTe/s1600/IMG_4100.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCzgQ-CXfhgXIdOuAWlj7uV4TVmQBypxyTgq9EgtfBHugB1a-AoqPn-km4dNN3QPyA8213iJ-IqrmEexyLt7yBEOrKXeb9VnXBlrFGCUvql4uoSrLX8MxquQkmq4PZSzE-0opZWu_z_nTe/s640/IMG_4100.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We stop in one of the many Roman ruins along the Western coast of Turkey - most of which have no entrance fee as the ruins are simply too plentiful</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">In spite of this, Doğan was generous. He
bought us lunch, a ridiculously large amount of food. He drove us out of his
way to drop us at the Lycian ruins of Myra, and when we ran into him
unexpectedly in Kaş, he loaded us down with gifts.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">He called me <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">deli Sarah</i>—crazy Sarah—for my love of hitchhiking, of adventure
verging on danger. Korhan had said something similar, had warned us to be
careful in Turkey. But when I pointed out that Flounder and I had only had good
experiences hitchhiking in Turkey and that that was how we had met them, Doğan
and Korhan, both responded that we were lucky. There are bad people in Turkey.
Not everyone was like them.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">While this statement is strictly true, I
tire of this widespread idea that the world is a scary place and that you can’t
trust anyone. For years now I have traveled in a way that relies on people, on
the kindness of strangers. Flounder and I have
relied on the kindness of over 100 strangers on this trip of ours and we have
never once been disappointed. We have only been continually surprised and
delighted by the warmth, hospitality, and love we have found.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieYmjbM052NUgDERwuJmc6qMoZ8GHEsQ0k_B1ZwBdgNuYMnkwMLn0KhffPKQTEMteoUaH2bf0C2wK5A8B9VMSYcQwcEtmwwsUTZg0X7j06TCWit_ec0Vpz9ExpWJOCbeiAgRa_6PGotQMW/s1600/IMG_4435.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieYmjbM052NUgDERwuJmc6qMoZ8GHEsQ0k_B1ZwBdgNuYMnkwMLn0KhffPKQTEMteoUaH2bf0C2wK5A8B9VMSYcQwcEtmwwsUTZg0X7j06TCWit_ec0Vpz9ExpWJOCbeiAgRa_6PGotQMW/s640/IMG_4435.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another kind stranger. He gave us a ride all the way to Istanbul, and stopped at the ruins of Troy, paid for our tickets, and showed us around. Amazing.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">Why do I hitchhike? This was the long
answer. The short answer is this: I love people. I believe in the kindness of
strangers.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
</div>
bliss vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17415159622221679432noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3254062981129763077.post-12896758950188212242016-06-07T18:45:00.002+02:002016-06-07T18:45:57.322+02:00A return to blogging<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
After some finagling and some flattering (and a month without work in Barcelona), I'm dusting off this old blog.<br />
<br />
I won't pick up where we left off (in Hawaii on our way to live in Malaysia); instead I'll likely jump around a bit in time and place.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img src="https://scontent-amt2-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/12509910_10154536376774816_1186990331385060389_n.jpg?oh=2df5386703ab5b6c298032ff76d3a29d&oe=57D5AD37" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spoiler: We live in Dubai now</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
So without further ado...</div>
bliss vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17415159622221679432noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3254062981129763077.post-52479502429335370492014-01-01T07:12:00.000+01:002014-01-09T07:12:51.695+01:00Hawaii. In transit.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We’re in Hawaii. It’s hard to say that
without sounding like I’m bragging, but there it is. A simple fact. </span></span></div>
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUvGEse-ZTTOXs0a86mrAU4Hnr7hYfVyKZ7n6UHLtTDfk3xkrF5EGBJk7-GNmEW4wnKK2ocIlrh-ije5UILx5Wq25fUL0W5dLJ1O62ufr_52Hfe-X7LjDoC9JT5UUxix-dH3xCEUe9g1wT/s1600/1496480_10152548115989816_1871903760_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUvGEse-ZTTOXs0a86mrAU4Hnr7hYfVyKZ7n6UHLtTDfk3xkrF5EGBJk7-GNmEW4wnKK2ocIlrh-ije5UILx5Wq25fUL0W5dLJ1O62ufr_52Hfe-X7LjDoC9JT5UUxix-dH3xCEUe9g1wT/s1600/1496480_10152548115989816_1871903760_o.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></a></span></span></div>
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">
</span></span>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We packed our belongings, moved some
into storage, and gave the rest away. That last month was hectic and at times overwhelming
and two days before we said goodbye to Indianapolis I could barely get out of
bed, the weight of my stress crushing me.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But I needn’t write about this. Anyone
who has moved before knows what it’s like, the cornucopic list of things to do
that never gets shorter, no matter how many tasks you cross off.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Perhaps the only difference is that
instead of moving to a different city or state, we’re going halfway around the
world. To Malaysia. ‘Why Malaysia?’ everyone seems to wonder. Well, F has a job
and I have one lined up, but that’s not the reason we’re going; it’s the reason
we are <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">able</i> to go. The reason we’re
moving to Malaysia is simpler and more intangible.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We are going because I am spoiled and I
get everything I want.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I told F on our first date
(rollerblading a converted rail trail in Indianapolis. I went for a handshake
greeting and he went for a hug. I thought, ‘Yeah, I would sleep with him’) that
I wasn’t done traveling, but that I was tired after nearly four years of
traveling alone. I wanted an adventure companion and I wanted, instead of
spending days or weeks in a place, to settle into a city for a year or two,
find a home base. I wanted to travel like a serial monogamist, hopping from one
major city to the next, making a home in each one.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And now, less than two years since that
first date, I have my adventure companion and we are moving to a new country.
I’ve spent a week total in Kuala Lumpur and F has never set foot in Malaysia.
But this is our new home.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPkHHY-A9LDoWqXstlKI40evbQWXEKX5jhdaPQNzEXdk-0D67nv6v64COQvtAyfQI3swa_092b5nMf6YvrVfBINyz6DAcpADjED4XDvvCw-k1aKoCpmo08txBFU-yGQeek5aSIg18bz-mP/s1600/1507535_10152548113669816_1706235130_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPkHHY-A9LDoWqXstlKI40evbQWXEKX5jhdaPQNzEXdk-0D67nv6v64COQvtAyfQI3swa_092b5nMf6YvrVfBINyz6DAcpADjED4XDvvCw-k1aKoCpmo08txBFU-yGQeek5aSIg18bz-mP/s1600/1507535_10152548113669816_1706235130_o.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So after a month of packing we are in
transit in Hawaii, invited by my parents, all our belongings packed in our
bags. And there’s no way to talk about Hawaii without bragging. The weather is
perfect. Perfect. Never hot, never cold. We leave the windows open all day and
night. The water is clear and warm. We snorkel in the ocean, a giant aquarium,
with fish of every color and lackadaisical sea turtles. We have fruit for
breakfast every morning—speckled sweet dragonfruit, pink-orange papaya,
succulent pineapple.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I could go on. But I won’t, because who
wants to read about perfection?</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So instead I’ll tell you something I’m
worried about. Though F signed his contract with the university he will teach
at, and should begin in mid-January, he still doesn’t have the plane ticket
they are supposed to provide. And we don’t know where we’ll be living. The
university has been slow to respond on both fronts and it has me worried.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There are deeper worries too. Will F
like his new job? Will the university try to censor his lectures, censor the
work he can show or his students can create?</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Malaysia is a Muslim country, though
with lots of ethnic diversity, but we’ve heard rumblings of a strict government
and rapidly increasing violence in the capital city. Worrisome.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiLb5pgK8xzNb0Agoh8IH3W4w0E_I0Nh2mgkK_dhRN0kyB10eSR8QkdB6wCrIe33iwt3Z7WhYHc7ikYi3D28LkjEjIYmDXh9I61uNcRr1s_iMysFKq4olSpdPVdXSkZ0bC6dnuuSinq7qr/s1600/1522984_10152548107284816_224792908_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiLb5pgK8xzNb0Agoh8IH3W4w0E_I0Nh2mgkK_dhRN0kyB10eSR8QkdB6wCrIe33iwt3Z7WhYHc7ikYi3D28LkjEjIYmDXh9I61uNcRr1s_iMysFKq4olSpdPVdXSkZ0bC6dnuuSinq7qr/s1600/1522984_10152548107284816_224792908_o.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></a></span></span></div>
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Can I talk about Hawaii again? Because
perfection, though boring, doesn’t worry me at all.</span></span></div>
<br /></div>
bliss vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17415159622221679432noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3254062981129763077.post-73769084012927012082013-08-10T03:38:00.000+02:002014-01-24T08:25:55.784+01:00The girl at the waterpark<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">As we handed over 20 lira each at the
ticket booth for the waterpark in eastern Turkey, the thought struck me: Will I
be the only woman here? Will I be the only woman here in a two-piece? How about
in a skimpy string bikini?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">And then I thought, ‘Screw it. We’re
here. It’s hot (108 degrees Fahrenheit, like walking in the blast of a supersize
hair dryer), and I don’t have another swim suit.’</span><br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Xr2liqCBkjzgAAa8KP2odvTdFaESanQkVDsr_vmHOI4o-943JaqFRs8YKy6xuoPh1PBAlS_ExYNhURX4Amw0jpUB54XUSA2fidgykmd8Gw3W2VD-CwxPkc4AYThabLkVzO-qMftbw-GM/s1600/IMG_3983.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Xr2liqCBkjzgAAa8KP2odvTdFaESanQkVDsr_vmHOI4o-943JaqFRs8YKy6xuoPh1PBAlS_ExYNhURX4Amw0jpUB54XUSA2fidgykmd8Gw3W2VD-CwxPkc4AYThabLkVzO-qMftbw-GM/s1600/IMG_3983.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wheee!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">As we walked into the waterpark near
Mardin in far eastern Turkey, the Kurdish heart of the country, I could sense
the precise moment when Flounder realized what I had just suspected. There were
boys, teenagers, young men everywhere. I glimpsed one woman supervising her
toddler son as he splashed in the shallow kiddie area, but she was fully, and
modestly, clothed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">I could write that I felt self-conscious
as I emerged from the dressing room with just my blue plaid wrap and tie dyed
bikini, but that would be disingenuous. The emotion is better identified as
defiance. I defied anyone to harass me, I defied anyone to interfere with my
fun. It was hot (in Mardin our newly washed laundry dried in less than 30
minutes), I had just paid 20 lira, and I was staring at no less than four water
slides. We had been staying on the top story of an apartment building with no
air conditioning (fair enough) and no fan either (wtf?!). I had been sweating
for days and taking a shower every 20 minutes in a mostly vain attempt to not
murder Flounder in a fit of heat rage. [Spoiler alert: As of January 2014, I
still haven’t murdered him.] </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEwhbWQKRBdGQqmd-DhgIhc-QeJCPs7ppaEqxN6-bP_6z-sWVuB2cFlS21otHC97b7XcaJIJRrHz9v97SXxW1WM7oAyupiECt9VfYbVbSwZft4yYWCCG-wjpByFbsP5lbax14D1FOX49bH/s1600/IMG_0983.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEwhbWQKRBdGQqmd-DhgIhc-QeJCPs7ppaEqxN6-bP_6z-sWVuB2cFlS21otHC97b7XcaJIJRrHz9v97SXxW1WM7oAyupiECt9VfYbVbSwZft4yYWCCG-wjpByFbsP5lbax14D1FOX49bH/s1600/IMG_0983.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from Mardin over the Mesopotamian Plains</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">What I’m getting at is that I was going
to enjoy the hell out of this waterpark and I triple dog dared anyone to try to
interfere.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">As a female traveler used to wandering
alone, I’ve developed something of a blind spot for staring. Flounder notices
when I show my knees (my sexy, sexy knees) or elbows (equally sexy) and how
many passersby gawk at me. I don’t see that anymore.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">But in this waterpark, full of about 100
hormonal young men, it was impossible to ignore. I was followed with dozens of
pairs of eyes. When I emerged from the water to retrieve a tube to slide back
down on, a couple young male hands reached out and offered me their best
inflated tubes. When I walked, gifted inner tube in hand, up the concrete
stairs five or six boys followed me, chattering about me in Turkish.</span><br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1bcXYu5a5-4r-A2lJxAJagJiLGrP5XhAZExct2JXExHVE_r7Cv9FvMTiUktlVGwycoWM2ZtZtIpv2mj01KN8cVXMVyoflIiFuAsnPoSOz67YbQuk-LUdxBlBQ7WhlIebOlo3mAnADDmIf/s1600/IMG_3976.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1bcXYu5a5-4r-A2lJxAJagJiLGrP5XhAZExct2JXExHVE_r7Cv9FvMTiUktlVGwycoWM2ZtZtIpv2mj01KN8cVXMVyoflIiFuAsnPoSOz67YbQuk-LUdxBlBQ7WhlIebOlo3mAnADDmIf/s1600/IMG_3976.JPG" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Does <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">abla</i> speak Turkish?’ I heard them ask each other.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">‘You are very beautiful!’ they murmured
behind me.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">I caught snippets of other, cheekier,
sentences. But my entourage was overall a polite one. They kept their distance,
assisted by the buffer that Flounder enforced behind me. And they kept offering
me inner tubes, despite an acknowledged shortage. They were sweet and funny and
respectful, as long as your version of respectful allows for lots of staring,
chattering, and makes allowances for cultural differences.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">It wasn’t until we moved into the shade
near the waterpark’s lone swimming pool that the feared-for interference
started. I lounged by the pool, writing in my journal, occasionally dipping
into the pool when the heat overcame me. And when I removed my wrap and jumped
into the water, men in uniformed swim trunks approached Flounder and tried to
engage him in conversation. I thought they were making small talk, but he
seemed convinced that they had been speaking about me and my attire. As soon as
I covered again with my wrap, they said one of the few English words they knew,
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">okay</i>, and backed off.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Can you listen next time?’ Flounder
asked. ‘I couldn’t understand what they were saying.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">‘If they want to talk to me, they can
talk to me,’ I said, refusing to budge on the issue.</span><br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2EGZ1aIdMicU5fE5HBMypd42AyfpMf0ipzSl0-HSg0gqcYiEeDd0Q0-uS0Cg3GqzbETWovJRTp6adu2ZoQyWaIBo3WUqAe6dNI-ohSk3gQlqRWyAUN1_oSumZqeRtyuw37KWj_uzTB78G/s1600/IMG_3997.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2EGZ1aIdMicU5fE5HBMypd42AyfpMf0ipzSl0-HSg0gqcYiEeDd0Q0-uS0Cg3GqzbETWovJRTp6adu2ZoQyWaIBo3WUqAe6dNI-ohSk3gQlqRWyAUN1_oSumZqeRtyuw37KWj_uzTB78G/s1600/IMG_3997.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">When I took off my wrap to jump in the
pool, again the uniformed swim trunk men came over to Flounder. I came back in
the middle of their conversation and had I wanted to listen and understand, I
could have. But I didn’t. Have a problem with my behavior? Speak to me about
it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">As soon as I put my wrap half on, they
seemed a bit placated and indicated that everything was okay.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">‘They don’t want you to go into the pool
or take your wrap off,’ said Flounder.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">‘They can kiss my ass,’ I said
diplomatically. ‘I’m going to swim if I want to and if they don’t like what I’m
wearing then they’ll have to kick me out.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">I took off my wrap and walked around the
waterpark, accepting inner tubes from my entourage, splashing down water
slides. And the part of me, the writer trapped inside, wanted the uniformed
swim trunks to kick me out. What a story that would make! You see, to me,
getting an interesting or funny story sometimes trumps having a good, but
mundane, experience.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKEtO7MZs8mkWzpsyUENpwxXwA7H26_fg-CXUOmKemtVrYqz28qWsNVHToGa4sYyPyy-88zp-J3wcQ2fU_iSZ-GP1Q-4vcWirocvx0rk-Gh65WHdUpBfBHx-KJ8rfIeMW4scxc97jecnie/s1600/IMG_3985.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKEtO7MZs8mkWzpsyUENpwxXwA7H26_fg-CXUOmKemtVrYqz28qWsNVHToGa4sYyPyy-88zp-J3wcQ2fU_iSZ-GP1Q-4vcWirocvx0rk-Gh65WHdUpBfBHx-KJ8rfIeMW4scxc97jecnie/s1600/IMG_3985.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wheee!</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">To my writer’s regret and my boyfriend’s
relief, no one kicked us out. That is, no one kicked us out until the waterpark
closed and everyone was asked to leave. Then we headed to our temporary home
through the stifling Mesopotamian air, grateful for our temporary respite from
the heat.</span></div>
</div>
bliss vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17415159622221679432noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3254062981129763077.post-14096040332196878602013-08-05T18:30:00.000+02:002014-01-24T07:48:06.179+01:00I’d like a job with the Armenian Tourism Board, please<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">‘Everyone is trying to rip us off,’
Flounder told me after returning from a trip to Lake Sevan in central Armenia.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">I understood why he felt that way about
our brief stay so far in Armenia. We had been overcharged by two, likely three,
taxi drivers; overcharged at two restaurants (one of which had attempted to
charge a 20% service fee instead of the standard 10%); and we had been trailed
by a rogue car-cum-taxi with tinted windows and two dudes who gave us the
willies. We were staying in a hotel that had seen its prime in the Soviet era
and hadn’t really bothered to update since then. When we arrived, ready for a
therapeutic rest, we discovered that none of the hotel’s amenities were gratis.
The swimming pool? Empty. The hot tub? Pay by the hour. The weight room? Pay by
the hour. The indoor swimming pool? Possibly empty, definitely pay by the hour.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2HkCWwLE-AnUW1KMP7VdLUqKBopyPeSa91OqKj_8TKHI-YGhwceBFO6NGlY2j2GKHw6lC-eswtXPRPnMW9gtdl04pWD9_SZOnfZuQmbdZbny9zBzy344J0boNAig_pxRyEQeBgGXse3KI/s1600/IMG_3463.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2HkCWwLE-AnUW1KMP7VdLUqKBopyPeSa91OqKj_8TKHI-YGhwceBFO6NGlY2j2GKHw6lC-eswtXPRPnMW9gtdl04pWD9_SZOnfZuQmbdZbny9zBzy344J0boNAig_pxRyEQeBgGXse3KI/s1600/IMG_3463.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our weird soviet ski resort</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">Hitchhiking saved the trip.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSm_azG-6hkASwoNbvR730uKbXWN35JUQgiHhS8JN0HFVVV_tLCgxR_v9WVCQm8CNRZIIOh2I63VFIEeFKUlJCXLPmNob456EqvlF_PGecOr0ZQhbkt4fKvMT8hfeV_XP519WmBFp71B0g/s1600/IMG_3780.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSm_azG-6hkASwoNbvR730uKbXWN35JUQgiHhS8JN0HFVVV_tLCgxR_v9WVCQm8CNRZIIOh2I63VFIEeFKUlJCXLPmNob456EqvlF_PGecOr0ZQhbkt4fKvMT8hfeV_XP519WmBFp71B0g/s1600/IMG_3780.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Flounder waits for a ride</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">From our first ride (with two bank
managers, one of whom had picked wildflowers for his wife and asked us to
please not crush them, both of whom gave us their cards and implored us to call
them if we needed any help in Armenia) to our last ride (with two teenage boys
in a BMW SUV who barely spoke a word, instead blasted dance music with the
windows rolled down and handed us cold drinks as they drove to the Georgian
border) we experienced hospitality, curiosity, warmth, and gratitude during our
two weeks in Armenia.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6GL4RaAJlC3gUixXBWaF1A-z1wEo9cxu8Aciewml3ybizSJyEbiAAydSlkmLp-amHioo07GWx-djV8eUi5bngDUjxksGBPPXMwalr4g-dW8_tmxCJUTSDYa5wRDBbjE_vSUJr4ysj2EZp/s1600/IMG_0561.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6GL4RaAJlC3gUixXBWaF1A-z1wEo9cxu8Aciewml3ybizSJyEbiAAydSlkmLp-amHioo07GWx-djV8eUi5bngDUjxksGBPPXMwalr4g-dW8_tmxCJUTSDYa5wRDBbjE_vSUJr4ysj2EZp/s1600/IMG_0561.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Flounder walks along a highway in Armenia. We're looking for our next ride</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">Yes, we regularly experienced gratitude
from the people who were giving us free rides. They were thankful we were
traveling in Armenia and happy to hear us genuinely gush about their country.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">There’s a commonly accepted truism among
hitchhikers that the nice cars rarely stop, that the people with the most to
give are the least generous. Armenia turned this truism on its head. Nice, new,
expensive cars regularly stopped for us. People with good jobs and disposable
incomes went out of their way to help us, to invite us into their homes, and to
pay for our meals. (One couple who picked us up even became a bit offended when
we tried to pay for our own fruit and, later, for our own campsite.)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhePjzpsmXK2A8fK9rktEUb3dfAUeQshKdrTiKfkMKe5HHHg_3GpcBzr_QAzB1y1isSG7XzQEReHrrgt2Z4XXTGrvHJ6z7T6szwBDVmrFEBxUgWqJfSe40IDDICU5S1LUW6Bq_V33d7TgKB/s1600/IMG_3540.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhePjzpsmXK2A8fK9rktEUb3dfAUeQshKdrTiKfkMKe5HHHg_3GpcBzr_QAzB1y1isSG7XzQEReHrrgt2Z4XXTGrvHJ6z7T6szwBDVmrFEBxUgWqJfSe40IDDICU5S1LUW6Bq_V33d7TgKB/s1600/IMG_3540.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuGfDcSHs3U6VXglbpeYnXwutF0Dt3FUg1tl3dBKrl1J-y7wlNNYmyQ1ry-mX1AqgFFovzIk8eSP_p-98rFfzVYnQrGj5u7S_8hiK1Aucyr9GIWrzVClBIMZbh6d7kYtuePQtK4layyuPQ/s1600/IMG_3537.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuGfDcSHs3U6VXglbpeYnXwutF0Dt3FUg1tl3dBKrl1J-y7wlNNYmyQ1ry-mX1AqgFFovzIk8eSP_p-98rFfzVYnQrGj5u7S_8hiK1Aucyr9GIWrzVClBIMZbh6d7kYtuePQtK4layyuPQ/s1600/IMG_3537.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This car was held together with tape and a lot of MacGyver-style ingenuity</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">During one of our rides in Armenia, when
we passed a caravanserai along the Silk Road, perched on a steep and lush green
mountain pass, Flounder turned to me. ‘Why isn’t Armenia more popular with
tourists? I can’t believe it isn’t better known.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">I agree. The country, besides having an
abundance of warm and proud people, has a variety of landscapes, more
thousand-year-old monasteries that a person can hope to visit, a distinct
culture and language, along with stunning natural beauty and delicious food.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB46fckHrL8h5s-VSI-7yj6Q4SUwFYG6zfOIWVKcI5g6rssNFURoVPox1xwCadU_sVY9Swu5uG0UxCj4L8BObb6aqaLYnozqJZ9UJDxAljMYEfRpzj3XWrWC4oY5rcOQ2yTHheCRTSgn4V/s1600/IMG_3427.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB46fckHrL8h5s-VSI-7yj6Q4SUwFYG6zfOIWVKcI5g6rssNFURoVPox1xwCadU_sVY9Swu5uG0UxCj4L8BObb6aqaLYnozqJZ9UJDxAljMYEfRpzj3XWrWC4oY5rcOQ2yTHheCRTSgn4V/s1600/IMG_3427.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lake Sevan</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">It suffers from what I am just now
coining the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not-in-Europe syndrome</i>.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">So although we saw lush green mountains,
arid desert punctuated by the dramatically situated glowing gold-red Noravank
monastery, groves of apricots (latin name: <span class="kno-a-v"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">prunus armeniaca</i></span>), camped on the
banks of a 2,000-meter-high lake, watched beautiful women strut down the
streets of Yerevan, camped at the long foot of the Biblical Mount Ararat, and
gathered with peaceful Rainbow Warriors after an hour-long hike steeply into
the mountains, we also saw very few tourists at any of these places.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIdK3Se_RxGtqYTa8G_tHpKhkRQJlcYMQlpTqnXp5JjOvPvCLiesW9vrZtI2S-OxQBPQNeNM0HfXpOtDh0bX8voWmftWJTOB_1g-RVZgCPCHC1H3eZgcQH-f3np9OWuTusDAxeYz-k980F/s1600/IMG_0707.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIdK3Se_RxGtqYTa8G_tHpKhkRQJlcYMQlpTqnXp5JjOvPvCLiesW9vrZtI2S-OxQBPQNeNM0HfXpOtDh0bX8voWmftWJTOB_1g-RVZgCPCHC1H3eZgcQH-f3np9OWuTusDAxeYz-k980F/s1600/IMG_0707.JPG" height="400" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We celebrate a rainbow at the Peace in the Middle East Rainbow Gathering</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">Why is this? Simple. Armenia is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not in Europe</i>. (And in case you were
wondering, neither are Georgia and Turkey, though both are as deserving of
tourism as Barcelona, Venice, Paris.)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1qzgprY6sG-6F-1UHIMkbCkI_0LA5zYZMtb0CgfVcHOXv8mFyXsD0_uElNIZi2F0UhxMAPWhQW9s1QdttH2YzPAf_ECr3GAPQJaoYr9YHKMOehQr-J1WeLovTN8dKL3FWiWPCtxD_UnKw/s1600/IMG_0492.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1qzgprY6sG-6F-1UHIMkbCkI_0LA5zYZMtb0CgfVcHOXv8mFyXsD0_uElNIZi2F0UhxMAPWhQW9s1QdttH2YzPAf_ECr3GAPQJaoYr9YHKMOehQr-J1WeLovTN8dKL3FWiWPCtxD_UnKw/s1600/IMG_0492.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Noravank Monastery</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">One of the constants among our many
drivers in Armenia, from the retired couple in a cream leather, roomy SUV who
invited us to stay with them to the three men on their way from work in a car
that was barely hanging together with duct tape and wires, was this question:
‘How do you like Armenia?’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span lang="EN-US">There is only one correct answer to this
question and luckily it is the one, unbidden, that we wanted to give: ‘Armenia
is so beautiful! We love it!’</span></div>
</div>
bliss vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17415159622221679432noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3254062981129763077.post-9601592494617210782013-08-04T11:34:00.000+02:002013-08-04T11:34:55.035+02:00We know where you're sleeping... Camping in the shadow of Mount Ararat and Khor Virap<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div>
We saw the headlights in the darkness and heard the
crunch of gravel under the wheels. A car was approaching our campsite. I ran
down the list in my head of people who knew we were sleeping here, in the
shadow of Khor Virap monastery at the Armenian border with Turkey, as Flounder
and I ran back toward our tent. We zipped ourselves into the tent just as we
heard a car door open and slam shut.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLlFFuzuFuv7uHD_R7Dxy7T6EX3kb08bjs9iVR0cc8cRzBZ_Pm78UkTjE223bPgFXFoC1LkZoriY-Fg0gGdffgSYWbkioWdCR3LpP17LOMWXy5ASfmMeUKMq9GU2I9cZkKB0j7PhGG0V0S/s1600/IMG_0616.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLlFFuzuFuv7uHD_R7Dxy7T6EX3kb08bjs9iVR0cc8cRzBZ_Pm78UkTjE223bPgFXFoC1LkZoriY-Fg0gGdffgSYWbkioWdCR3LpP17LOMWXy5ASfmMeUKMq9GU2I9cZkKB0j7PhGG0V0S/s1600/IMG_0616.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Khor Virap at night</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Two of the site’s caretakers knew we were camping here.
The thought was not comforting, as one of them was developmentally disabled and
had wanted to hold my hand more than was socially acceptable while the other
had pointed to his elbow pit and made a symbol that looked remarkably like
inserting a needle there. They had insisted we come back with them and sleep there,
likely a purely hospitable gesture, except that they had tried to charge us
more money than seemed reasonable to camp on the monastery’s grounds in the
first place.<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Flounder unzipped the tent enough to peek out of it. He held
his multi tool with its two-inch knife while I crouched behind him, unable to
see what was happening. I felt a bit shaky and a bit sick. Would they rob us,
rape me, or both?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
‘What’s happening?’ I whispered to him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
‘I can’t really see,’ he said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgndI6p4raGWIRgkM3sPR1WMyNKx6jZlMJPTgSLedoO93kdSqkf-QcX3YWvdPI2yNxnAYQxaD0fq0wF2tiCvRoR2gZ-2F_BUBhAXC-PlxnWpGIm3NDcaNNTCBM28KjIqHvGpycmqBTThqCu/s1600/IMG_0628.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgndI6p4raGWIRgkM3sPR1WMyNKx6jZlMJPTgSLedoO93kdSqkf-QcX3YWvdPI2yNxnAYQxaD0fq0wF2tiCvRoR2gZ-2F_BUBhAXC-PlxnWpGIm3NDcaNNTCBM28KjIqHvGpycmqBTThqCu/s1600/IMG_0628.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stormy sky</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The moon was nearly full, but the sky was stormy and
cloudy. An occasional burst of lightning illuminated the ancient monastery (the
site was over 1500 years old) and the few trees around us. The wind, stronger
than I had yet felt it, whipped at our tent bending the flexible tent poles so
much I thought they would break.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
‘I think they’re just tourists,’ Floundered whispered, ‘taking
pictures of Khor Virap.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx5En6a95mxkFVOyUJ6QTUlOjkUxOo9Vx0iNzrezf8WNR3hJAQS9SDcWiRpeqlzN3O2R4S4fhBCATR0iOeoG4DxWrSJSn_zTOVO_7bXbhWqRSeOaO7DWo4RgN8u-T0iqpH2B6JzIdQOAO5/s1600/IMG_3556.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx5En6a95mxkFVOyUJ6QTUlOjkUxOo9Vx0iNzrezf8WNR3hJAQS9SDcWiRpeqlzN3O2R4S4fhBCATR0iOeoG4DxWrSJSn_zTOVO_7bXbhWqRSeOaO7DWo4RgN8u-T0iqpH2B6JzIdQOAO5/s1600/IMG_3556.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Khor Virap in the daytime</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Whoever they were, they hadn’t come near our tent, but
they hadn’t left either. Flounder was steady; I was not. I put my hand on his
shoulder and his warm flesh and tight muscles under my hand calmed me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Why was it that I had wanted to camp here despite
Flounder’s misgivings about the site’s caretakers? Doing so went exactly
against my two camping rules: (1) Camp in secret. Make sure no one knows where
your site is OR (2) Camp in a proper campsite with other campers around, with
management and infrastructure.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
What exactly were my guidelines (based on experience and
common sense) for, if I chose not to follow them? I wondered this, not in fully
formed sentences, but in bursts of words and feelings and fear as I held
Flounder’s shoulder and he peeked into the dark night around us.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
After ten minutes or five or two, I heard the cars doors
slam again and the engine start. With the crunch of gravel I relaxed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The night was stormy. Lightning surrounded us; it lit the
sky on all sides of us. Rain poured down and wind shook the tent, but I slept
through it all, slept more soundly than I could have predicted.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
In the darkness, I promised myself I would follow my
guidelines from now on. Isn’t that what they are there for? But in the morning,
I awoke at the long foot of Mount Ararat, in the shadow of Khor Virap and I
forgot the night’s fear.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBNcX0-cJq0HPNuntbgUUd1r45TzWR2q37LRzkUC_07fmJLOWqr9WZjJ6e-8qJtZkb6WSDp_f9wJUBBz6cVCI34HnFgORZrIbE2hNnfVWEMQ6TjXryBDm5uC9ayJS70ulU-WScbRJDfhQO/s1600/IMG_0579.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBNcX0-cJq0HPNuntbgUUd1r45TzWR2q37LRzkUC_07fmJLOWqr9WZjJ6e-8qJtZkb6WSDp_f9wJUBBz6cVCI34HnFgORZrIbE2hNnfVWEMQ6TjXryBDm5uC9ayJS70ulU-WScbRJDfhQO/s1600/IMG_0579.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from Khor Virap</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Instead I looked at the Biblical mountain (site of Noah’s
Ark), the symbolic mountain (on the coat of arms of Armenia), the revered
mountain (said to be the site of the gods), and the night faded away like the
storm’s remnants had evaporated into the arid air.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju7B17YYYlWTMh_Pv5kgzMPGesyPucS4DxIlpe9fpK8I3wawgUvu6vu0b6AfLqr7kest4iSBWw4XDhauXnyJ3GdguyEsRsPUov2wydkWUHvD3so7uDd6WFKTM1Zof0_Ffozp2X6xVWKY3G/s1600/IMG_0629.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju7B17YYYlWTMh_Pv5kgzMPGesyPucS4DxIlpe9fpK8I3wawgUvu6vu0b6AfLqr7kest4iSBWw4XDhauXnyJ3GdguyEsRsPUov2wydkWUHvD3so7uDd6WFKTM1Zof0_Ffozp2X6xVWKY3G/s1600/IMG_0629.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mount Ararat</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And my promises to be more careful faded away too. I
would do it again. I’m camping at the foot of one of the holiest sites in
Armenia; picnicking with an Armenian family who share their food with us so
casually, so matter-of-factly; practicing my Armenian with the taxi driver who
picks us up for free and takes us away from Khor Virap and Mount Ararat. I would
do it again.</div>
</div>
bliss vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17415159622221679432noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3254062981129763077.post-32220129879328450082013-07-31T15:44:00.000+02:002013-08-02T10:29:23.985+02:00Talking Trash<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
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There are many things I love about traveling and discovering
a culture that is not like the US. I think other places get a lot of things right that
we screw up pretty royally. Healthcare, subsidizing the right foods, being
green are all things that many countries do well that we don’t. Not everywhere
though. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Both Georgia and Armenia are astoundingly beautiful places.
Very underrated and should probably be mobbed with value conscious tourists,
but they aren’t. Both places are slowly working up to having more outside
travelers, Georgia is better, some places in Armenia are doing their best. The
worst tourist info I’ve been inside was in Mestia, Georgia though, super duper
unhelpful. “was that 9 kilometers away or right there” was my question as I
pointed to a spot on the map (that we couldn’t take because they only had one).
Her answer? “yes”. Well technically, yes it was one or the other, but still not
helpful!</div>
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<br /></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG4kWdBWD7YIGrhNJhlfRnJnR4CGPjMgkiGwiOC3CEan6dlT6bPinw0Ei-tpJkvETvn_VNnRNlDirDD33xRZ9-j64vk8i2LqqLXB7E955moZTaf1yuWsplUsrzeP17_K7ZRvu_8FQuhb1R/s1600/IMG_0772.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG4kWdBWD7YIGrhNJhlfRnJnR4CGPjMgkiGwiOC3CEan6dlT6bPinw0Ei-tpJkvETvn_VNnRNlDirDD33xRZ9-j64vk8i2LqqLXB7E955moZTaf1yuWsplUsrzeP17_K7ZRvu_8FQuhb1R/s640/IMG_0772.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Svaneti Georgia</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Either way, beautiful places, not too many tourists. I’m not
certain they’ll manage to pick up that many unless they start to pick up some
trash though. In both countries just throwing trash out your car window or over
the nearest fence is the usual practice. I saw people taking trash out of their
business to dump it in a beautiful stream.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Our hitchhiking rides would encourage us to throw our trash out the car
window instead of putting it away for later disposal like we always did. I don’t
really understand this mindset. Most of the people in both countries are
fiercely nationalistic and think their landscape is beautiful, so why then do
they just dump the trash out in it. Don’t tell me it isn’t because there isn’t
infrastructure because even places with dumpsters and garbage trucks had piles
of trash everywhere. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In one part of
Georgia, the outhouses dump straight into pristine mountain spring fed streams.
No intermediary hole to lessen the contamination or anything. I know that there are literally billions of people without any toilets at all, but these are in places where chocolate and wine are sold to local and foreign tourists, where they have wifi and satellite tv. I think the trash and toilet problems are just mindset not lack of resources.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjffVF5LOEQFOVLpDwS0-l5wQE_Q7N6ArHgOeGUn1Wn8CQHKBlue_lz97nNY6YHz5rlu9SOROxaWO9kGfzudQqZ8WlYrRLhQGuICHc2iUFM2F9VBVIJLskLeAGRbK5Fou1-EBgdB9QVElrt/s1600/IMG_0865.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjffVF5LOEQFOVLpDwS0-l5wQE_Q7N6ArHgOeGUn1Wn8CQHKBlue_lz97nNY6YHz5rlu9SOROxaWO9kGfzudQqZ8WlYrRLhQGuICHc2iUFM2F9VBVIJLskLeAGRbK5Fou1-EBgdB9QVElrt/s400/IMG_0865.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Trash by a beautiful mountain river</td></tr>
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmObeeIKTJnCVe_PaqKmw51EBVGX6ItMquUY4mz5Ure6D9mtG2hCFUCnSoKd3YLTMVYtFg64LXQQmTZDna0qSdhNp0xWPdZcmGdg6BuaIu6MQ9T2wRo2Xk62F0Zj3pAkmzaDX_3NIS11DP/s1600/IMG_0801.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmObeeIKTJnCVe_PaqKmw51EBVGX6ItMquUY4mz5Ure6D9mtG2hCFUCnSoKd3YLTMVYtFg64LXQQmTZDna0qSdhNp0xWPdZcmGdg6BuaIu6MQ9T2wRo2Xk62F0Zj3pAkmzaDX_3NIS11DP/s320/IMG_0801.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">outhouse</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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The second major thing that baffled me about both places was
seatbelts. Seems like an odd thing to be baffled by doesn’t it? I mean they are
obviously required in both places because when we would approach a police check
point or a major city, drivers would put them “on” and have front seat
passengers do it as well. I put on in quotes because in man<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you ever dared put on a
functioning seatbelt first, you’d get a strange look that said “what you don’t
think I’m a good driver?” The problem is even worse when it comes to car seats.
Kids just wander around the car, even if the adults are strapped in to keep the
police at bay.</div>
y instances, they
were permanently disabled. Car owners would literally screw the seatbelt open
and loose so when approaching the police they could stretch them across
themselves with the appearance of wearing a seatbelt without the annoyance of having
it actually protect you in a crash. If you’ve ever been on many of these
mountainous roads, you’d want that protection as you are inches from death at
every corner.<br />
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<br /></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlH4noJakUycWGoUPCp7vqunZZyCUfFgY2m6dLSsEk545xtEj2W5nMrFckOi1q1nfNp8tlIdSdn5miEldqK2aztQET9IRx5ygF5ibMCgSL6tz7sWzPRyVV2O4-Htc3BgweJW2hmOwBH4YM/s1600/IMG_3537.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlH4noJakUycWGoUPCp7vqunZZyCUfFgY2m6dLSsEk545xtEj2W5nMrFckOi1q1nfNp8tlIdSdn5miEldqK2aztQET9IRx5ygF5ibMCgSL6tz7sWzPRyVV2O4-Htc3BgweJW2hmOwBH4YM/s400/IMG_3537.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Extraordinarily kind people, I'd like for them to survive a crash</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think the solution to both these problems is just a
dedicated ad campaign, maybe a long one, like the US had in the 1970s and 80s on
both issues. People didn’t really buckle up when we were kids and trash went
wherever, but I think the culture was changed through ads. If they can convince
millions of people that taco bell is food, then they can work as PSAs. Here's how I could see it working in these places: "Mother Armenia is beautiful, don't throw your trash on her" or "Georgia has been a beautiful place and people for thousands of years, let's keep it that way." I don't claim to know enough about the cultures there to say what exactly would work, but I think something would.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHvQuLqGudyfzjewtjSZxGzHY37zUeIdMiZMaSxWZk_JtN6yqdWLrf1JpVPXrK5Zo_i7Aybxg2rohmeiln8bXG6LiEPHo5Hvl4ybnH8d7KEOtV4sXF2N2RazpkLfnwPxzN_5BEY1zKL791/s1600/crash_test_dummies_seat_belt_buckle_up.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHvQuLqGudyfzjewtjSZxGzHY37zUeIdMiZMaSxWZk_JtN6yqdWLrf1JpVPXrK5Zo_i7Aybxg2rohmeiln8bXG6LiEPHo5Hvl4ybnH8d7KEOtV4sXF2N2RazpkLfnwPxzN_5BEY1zKL791/s320/crash_test_dummies_seat_belt_buckle_up.jpg" width="237" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was going to talk about smoking as well, but that seems to
be a much bigger issue worldwide…</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibLpr8jl0qTwmj7vn9Sf5YiIYNDz9A9tzGfzxhGq_GBS_d1k5wmyWjwwkkgGL34X35NXLSNndlz6-C7PFMD8MahsTLxtQhvx7jIKLTxS86f8BZFFkOnvRUWOVqUWxYfo0SCVTaZ4aXc_19/s1600/keep+america.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibLpr8jl0qTwmj7vn9Sf5YiIYNDz9A9tzGfzxhGq_GBS_d1k5wmyWjwwkkgGL34X35NXLSNndlz6-C7PFMD8MahsTLxtQhvx7jIKLTxS86f8BZFFkOnvRUWOVqUWxYfo0SCVTaZ4aXc_19/s1600/keep+america.JPG" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But seatbelts, garbage dumps, and e-coli aside, both Armenia
and Georgia are amazing, the people are also wonderful. Add them to your list
of places you should see right away. By the time they’ve got trash and safety cleared
up, they might be throngs of umbrella tours everywhere. </div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz0XhWuU4kkvrF1ZUeba8E_Mn_0r6tvDk0QA9rSoiva3siL4qxqAbsM7VpFpHRk3FgauEWdKY3nDugjJKsm82eBzzI5m3DyAG6-r-QK0uGOjDagnEqsIjQN_FiAuw7bCBRZm_Ldx2cclzQ/s1600/IMG_3427.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz0XhWuU4kkvrF1ZUeba8E_Mn_0r6tvDk0QA9rSoiva3siL4qxqAbsM7VpFpHRk3FgauEWdKY3nDugjJKsm82eBzzI5m3DyAG6-r-QK0uGOjDagnEqsIjQN_FiAuw7bCBRZm_Ldx2cclzQ/s640/IMG_3427.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lovely Lake Sevan, even Stalin couldn't ruin this place.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Flounderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17150062964800105436noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3254062981129763077.post-35336952510599791832013-07-17T16:41:00.000+02:002013-07-17T16:41:58.660+02:00Camping, not of the car type<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
It has been a while since I’ve posted a blog entry and part
of the reason is the subject of this post: camping. Before we even started the
trip we debated camping equipment, buying some, replacing some, and even
whether to bring it at all. I grew up car camping, we took everything. We even
took a TV at times! But now, Sarah and I had to carry everything in our bags, through cities,
onto buses, into the trunks of cars…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Several weeks into the the trip when we got ready to fly from Bucharest to
Tbilisi, we debated sending all our gear back, our bags were WAY too heavy and
we hadn’t even taken the tent out of the bag or used our sleeping pads or bags
once. We decided to keep them as we thought Armenia and Georgia would be
camp-friendly. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So finally, on the 23<sup>rd</sup> of June, just shy of 7
weeks into our trip, we camped. We were hitchhiking along the shore of Lake
Sevan, at an altitude of 2000 meters (6500+ feet). We had a great lunch with an
Iranian family on the beach (a lunch that was 2.5 hours long) and they dropped
us off to find a good place to sleep. The whole lake shore is a national park
so camping shouldn’t be a problem. We walked into a village to get some food and
became the center of attention. It was apparent they didn’t get many tourists.
We got back to the lake and wandered off the road into the woods. Mosquitoes
were out in force but we got our tent up and inside quickly. After some awful
fish in a can (only I ate it, obviously). We tried to sleep. I was too nervous.
I hadn’t ever wild camped just a few minutes’ walk from a road. I’d read too
many news stories (not about Armenia) about tourists being attacked in villages
in India or Brazil. Of course sleeping on a sleeping pad didn’t help matters. We
survived the night without issue, of course. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIt1aozKNC0R6IuxJ6gO0M_S3e8CzUrGmA41SBZ8YN5s5lNIvi8d3_wa3zK27uifombGER7IuEcguQ3AxZJLB4E2J67XMvZSD3-JZv2LWnNLMmmQ7FFofJYaKPGii3AOIPdR6rs47UpCa-/s1600/IMG_0709.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitucgVttkdNK9roCC4yjKOMmmuW8fI-4QY47Wtx8Eg6zZNgiQpuQt62l-UoilwTwUeo7XMjEPXD_RG9U6lhdOex4D44hJz9W8DlqQElPPtf9ppF_maGEL08fdeiDmkUA29cA15hFnC59lG/s1600/IMG_3524.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitucgVttkdNK9roCC4yjKOMmmuW8fI-4QY47Wtx8Eg6zZNgiQpuQt62l-UoilwTwUeo7XMjEPXD_RG9U6lhdOex4D44hJz9W8DlqQElPPtf9ppF_maGEL08fdeiDmkUA29cA15hFnC59lG/s640/IMG_3524.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Iranians picnic like we usually camp, with plenty of gear!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgROXrzWvWWVc2eJp7ND1LjAYPU1r_j44PsaDhdkvHbN5dwg_UbmsY5bfPRjoMmIy0THaPZCNkUKTretIYqrJLLSrtZtg1pNqCDNFkL2MREin4jbp250anRt34ozfDpnKaD-J2z2kN-Wpet/s1600/IMG_3555.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx61s-ne9SxJvqQh7mfcyavvA1mnMUDlu9852XWW4xHjDpdc_Vhy22ufw1R_2hs6Ef7m1Ue5MudEUZ5xfV55x234K87KDNlofurybBX9WLAPSogtCHZvgUg2C1sEeaDqjDQJgPmqeJpu9L/s1600/IMG_3530.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx61s-ne9SxJvqQh7mfcyavvA1mnMUDlu9852XWW4xHjDpdc_Vhy22ufw1R_2hs6Ef7m1Ue5MudEUZ5xfV55x234K87KDNlofurybBX9WLAPSogtCHZvgUg2C1sEeaDqjDQJgPmqeJpu9L/s400/IMG_3530.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sarah worried our tent that won't survive the trip.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next night we were invited to stay with a family in
Yerevan but a surprise party for our host (it was his birthday) changed plans
so we went back to our original camping strategy. We were to camp at the base
of an ancient monastery, possibly the most visited pilgrimage site in Armenia
(thanks Wikipedia). Off in the distance was Mount Ararat, snow covered and
cloud topped. This is supposedly the site where Noah’s Arc landed,
unfortunately for Armenians, it is now in Turkey. We set up camp around dark in
a orchard/picnic area, after a quick but friendly meal shared by an Armenian
family (some of whom lived in California). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of the caretakers had taken a bit too
much of an interest in us and this worried us a bit, we thought about leaving
and trying to get to Yerevan, but the real caretaker came and settled our
nerves completely, at least for a while. He assured us everyone would leave us alone for the night.
As a storm started brewing, blowing dust and the tent about, a car pulled up
into the lot. I sent Sarah inside while I tied the tent down then peeked out
and watched the occupants. They seemed to be only interested in some photos of
the site and then pulled off. A tense few minutes, but our nerves and the tent
survived the storm and we slept well. </div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwOqo0HPNkSY5QZ4gXcH7RXIlqGIYCIX2RGV_y17muk28CweqQQ5qrozCmqlHHInAS_go5O8NAR0o2dlp_tMjSg8tKRPuk0EWAgfHcHIY9uC3mIgnx-oYuAMKauM_jtrVPc5oyJPHI3jNo/s1600/IMG_3555.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwOqo0HPNkSY5QZ4gXcH7RXIlqGIYCIX2RGV_y17muk28CweqQQ5qrozCmqlHHInAS_go5O8NAR0o2dlp_tMjSg8tKRPuk0EWAgfHcHIY9uC3mIgnx-oYuAMKauM_jtrVPc5oyJPHI3jNo/s640/IMG_3555.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Khor Virap and Mount Ararat</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our next camping adventure would be vastly different. We
were going to a Rainbow Gathering. Specifically, Peace in the Middle East, a
regional gathering with people from all over the world (Russia and Armenia had
the biggest contingent). I’d been to a couple in Florida in college, but only
for a few hours and once to an event that was globbed onto the gathering but
had no resemblance to a regular Rainbow. </div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8X3oIOEz5SmaQSQOsOd497Rd_OZh84CScV1W18H6xU6xyS2OTlOTUOie8_dPh-iLhrvGe8DrGwMvuvZ9JpNdA_vA691UnymN6oSQiMNK-Hwka3ry9XuEkEYHT_pQ4VAoybhjOFkD0Q7BT/s1600/IMG_0709.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8X3oIOEz5SmaQSQOsOd497Rd_OZh84CScV1W18H6xU6xyS2OTlOTUOie8_dPh-iLhrvGe8DrGwMvuvZ9JpNdA_vA691UnymN6oSQiMNK-Hwka3ry9XuEkEYHT_pQ4VAoybhjOFkD0Q7BT/s400/IMG_0709.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rainbow at the Rainbow</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For those of you unfamiliar with Rainbow Gatherings, they
are intentional communities that pop up for a month in a location. Built on principles
like sharing, singing, and kinship, they are non-commercial, social, fun, and
somewhat hippie-fied. I thought I wouldn’t enjoy it much, not sure why, but I
think it is the impressions I got from the ones in the states where many bad
elements go along with the good intentions. We planned to stay two nights. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After the hike to the top (luckily our bags went up on a jeep), I didn’t want
to hike back out. As we arrived, we were greeted by hugs and “welcome home”. Oh
and a “Roll Tide” from Armenian Robert, who’d lived in Birmingham for a year as an
exchange student! After a couple of days, we didn’t want to leave. Much of the
work is done communally. Anyone can call for a food mission, or wood mission,
or just go along with these. At the food circle, anyone can get the whole group
to listen while they talk about items that affect the camp. Speaking of food,
everyone pitches in what they can (money, love, help) to the magic hat which is
used to buy food for the group which is then cooked as a group and eaten as a
group. Everyone gathers around the fire, sings and then eats. It is quite
wonderful. I think I could write a whole post just on the food circle. There is
so much love and caring going around the circle. There is no leader, just
various “focalizers” that handle organizing tasks on a voluntary basis. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We showered in a waterfall, swam in the lake, carried water
or firewood for the camp, mostly just talked, sang, and relaxed. It was the
most relaxed I’d been in a long time. The weather was a bit hot, but bearable
since we were several thousand feet up in the mountains. The field was covered
in flowers, villagers would wander in and out on their own “wood missions” or
to feed their livestock. </div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqtMUdxUFCLLURmtHYOZ0srA2-p_AQo8isQuh_rXNE5FW8KIfHuDV6njirn6dROwXb3Z1esgkbWO_z3-WiHbyDoELnELi72lGDrNDmcoNEzdgHP9Zj77mV3536JD3JARJlGqoR7zBo6XwY/s1600/IMG_0745.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqtMUdxUFCLLURmtHYOZ0srA2-p_AQo8isQuh_rXNE5FW8KIfHuDV6njirn6dROwXb3Z1esgkbWO_z3-WiHbyDoELnELi72lGDrNDmcoNEzdgHP9Zj77mV3536JD3JARJlGqoR7zBo6XwY/s640/IMG_0745.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Singing around the campfire, millions of stars!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sadly, we had to leave, but had heard about another
gathering in Greece that was starting soon, so we plan to try and make it there
as well. The Armenian one had about 40-80 people when we were there, 150 at its
peak. The Greek (European Gathering) could have upwards of 2000, we’d like to
experience the difference.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When we camped again, it was in the backyard of a guest
house in the Caucuses. We felt comfortable there, but the rain got into the
tent and a pole broke. We know the tent is on its last leg. I don’t think it’ll
be flying home with me but this is a good final journey for one that I’ve had
since the 90s.</div>
<br /><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzQawk4NorXlkr1Mx5T-OTaNbQ4PgpOUcTFvtexgy-YR8Y8O5endVag8JBII6UW_uEWHUvmymFlV7gf2zDPRy3w8LVSekx4l4Aehl1yvXfvfBZreKETYS0csGI_kcsnkUpo4__14v2g-fW/s1600/IMG_0852.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzQawk4NorXlkr1Mx5T-OTaNbQ4PgpOUcTFvtexgy-YR8Y8O5endVag8JBII6UW_uEWHUvmymFlV7gf2zDPRy3w8LVSekx4l4Aehl1yvXfvfBZreKETYS0csGI_kcsnkUpo4__14v2g-fW/s400/IMG_0852.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In Georgia, my old trusty tent has been to the state and now the country</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our final camping experience so far was similar to the
first, we just got dropped off on the side of the road, hit a market and
wandered into a field near the village, this time in Turkey. Again we were too
nervous to sleep well, so decided we will be sticking to established camp
grounds from now on. Unfortunately, the reeds in the field further compromised
the tent by perforating the bottom. I hope it survives until we are through
with it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Having the camping gear definitely gives us options we
wouldn’t otherwise have. The Rainbow experience made carrying it worthwhile
even if we never used it again, but it is still a lot of weight for very few
uses. Two sleeping pads (mine self-inflating, Sarah’s just foam), two sleeping
bags, and a two person tent weigh a lot and take up a lot of valuable backpack
space. I would not suggest it for people who just think they’ll use it as a
last resort. Maybe a sleeping bag and a tarp would suffice.Your backs will thank you.</div>
</div>
Flounderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17150062964800105436noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3254062981129763077.post-5305992387903747072013-07-14T22:21:00.002+02:002013-07-14T22:21:26.796+02:00A flower emergency in Yerevan!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
In Yerevan (Armenia’s capital) there are 24-hour
pharmacies, supermarkets, fast food restaurants. There are also 24-hour flower
shops.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKK5pctlsOwGxd8UlB64OxrNqW82y2R8xzJzT_TMYlCgEKTRscNAS_XSq1JszoAJ5sh-KhvxfTzqx2tSRfAyQQDgz9ig17Uh3Zl4iTEMrGd1I456x5n9k3IyG7KKX4BKT0it-sXtyNf6Xm/s1600/IMG_3628.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKK5pctlsOwGxd8UlB64OxrNqW82y2R8xzJzT_TMYlCgEKTRscNAS_XSq1JszoAJ5sh-KhvxfTzqx2tSRfAyQQDgz9ig17Uh3Zl4iTEMrGd1I456x5n9k3IyG7KKX4BKT0it-sXtyNf6Xm/s1600/IMG_3628.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Open 24 hours</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I can understand a situation in which you might need a
painkiller at 3:00 a.m. or have a late night greasy spoon craving, but I’m
having a harder time imagining a 3:00 a.m. flower emergency. Who exactly, I
wondered, is giving these shops enough business that they continue to stay open
through the night?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
After three days in the city, I think I’ve figured it
out.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGMqsVWk45zJuggsneWDQS8bShW-DyvQOCZ7w-TFJ3J9L3HR58cS4pvrkcq8xNIyLlfdYMiu70_Fm89xhFm5IcUuiCqoOj0OsMWM_Y-Txrw5XtyN2anQoOkhPhMD3-qA5RqONL4xS1K-ke/s1600/IMG_3582.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGMqsVWk45zJuggsneWDQS8bShW-DyvQOCZ7w-TFJ3J9L3HR58cS4pvrkcq8xNIyLlfdYMiu70_Fm89xhFm5IcUuiCqoOj0OsMWM_Y-Txrw5XtyN2anQoOkhPhMD3-qA5RqONL4xS1K-ke/s1600/IMG_3582.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Walking in Yerevan. Typical dress for me</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
My first hint came quickly, when I looked at the
pedestrians around me, when I, in my flip flops and under the weight of two
backpacks, walked breezily past most of the women on the street. The women here
are some of the best dressed I’ve ever seen—hair perfectly coifed, attire
carefully chosen, makeup applied skillfully, recently manicured and
pedicured—and when standing still, they look like beautiful works of art. They
tower over me in 3- or 4- or 5-inch stiletto heels. But when they walk, many of
them jerk and spasm and shuffle, unsure on their feet, like a parade of new-born
horses. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbWKP3N8UzSbGYDGLgcKNxPPYbJ2tCB-jmxXEkO1-RyQw78FU1uZYD0i_qKnthwJN5ZaiBJF98ttJbfzsmQ14G72PFamrv3V7ebhVS8GPOGwDenW07NmrpGRw7CyjARA0vDjqTrBrP3FV7/s1600/IMG_0650.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbWKP3N8UzSbGYDGLgcKNxPPYbJ2tCB-jmxXEkO1-RyQw78FU1uZYD0i_qKnthwJN5ZaiBJF98ttJbfzsmQ14G72PFamrv3V7ebhVS8GPOGwDenW07NmrpGRw7CyjARA0vDjqTrBrP3FV7/s1600/IMG_0650.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fine example. Shoes like this on every street</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
My friend Jo, who lives in Yerevan now after a few years
of continuous travel, likes to rate the places she visits on a stiletto scale.
The posher places tend to rank high in number of stilettos, while the places
she prefers to frequent, like the Music Factory, have a low stiletto rating.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
What did I conclude from hordes of perfectly made up,
beautiful women? That perhaps a woman who never leaves the house without makeup
and her 5-inch heels on, even when going to the corner market, is a woman who
expects (demands?) flowers to pacify her when she is upset. If the occasion is
really special, maybe only jewelry will suffice.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
My second hint came at a weekly outdoor film viewing at
an acquaintance’s house in Yerevan. The event, called the <a href="http://thescreenerycheck.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Screenery</a>,
shows an eclectic range of documentaries and art house films and on the night
Flounder and I attended they were showing a documentary about female football
(that’s soccer for the American readers) players in Armenia. The film,
according to the Screenery’s organizer, is a controversial one touching on
gender issues in Armenia and wielding some hefty criticism toward Armenian men.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4i9QDXUx3U1PWkqwIp_vDEhGNPwKdnRv5WdO8O94ZNKGoIQusLvoEaFVIZktuDVhwgGZtLezBDiU2rTTDC3BfpxfrB4aaUMMNQWrjSc_p1gMjNv4PnQ8GYffvRwXwgszHRFx2Fl0BmmaP/s1600/IMG_3572.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4i9QDXUx3U1PWkqwIp_vDEhGNPwKdnRv5WdO8O94ZNKGoIQusLvoEaFVIZktuDVhwgGZtLezBDiU2rTTDC3BfpxfrB4aaUMMNQWrjSc_p1gMjNv4PnQ8GYffvRwXwgszHRFx2Fl0BmmaP/s1600/IMG_3572.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Film at the Screenery</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I was excited to watch it, as I am an unabashed feminist
in the sense that I believe men and women have equal value and deserve equal
opportunities. I also think that women should be able to decide the trajectory
of their lives. Shocking stuff, right? In many places in the world, however,
these views make me a radical.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Apparently Armenia is one of those places. The female
football players in the documentary lamented how difficult it was to upset gender
expectations in the country. There are some activities and behaviors, they
said, that are for men only. Playing football, for example, or smoking on the
street. According to men interviewed in the film, women, if they want to smoke
at all, should have the self-control to only do so in their homes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
‘Do men need to control themselves?’ the football players
asked. The unspoken answer seemed to be <i>no</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiluINHmeMKV5ZFjh3koZBZmZcP3ijZOUNzR7Tbuj6FmlSADSFQohHPVx_9K8Ouz4T5x_bPbtwR95cccdxfg5LBOeTD_uPImx1gORs31INH4T84MwJzWYTbvr0fzTVsF7EEHPM3gXC0Y3l0/s1600/IMG_3656.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiluINHmeMKV5ZFjh3koZBZmZcP3ijZOUNzR7Tbuj6FmlSADSFQohHPVx_9K8Ouz4T5x_bPbtwR95cccdxfg5LBOeTD_uPImx1gORs31INH4T84MwJzWYTbvr0fzTVsF7EEHPM3gXC0Y3l0/s1600/IMG_3656.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We walk the streets of Yerevan at night</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Gender roles are tough nuts to crack, though. One of the
players spoke of getting married as a given, another of having children as the
pinnacle of a woman’s existence, and a third thanked her husband for allowing
her to play football even while she took care of her family.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The documentary shed light on feminism and gender issues
in Armenia and gave me further insight into this 24-hour flower shop business.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHZJmCfAYAdoSdH8y6D7ju-elEppPkTUv7rEyPFHYbp5LCgX3a4_84NJ9pq1P5zkovXLqfqwvepnMKiNn2AAw_jvto4glwrkKm2RUwvWcMbbto2PQ6wd5zVq_UD8640loDtd4cHhpz7qpZ/s1600/IMG_0646.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHZJmCfAYAdoSdH8y6D7ju-elEppPkTUv7rEyPFHYbp5LCgX3a4_84NJ9pq1P5zkovXLqfqwvepnMKiNn2AAw_jvto4glwrkKm2RUwvWcMbbto2PQ6wd5zVq_UD8640loDtd4cHhpz7qpZ/s1600/IMG_0646.JPG" height="640" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A typical street stall</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Perhaps, I posited further, in a culture when women are
expected to be obedient to their fathers and then their husbands, in a culture
where women are expected to stick to their rigidly prescribed gender roles
while men are not expected to control themselves, perhaps here flower
emergencies can exist. When there are indiscretions, infidelities, forgotten
birthdays and anniversaries, and an expectation of women being coddled and
pampered then there will be flower emergencies.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The more I thought about it, the more I wondered where Yerevan’s
24-hour jewelry shops are.<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
bliss vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17415159622221679432noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3254062981129763077.post-62498509231277758582013-07-04T09:14:00.000+02:002013-07-04T09:14:04.930+02:00Hitched. Success (finally) in Serbia and Romania<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
We tried to hitchhike in Switzerland and in Slovakia in
cold, rainy weather. Both times, we were passed over by hundreds of people in their warm, dry cars. Flounder, never a fan of
hitchhiking to begin with (and a vocal opponent of me ever hitching alone
again), had gone from feeling unenthusiastic about the thing to dejected.<br /><div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
I was determined to make it happen though, to show him
why I loved to hitch. So on a bright, sunny day in Novi Sad, Serbia, we said
goodbye to friends there and headed to Romania. We stood on a spot beloved by
both hitchhikers and trans prostitutes. (In fact, the day before we had seen
one such lady standing there waiting for customers.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpc9NqkTHZs8FV-6DervCA061uZs7YKzKfeCKLZPr-BPtf8fVP0LJpkhq0259zF71ABonsDc19S_eT-hZMD_fNn8DH1zIHqB2Fg0m3ixiXweV_ydd2xN0cYa8Rlr4AwWL-1qDdmE5ypN-k/s1600/IMG_3231.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpc9NqkTHZs8FV-6DervCA061uZs7YKzKfeCKLZPr-BPtf8fVP0LJpkhq0259zF71ABonsDc19S_eT-hZMD_fNn8DH1zIHqB2Fg0m3ixiXweV_ydd2xN0cYa8Rlr4AwWL-1qDdmE5ypN-k/s1600/IMG_3231.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">To Romania! But first, to Zrenjanin.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
We were headed to the city of Cluj-Napoca in Romania,
also known as Kolozsvar to its Hungarian citizens, but we hoped to stop
somewhere else in the Transylvania region on our way there. Which was an
optimistic way of saying that we couldn’t hitch there in one day—the road was
too long and too winding and too meandering.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
How to look for a good spot:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->1.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Find a bit of shade, if you can. Stand in the
shade while you wait for cars, but when they pass make sure you’re in the sun
so the drivers can see you.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->2.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->You want to be on a straight bit of road so that
cars can see you for a few hundred feet before they pass.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->3.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->If there is an intersection or merging road
nearby, always stand after it so you have a bigger pool of cars to hitch from.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->4.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->If the road is at all busy, make sure you are
standing near a place where cars can easily pull over without causing a traffic
pileup. Bus stops and merging lanes are both good for this.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->5.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Cities are the worst. In order to hitch out of a
city, you really need to be on the outskirts, preferably already on the main
road/highway going toward your destination.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
We did all these things on the road out of Novi Sad and
after about 25 minutes of waiting, we were rewarded. Our first ride was with a
Serbian astrophysicist who spoke English because he collaborated with
colleagues in Australia. He was planning on getting his Ph.D. soon and was just
waiting to hear back from his school of choice in Melbourne. In the meantime,
since jobs in Serbia were scarce, he was teaching physics in an elementary
school a few times a week in a small town 50 kilometers outside of Novi Sad. It
was poignant to see such a brilliant scientist unappreciated in his own
country.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
After walking 3 or 4 kilometers to the outskirts of
Zrenjanin (see point #5 above), we stuck our thumbs out again. After about 20
minutes, a long truck hauling logs stopped for us. The driver was going to a
different city than we had planned, but it was still close to the Romanian
border, so we decided to hop in anyways.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2kXmDxDrRUthyphenhyphenYNb5Iqj-ZOlRsxuQMOKET5rqW-EgzNtp7ZSzwZktE3SfZ5F92fQqy7xF-l_No-CSQcWzbV0B6_q3lB98mN-C0xul71NLORztw-w3hATec-WfFWwdWgGpc7fQhr6NTb4L/s1600/IMG_3236.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2kXmDxDrRUthyphenhyphenYNb5Iqj-ZOlRsxuQMOKET5rqW-EgzNtp7ZSzwZktE3SfZ5F92fQqy7xF-l_No-CSQcWzbV0B6_q3lB98mN-C0xul71NLORztw-w3hATec-WfFWwdWgGpc7fQhr6NTb4L/s1600/IMG_3236.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our second ride.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
This was a very different experience than our first ride.
The driver didn’t speak English, and neither Flounder nor I knew Serbian, at
least not any significant amount. So we communicated the way I always do in
such situations, with sign language, body language, and bits of shard words
thrown in. The driver knew a bit of German, and one or two English words like
<i>okay </i>and <i>beautiful</i>. After establishing the basics (where we are from (Indianapolis
for us, Kosovo for him), age, marital status, children (number, age, gender),
and whether we liked Serbia (the answer to this question is always yes)), he, like so many trucks
drivers before him, revealed his true passion: women.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Aren’t the women in Serbia beautiful? he asked Flounder.
(I was not included in this men-only discussion.) Flounder agreed, very
beautiful, and everyone is so tall, he added, changing the subject slightly. To no avail.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Ah, Russian women are beautiful too, the driver said. But
they’re dumb, he explained by pointing to his head and then holding his
forefinger and thumb close together in the universal symbol for small. ‘Beautiful,’
he repeated, but again made the small brain gesture. Flounder nodded politely,
then added, pointing to me, that American women were also beautiful. Our driver
was silent on this point.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Later when talking about the countries we had traveled in
and their climates, I mentioned the weather in Thailand was hot. This was easy
enough to communicate, as country names are often similar in all languages and
fanning myself with my hand and mopping my (pretend) sweaty brow was a clear
gesture of heat. Sensing a potential shift back to his favorite subject, our
driver looked at Flounder and smiled. ‘Thai women beautiful!’ he exclaimed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
He dropped us at a town only 12 kilometers from the
Romania border. We walked through to the outskirts and positioned ourselves on
the road out of town.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://fbcdn-sphotos-b-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-prn2/7293_10152008510309816_189876636_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://fbcdn-sphotos-b-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-prn2/7293_10152008510309816_189876636_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hitching out of Serbia.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
A few cars passed, many of them local traffic and they
signified as much by pointing to their left or right to indicate that they were
soon turning, or by pointing downwards to indicate they were staying in the town. A
couple of drivers shrugged their shoulders and put their hands, palm up, into
the air as if to say <i>what can I do</i>? Other
drivers simply waved at us as they drove past.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
None of the cars stopped, but here’s the thing: As a hitchhiker
the worst feeling is not when cars pass by without stopping, it’s when drivers
look straight ahead and pretend they don’t see you. So I appreciate when a driver
acknowledges my existence in any way and I always respond with a wave and a
smile.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
We were waving and smiling, but after about an hour not
one car had stopped for us. Borders can often be tricky to hitch to, through,
and away from and it was getting late in the day, so we started to make
contingency plans. There weren’t many good ones available to us as the last bus
and train into Romania had already left, so we considered finding a place to
pitch our tent. Just as Flounder was wandering off a bit, a car with a Romanian
license plate stopped.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
‘Timisoara?’ I said the name of a big Transylvanian town
about 80 kilometers away. The car’s occupants, a young man and woman,
responded in English. ‘We are going to Timisoara.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Awesome. We loaded out bags into the car and hopped in. The
two were siblings from Portugal who had rented the car in Timisoara and after
more than a week of Balkan traveling, were headed back to return it.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3O6k2LolFR1ksweDmZpM0NjpZ34wKbbHCmkdDgoZqXezI9duaRsxYhr9H1Mf1oeyCUS4br2ZKrRWEx6foLov87AJRCIzDG4VvlRbUKOxH0PTT6gl3VDvLWOYZwNrf2fQl0zpr-MFL9AKk/s1600/IMG_3258.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3O6k2LolFR1ksweDmZpM0NjpZ34wKbbHCmkdDgoZqXezI9duaRsxYhr9H1Mf1oeyCUS4br2ZKrRWEx6foLov87AJRCIzDG4VvlRbUKOxH0PTT6gl3VDvLWOYZwNrf2fQl0zpr-MFL9AKk/s1600/IMG_3258.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We treated our Portuguese drivers to dinner in a little restaurant along the way. The menu was expansive, but the only food they actually seemed to have was pork and potatoes.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
On the way to Timisoara we shared anecdotes and stories
about life in Portugal and in the United States. We learned about fish, wine, and
plentiful beaches and we told about the vast space and beautiful national parks
in the US. We also mentioned a favorite horrifying tidbit about gun usage: <a href="http://www.crickett.com/crickett_22_LR.php" target="_blank">My First Rifle</a>,
a gun made for and marketed toward children. It even comes in an opaque Barbie
pink.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb-jbcwA38gmxodhKBwUH4uJHxIS6hNi6yr1zBgehuIBR7d47BVvbgtAXixNN9gvOo_wA04l5qsMyWkQdzWbdlOqC9rtDLpE_Y_SyFQ4iKUvYBI_B-5dxRm_UNRGYL_JFj-IBd8ScJPV8Y/s1600/IMG_3250.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb-jbcwA38gmxodhKBwUH4uJHxIS6hNi6yr1zBgehuIBR7d47BVvbgtAXixNN9gvOo_wA04l5qsMyWkQdzWbdlOqC9rtDLpE_Y_SyFQ4iKUvYBI_B-5dxRm_UNRGYL_JFj-IBd8ScJPV8Y/s1600/IMG_3250.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Austro-Hungarian style architecture in Timisoara.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
When the brother and sister mentioned that they were only
stopping Timisoara, but planned on driving all the way through to Bucharest, we
decided to stay with them to Sibiu, a town four hours further and in the heart
of Transylvania. The road there was dark, full of trucks, and winding. I felt
simultaneously exhausted and car sick. As the hours dragged on, we considered camping by the side of the road, but it was
already midnight and too dark to see a good spot to pitch our tent. So we
continued on to Sibiu.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdfSWDionxeiGvih7K0RqZd5CoUJHYNaeuK6mC29VZdesfbyflD6SiLLnAFraIm08AA8B2pbnJkieejhrFnv5qHdX1K8a7pKvoyDrpp_TqwmWee-S_dmhvJaOSuBffnRfoHBCblW98SsJV/s1600/IMG_0061.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdfSWDionxeiGvih7K0RqZd5CoUJHYNaeuK6mC29VZdesfbyflD6SiLLnAFraIm08AA8B2pbnJkieejhrFnv5qHdX1K8a7pKvoyDrpp_TqwmWee-S_dmhvJaOSuBffnRfoHBCblW98SsJV/s1600/IMG_0061.JPG" height="640" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Old town in Sibiu.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
We arrived at 2:30 a.m. and wished a bon voyage to our
lovely Portuguese siblings. We were delirious and disoriented but grateful for
a long, warm, safe ride and looking forward to a soft bed and a space of our
own.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Mainly, though, I was grateful for a successful day of
hitchhiking. We had met some interesting people, had a range of (all positive)
experiences and no one had assaulted or taken advantage of us. Perhaps this day
would be a catalyst to excite Flounder’s love of hitching. A girl can dream.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2-8beQ5p6ulWo2uR0NYKzqmHF_3DAHA4uz030pfGOkxIQFOOtDRmPY3dNmBFRsA33Vi9aOSKMP2XeFuMSeQj8XDPsLCqUGjFl3qeJyj_pQuvBb8AlLkGh3flrH4qL15bNszDJWKw2LDmm/s1600/IMG_3235.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2-8beQ5p6ulWo2uR0NYKzqmHF_3DAHA4uz030pfGOkxIQFOOtDRmPY3dNmBFRsA33Vi9aOSKMP2XeFuMSeQj8XDPsLCqUGjFl3qeJyj_pQuvBb8AlLkGh3flrH4qL15bNszDJWKw2LDmm/s1600/IMG_3235.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Happy HHers.</td></tr>
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bliss vagabondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17415159622221679432noreply@blogger.com1