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Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Gisenyi, Rwanda – June 7, 2011
Standing outside the Belvedere bus station in Kigali, surrounded by bags and impatient to depart the bustling city for our more pastoral destination alongside Lake Kivu, 90 minutes seemed too long to wait for our bus to arrive. As I began to negotiate prices for a car to take us three and a half hours away to the lakeside town of Gisenyi, a familiar face spotted mine through the crowd. Claude, a reliable and friendly driver, whom I had worked with in March, embraced me sincerely and offered his assistance. Despite the fact that he was scheduled to drive a busload of people across the country in a matter of minutes, he spent a good quarter of an hour negotiating the reimbursement of our bus tickets and arranging a very reasonably priced private taxi for us. His helpfulness felt like that of a real friend, an equal, rather than the false friendliness and awkward relationships I have often encountered here between service providers and service recipients. He was just one man trying to help his friend out.
The roads across Rwanda were windy and steep, but I slept through the first two hours, slowly recovering from the exhaustion of 3 weeks of trip leading. Before reaching the volcanic mountain region of Virunga, we stopped for tea at a friend’s house. Kitty, who I lived with in France, is now in her second year of Peace Corps in Rwanda. She lives in Gikenke, in a quaint home with courtyard and gardens and western style plumbing. Tea and cookies awaited our arrival and for awhile she told us about her experiences here and we marveled at her strength in living so removed from the western world, so isolated from her peers.
We drove on.
Near evening, we spotted the shores of Lake Kivu in the valley below us (although even the lake is at an altitude of 1000 meters.) In the distance, we could see the Congo, just a few kilometers away from Gisenyi. We took a twisting road lined with villagers down towards our bed and breakfast (the wonderful Paradis Malahide) and arrived with enough daylight to appreciate the beauty of our new home.
The Paradis is aptly named. We were greeted with warmth and quickly led to our individual bungalows. The round huts have thatched roofs and a view of the lake a few meters away. Our windows and doors open up to a breeze and the landscape is a magical blend of red, orange, yellow and purple flowers. Lantana, bougainvillea and a dozen other flowers I can’t name make a rich home for the even more stunning birds and lizards that also dwell in this Garden of Eden. Beyond the vibrant an colorful landscape, the gentle waves of Lake Kivu lap against the shores and lull us to sleep at night. In the mornings, we hear the distant laughs and voices of children mingling with the morning chatter of birds. I could stay a week – or a month.
The first night, we went a few doors down to the Restaurant Touristique. It was already late when we arrived and there was only one other table seated. We stepped up to the counter, expecting to be seated, and were handed a menu. We were asked to order before we were seated. Then, a waiter led us down some rickety steps to a deck beside the lake. There we were sat among the haphazardly scattered plastic lawn chairs that stood about. It took a few minutes for our table to arrive, but eventually the waiter brought us a table. A bit after that, he arrived with a tray bearing Ori’s beer and a box of wine. With difficulty, he poured wine from the awkward box into a small glass. I stood back to avoid the spray of the wine dripping from the spout and laughed at the uniqueness of the situation. My glass a bit as it only had half a base left, but it stood strong and the South African red wine – boxed or not – was quite good. We quickly toasted to the beauty of the place and the singular experiences such as these that make travel so worthwhile. Our good spirits remained as evening turned into night and the hour plus wait was worth every minute when we finally tasted the fresh grilled fish that had swum only hours earlier in Kivu.
Prepared just for us, we were served a spectacular dinner of fish, potatoes and grilled bananas. The food was hot and fresh, and while we couldn’t quite see our plates in the darkness, we used our hands to pick out the bones and eat around the head. Having eaten only vegetables, rice and fruit for the past 3 weeks, I enjoyed the treat of this freshly cooked delicacy.
We awoke earlier on Monday and sat at wooden tables overlooking the Lake. There is an island nearby and we enjoy our breakfast surrounded by flowers, birds and brightly colored lizards. The staff of the Paradis brings us a complete breakfast of fruit salad, omelets to order, toast, and sweet crepes for dessert. The coffee and tea are served in pottery and the plates are silverware are carved from wood. Throughout our breakfast, we listen to the sounds of hundreds of people bargaining at the market a bit further down the shore. The waiter tells us this is weekly market for the people of Gisenyi and Kiyuvo, a city about 6 hours south of here by roads.
After breakfast, we walk down to explore the market. Coal seems to be the main attraction at the market and is sold in huge sacks covered with leaves. Men and women carry the heavy sacks on their heads and make their way across the rocky shores without shoes. We see bananas being sold and dozens of pineapples being loaded off of wooden boats into the baskets that rest upon the heads of the women who line the shores. Many of the women have young babies tied snugly to their backs with fabric. We see a girl of eight or nine with a baby and another woman who could be a great-grandmother carrying both baby and basket upon her frail body.
A group of young boys do summersaults in black netting and play and giggle as the women next to them stick their arms deep into buckets full of slimy half-dead sardines. Further down the shore, we watch men unloading heavy loads of sand from the bowels of a rusty boat (ironically named “Titanic 2”). Barefoot as well, they balance their bodies on the swells of the lake and their heavy burdens on their heads as they walk a rickety plank towards the shore, the sweat visibly dripping down their backs. One of them has a big belt buckle with the face of President Kagame. We point it out and he smiles.
We are conspicuous, to say the least. Women, men and children all point t us and cry “muzungu.” They stare, unabashedly, they giggle and whisper about us in each other’s’ ears. I understand nothing but am curious. Some of them say, “Give me money,” but more say “good morning” despite the fact that it is already afternoon. AS I watch the men unloading sand from the ship, I sit down on a log beside two women. One has just finished breast feeding her baby. This baby, about four months old, is particularly adorable. She has a round face and puffy cheeks and as I smile at her and point, the two women eagerly pass me the baby. I touch her round soft head and smile into her sparking eyes. Ori and Zipa come close to take pictures and for a few blissful moments I am completely content.
… until I feel something warm on my lap, and Ori points at the trickle pouring between my legs. Diaperless, the baby has peed with joy as I cradled her and as her caretakers laugh hysterically, I gently hand the oblivious baby back to her mother. The warm wet stain on my pants doesn’t really bother me, but I waddle back to our hotel (a few blocks away.) A few of the villagers point at me and laugh – as if I had soiled myself – but I am glad for experience and mostly grateful that the baby only peed.
After a shower, we head into town. The hotel manager assures us we will have no problem finding a taxi on the road. After walking for awhile, the public bus stops to offer us a ride. We ask if they can take us directly to La Corniche, a restaurant that a friend has recommended. The driver assures us that – yes, he can take us directly there. 15 minutes later, we are deposited on a bus station above the center of town, on a dirt road. The drivers surround us, asking for money, but we are nowhere near La Corniche. One driver comes to our rescue with kindness (and good French.) While we aren’t given any direction about how to find the restaurant, we are allowed to leave without paying for the misguided busride. We wander the back streets of Gisenyi, tripping over rocks and sweating in the heat. After asking many locals, we finally find ourselves at the buffet. The Rwandan food is delicious – particularly a seasoned rice and red sauce that they serve. We receive freshly sliced avocado, savory cabbage and onions and fill our bellies beyond capacity.
Our attempts to negotiate a cab ride back to our hotel fail, so we set out on foot yet again. We find ourselves on the main road of Gisenyi, a wide boulevard that leads along the water to the border of the Congo and the adjacent town of Goma, just a kilometer away. The road is clean and in good condition and lined with tall palms and a sort of giant cactus tree that I have never seen. Between the road and the lake is a well-manicured park where residents play soccer and swim. Opposite the water are stately mansions, impressive villas We are told that at leats one – the most impressive we see – is owned by a Rwandan business man. The houses have gardens and buttresses and see befit for Malibu, or the Amalfi Coast.
Along the walk, where we run into a boy who wearing a graduation cap (he had just graduated high school and, smiling with pride, he told me in perfect French that he was headed to university in Uganda!) After 40 minutes or so, we come to the fancy Kivu Serena hotel and enjoy coffee and icecream beside their pool. The lobby is fancy and the décor could be that of a nice hotel anywhere in the world, but the service in slow and communication a challenge. We are grateful to be statying at a much more interesting auberge where the service is superb and the location nestled far from the center of town and a small inlet in the giant tht is Lake Kivu.
Today, we woke up later and enjoyed a slow morning beside the lake, reading, playing cards and swimming. Now, we await a meal of grilled fish and an evening of lazy meanderings in the city of Gisenyi.
Standing outside the Belvedere bus station in Kigali, surrounded by bags and impatient to depart the bustling city for our more pastoral destination alongside Lake Kivu, 90 minutes seemed too long to wait for our bus to arrive. As I began to negotiate prices for a car to take us three and a half hours away to the lakeside town of Gisenyi, a familiar face spotted mine through the crowd. Claude, a reliable and friendly driver, whom I had worked with in March, embraced me sincerely and offered his assistance. Despite the fact that he was scheduled to drive a busload of people across the country in a matter of minutes, he spent a good quarter of an hour negotiating the reimbursement of our bus tickets and arranging a very reasonably priced private taxi for us. His helpfulness felt like that of a real friend, an equal, rather than the false friendliness and awkward relationships I have often encountered here between service providers and service recipients. He was just one man trying to help his friend out.
The roads across Rwanda were windy and steep, but I slept through the first two hours, slowly recovering from the exhaustion of 3 weeks of trip leading. Before reaching the volcanic mountain region of Virunga, we stopped for tea at a friend’s house. Kitty, who I lived with in France, is now in her second year of Peace Corps in Rwanda. She lives in Gikenke, in a quaint home with courtyard and gardens and western style plumbing. Tea and cookies awaited our arrival and for awhile she told us about her experiences here and we marveled at her strength in living so removed from the western world, so isolated from her peers.
We drove on.
Near evening, we spotted the shores of Lake Kivu in the valley below us (although even the lake is at an altitude of 1000 meters.) In the distance, we could see the Congo, just a few kilometers away from Gisenyi. We took a twisting road lined with villagers down towards our bed and breakfast (the wonderful Paradis Malahide) and arrived with enough daylight to appreciate the beauty of our new home.
The Paradis is aptly named. We were greeted with warmth and quickly led to our individual bungalows. The round huts have thatched roofs and a view of the lake a few meters away. Our windows and doors open up to a breeze and the landscape is a magical blend of red, orange, yellow and purple flowers. Lantana, bougainvillea and a dozen other flowers I can’t name make a rich home for the even more stunning birds and lizards that also dwell in this Garden of Eden. Beyond the vibrant an colorful landscape, the gentle waves of Lake Kivu lap against the shores and lull us to sleep at night. In the mornings, we hear the distant laughs and voices of children mingling with the morning chatter of birds. I could stay a week – or a month.
The first night, we went a few doors down to the Restaurant Touristique. It was already late when we arrived and there was only one other table seated. We stepped up to the counter, expecting to be seated, and were handed a menu. We were asked to order before we were seated. Then, a waiter led us down some rickety steps to a deck beside the lake. There we were sat among the haphazardly scattered plastic lawn chairs that stood about. It took a few minutes for our table to arrive, but eventually the waiter brought us a table. A bit after that, he arrived with a tray bearing Ori’s beer and a box of wine. With difficulty, he poured wine from the awkward box into a small glass. I stood back to avoid the spray of the wine dripping from the spout and laughed at the uniqueness of the situation. My glass a bit as it only had half a base left, but it stood strong and the South African red wine – boxed or not – was quite good. We quickly toasted to the beauty of the place and the singular experiences such as these that make travel so worthwhile. Our good spirits remained as evening turned into night and the hour plus wait was worth every minute when we finally tasted the fresh grilled fish that had swum only hours earlier in Kivu.
Prepared just for us, we were served a spectacular dinner of fish, potatoes and grilled bananas. The food was hot and fresh, and while we couldn’t quite see our plates in the darkness, we used our hands to pick out the bones and eat around the head. Having eaten only vegetables, rice and fruit for the past 3 weeks, I enjoyed the treat of this freshly cooked delicacy.
We awoke earlier on Monday and sat at wooden tables overlooking the Lake. There is an island nearby and we enjoy our breakfast surrounded by flowers, birds and brightly colored lizards. The staff of the Paradis brings us a complete breakfast of fruit salad, omelets to order, toast, and sweet crepes for dessert. The coffee and tea are served in pottery and the plates are silverware are carved from wood. Throughout our breakfast, we listen to the sounds of hundreds of people bargaining at the market a bit further down the shore. The waiter tells us this is weekly market for the people of Gisenyi and Kiyuvo, a city about 6 hours south of here by roads.
After breakfast, we walk down to explore the market. Coal seems to be the main attraction at the market and is sold in huge sacks covered with leaves. Men and women carry the heavy sacks on their heads and make their way across the rocky shores without shoes. We see bananas being sold and dozens of pineapples being loaded off of wooden boats into the baskets that rest upon the heads of the women who line the shores. Many of the women have young babies tied snugly to their backs with fabric. We see a girl of eight or nine with a baby and another woman who could be a great-grandmother carrying both baby and basket upon her frail body.
A group of young boys do summersaults in black netting and play and giggle as the women next to them stick their arms deep into buckets full of slimy half-dead sardines. Further down the shore, we watch men unloading heavy loads of sand from the bowels of a rusty boat (ironically named “Titanic 2”). Barefoot as well, they balance their bodies on the swells of the lake and their heavy burdens on their heads as they walk a rickety plank towards the shore, the sweat visibly dripping down their backs. One of them has a big belt buckle with the face of President Kagame. We point it out and he smiles.
We are conspicuous, to say the least. Women, men and children all point t us and cry “muzungu.” They stare, unabashedly, they giggle and whisper about us in each other’s’ ears. I understand nothing but am curious. Some of them say, “Give me money,” but more say “good morning” despite the fact that it is already afternoon. AS I watch the men unloading sand from the ship, I sit down on a log beside two women. One has just finished breast feeding her baby. This baby, about four months old, is particularly adorable. She has a round face and puffy cheeks and as I smile at her and point, the two women eagerly pass me the baby. I touch her round soft head and smile into her sparking eyes. Ori and Zipa come close to take pictures and for a few blissful moments I am completely content.
… until I feel something warm on my lap, and Ori points at the trickle pouring between my legs. Diaperless, the baby has peed with joy as I cradled her and as her caretakers laugh hysterically, I gently hand the oblivious baby back to her mother. The warm wet stain on my pants doesn’t really bother me, but I waddle back to our hotel (a few blocks away.) A few of the villagers point at me and laugh – as if I had soiled myself – but I am glad for experience and mostly grateful that the baby only peed.
After a shower, we head into town. The hotel manager assures us we will have no problem finding a taxi on the road. After walking for awhile, the public bus stops to offer us a ride. We ask if they can take us directly to La Corniche, a restaurant that a friend has recommended. The driver assures us that – yes, he can take us directly there. 15 minutes later, we are deposited on a bus station above the center of town, on a dirt road. The drivers surround us, asking for money, but we are nowhere near La Corniche. One driver comes to our rescue with kindness (and good French.) While we aren’t given any direction about how to find the restaurant, we are allowed to leave without paying for the misguided busride. We wander the back streets of Gisenyi, tripping over rocks and sweating in the heat. After asking many locals, we finally find ourselves at the buffet. The Rwandan food is delicious – particularly a seasoned rice and red sauce that they serve. We receive freshly sliced avocado, savory cabbage and onions and fill our bellies beyond capacity.
Our attempts to negotiate a cab ride back to our hotel fail, so we set out on foot yet again. We find ourselves on the main road of Gisenyi, a wide boulevard that leads along the water to the border of the Congo and the adjacent town of Goma, just a kilometer away. The road is clean and in good condition and lined with tall palms and a sort of giant cactus tree that I have never seen. Between the road and the lake is a well-manicured park where residents play soccer and swim. Opposite the water are stately mansions, impressive villas We are told that at leats one – the most impressive we see – is owned by a Rwandan business man. The houses have gardens and buttresses and see befit for Malibu, or the Amalfi Coast.
Along the walk, where we run into a boy who wearing a graduation cap (he had just graduated high school and, smiling with pride, he told me in perfect French that he was headed to university in Uganda!) After 40 minutes or so, we come to the fancy Kivu Serena hotel and enjoy coffee and icecream beside their pool. The lobby is fancy and the décor could be that of a nice hotel anywhere in the world, but the service in slow and communication a challenge. We are grateful to be statying at a much more interesting auberge where the service is superb and the location nestled far from the center of town and a small inlet in the giant tht is Lake Kivu.
Today, we woke up later and enjoyed a slow morning beside the lake, reading, playing cards and swimming. Now, we await a meal of grilled fish and an evening of lazy meanderings in the city of Gisenyi.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
I love Tel Aviv.
It took my body (and spirit) about two weeks to understand that I am really back in Israel, but after 10 days in Caesarea and two days in Tel Aviv, I felt a physiological switch.
And smiled.
And haven't stopped since.
Sure - Israel has traffic, and cigarettes and dog shit on every block, and incompetent staff at the cell phone company, but somehow, something about this place relaxes me. I'm still working like crazy, self-initiating into a blackberry addict, and I have a splinter in my finger that is menacing my dexterity and seems anxious to infect my entire right hand....
but so what?
Tel Aviv, especially, is calling to me. We are spending two weeks near Kikar Rabin in the center of Tel Aviv, cat sitting and apartment sitting for Ori's brother. It's awesome to be back with Tripod, and amazing to be wandering around this city, vibrant with life at all hours of the day, visiting our favorite spots and checking out new ones that have popped up in the past two years.
Today (86 degrees!) we spent the day with friends at the beach, parking just beneath our old apartment. We sipped frozen coffee drinks and lemon-mint slurpies and played with their sweet 9-month-old. Sure, most of our friends seem to have added a new family member in the past 12 months, but it hasn't changed things as much as I expected. The babies are still too young to be a major distraction (no terrible-twos yet) and there are always family members nearby to babysit.
We've spent all week reuniting with friends, out wandering the streets until 1 or 2am and returning home past coffeeshops and bars still bustling with crowds who can far outlast us into the night.
I had thought I was ready to settle into a house in the country, but I may need another year yet to explore this city. Nearly everything, and everyone, seems to be in walking distance, the beach is always a few blocks away, and the food is even tastier than I remembered.
Maybe these rose-tinted glasses will lose their sparkle, but I seem to remember this feeling of general contentment as a daily companion from my life in Tel Aviv. I miss my family and my friends, for sure, but not the feeling of general haste and preoccupation that, inexplicably, overcomes me in New York. It's a phenomena I can't entirely explain, but for now I am grateful for my total awareness and acceptance of the moment. I feel each day is a gift. And I relish it.
It took my body (and spirit) about two weeks to understand that I am really back in Israel, but after 10 days in Caesarea and two days in Tel Aviv, I felt a physiological switch.
And smiled.
And haven't stopped since.
Sure - Israel has traffic, and cigarettes and dog shit on every block, and incompetent staff at the cell phone company, but somehow, something about this place relaxes me. I'm still working like crazy, self-initiating into a blackberry addict, and I have a splinter in my finger that is menacing my dexterity and seems anxious to infect my entire right hand....
but so what?
Tel Aviv, especially, is calling to me. We are spending two weeks near Kikar Rabin in the center of Tel Aviv, cat sitting and apartment sitting for Ori's brother. It's awesome to be back with Tripod, and amazing to be wandering around this city, vibrant with life at all hours of the day, visiting our favorite spots and checking out new ones that have popped up in the past two years.
Today (86 degrees!) we spent the day with friends at the beach, parking just beneath our old apartment. We sipped frozen coffee drinks and lemon-mint slurpies and played with their sweet 9-month-old. Sure, most of our friends seem to have added a new family member in the past 12 months, but it hasn't changed things as much as I expected. The babies are still too young to be a major distraction (no terrible-twos yet) and there are always family members nearby to babysit.
We've spent all week reuniting with friends, out wandering the streets until 1 or 2am and returning home past coffeeshops and bars still bustling with crowds who can far outlast us into the night.
I had thought I was ready to settle into a house in the country, but I may need another year yet to explore this city. Nearly everything, and everyone, seems to be in walking distance, the beach is always a few blocks away, and the food is even tastier than I remembered.
Maybe these rose-tinted glasses will lose their sparkle, but I seem to remember this feeling of general contentment as a daily companion from my life in Tel Aviv. I miss my family and my friends, for sure, but not the feeling of general haste and preoccupation that, inexplicably, overcomes me in New York. It's a phenomena I can't entirely explain, but for now I am grateful for my total awareness and acceptance of the moment. I feel each day is a gift. And I relish it.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
1-11-11
Bonaire, Holland
There’s a crew of parrots chattering away in the tree just beyond my porch. I can’t quite see them because they are brightly backlit by the sun setting just beyond. The palm trees are dark green silhouettes against the sky and water beyond them. It’s about 6 o’clock, I’m in shorts and a tank top, and the steady breeze that blows east to west all day here is making music in the leaves, setting the rhythm for the birds’ flutes and whistles.
We arrived in Bonaire two days ago, touching down on the small Caribbean island at half past six on a Sunday morning. 40 miles to the north is Venezuela. To our west 1 mile is the uninhabited little island of Klein Bonaire and 50 or so miles beyond that Curacao.
Arrival
We stepped off the plane and the warm breezy air bounced off the tarmac wafting up to my outspread arms. Ori and I smiled and danced in the hot sun, thrilled by to have arrived after so many months of anticipation. The small airport terminal, the hot air, the breeze – it all reminded me instantly of Rwanda. I don’t know if the airport terminals are both a colonial style of architecture, or if the two airports were built by the same architect, but this instant surge of reminder continued with me throughout our drive into town. We cleared customs and grabbed our bags quickly, found our friends and drove through the two-street main town.
The houses are simple, small, one story buildings. Many are painted bright colors. Shipping containers dot the landscape. We wove through several roundabouts, caught our first glimpse of the local flamingo population and entered into Kralendijk, the main town on island. A few miles beyond, heading north, we arrived at our friends’ home in Sand Dollar Condominiums.
Sunday
Sunday was a full day. Our friends quickly gave us a tour of our apartment which is, simply, perfect. We have a bathroom, full closet, kitchen complete with spices and stocked with beer and wine. Beyond that is a large room with couch, chairs, desk and bed, all opening up onto a screened in porch with an ocean view. This has become my breakfast nook, and now, my writing spot.
At night we sleep as in Tel Aviv - no air conditioning, with only the evening breeze and the sounds of birds and surf to cool our bodies and minds. It is glorious.
Our friends live a few doors down and have gone out of their way to make their home feel like an extension of ours. We have been eating, cooking and generally relaxing at their place, turning our own unit into more of a bedroom.
From our first hours here, Ori and I were impressed with the level of convenience and simplicity. Just next to the condos is the dive shop, the dock, the room to store our scuba gear and an ocean front restaurant. You can wake up here at 8am and easily be scuba diving by 8:30. All you have to do is grab your gear and go.
At 9:30 Sunday morning, we attended an orientation at the Dive Shop and learned a bit about Bari Reef. This reef, right at our doorstep, is the most diverse in the entire Caribbean. In the past few years it has been invaded by lionfish, a beautiful but threating fish that was let loose in Florida and has made its way throughout the Caribbean down to Bonaire. They sting horribly – a sting so painful they say, “It won’t kill you, but you’ll wish it had.” More significantly, they eat. A lot. (25% of their body weight each day) And their presence is a threat to the famous diversity of the reef.
After the orientation, we rented our gear and got fitted for BCDs, regulators, fins and more. It was exciting to have this equipment in my hands after reading about it in my dive course book for so many weeks. We hung the gear on a hook and crossed the lawn to pick up a few groceries at the market next door. Along the way, our hosts introduced us to a few of the local characters, several of whom are American expats who have moved their lives to Bonaire. I took a brief nap, euphoric but overwhelmed by the fact of being here, in this amazing place.
Scuba Lessons
At 2 o’clock, I met up with J and my scuba class began in full. He and I have charged into the course with intensity and I am enjoying every minute. I am incredibly grateful for the opportunity to learn this way, one on one with someone I trust. He has completely dedicated these few days to teaching me to dive, and is a talented, patient and encouraging instructor. We began by reviewing some of the written lessons and then quickly headed down to the docks with our gear.
Up to this point, everything about diving has been wonderful – magical. There are two small tasks involved that I find challenging/frustrating, but both are getting easier each time.
1.Checking the air pressure in a tank.
This is a funny issue. Checking the pressure is easy, but releasing the gauge from the valve on the tank requires hand strength that I haven’t quite mastered. J is great about having me do it myself so I will learn, but I’ve bruised my palm about trying.
2.Suiting Up
I am borrowing a wet suit (more gratitude!) but it’s a bit snug. I actually think it’s the right size, but donning it involves a lot of pulling and pinching the materials to drag it up and on.
I point these out, mostly, because they are so mundane, and to underline how much I love everything about this new sport.
The Course
We began with a series of five “Contained Water Dives.” During these sessions, we never ventured lower than 10 feet. With Ori joining us for the first dive, I learned how to breathe in and out of the regulator, focusing on breathing only with my mouth. The very first time was scary at first. I froze for a few seconds, fearing I wouldn’t be able to do it. With a leap of faith, I slowly let air out of my vest and allowed myself to sink underwater. It worked. Air flowed in and out of my mouth easily and my confidence began to rise as my body descended. During the first few dives, I learned to remain neutrally buoyant, suspended in the water not floating or sinking. With each deep breath in, my lungs propel me up a few feet. Release the air inside, and I sink back down. Diving has been an amazing way to get in touch with my body, and to learn to appreciate breathing, and the ease with which my body performs this crucial function. I learned to swim in and out of hoops under water and practiced taking off my mask and putting it back on, using air from my nose to clear out the water.
Even in the shallow water, the view beneath mesmerized me. All around me swam blue and purple parrot fish. I would go under for 2 minutes and find myself surrounded by a giant school of tiny fish. Below me in the sand, I saw a flounder, hiding camouflaged with his eyes looking up at me. (When I first saw him, I thought it was a skeleton of a dead fish because he was exactly the color of the sand and sunk in a bit, giving me the impression that he was nothing but the discarded bones of a former creature.)
While J and I spent Sunday and Monday completing all five confined dives, Ori and C relaxed, rode bikes and dove. At night, we gathered for dinner. Sunday night we went to a delicious place in the capital town and Ori and I got a tour of the many restaurants along the waterfront. There is a Cuban bar, a harbor, and a special area where the giant cruise ships come in each day. Last night, J and I bought groceries at the local supermarket and cooked up a dinner of soup, rice and salad. We were joined around nine by E, the head of the local conservation society. All of us laughed, shared stories and went out to the delicious ice cream shop that is right next door. E invited C, J and Ori out for a dive the next day to work on controlling the Lion Fish population. As I write this, they are out diving, spear guns in hand, working to slowly fight against this invasive species.
Tuesday
I was up early today, excited to have my first “Open Water Dives.” These dives, carefully monitored by my instructor, offer the opportunity to practice my new skills in deeper water. No new skills are introduced, but the stakes are higher when the surface isn’t just overhead.
We swam out to a buoy about 100 yards off the dock, went over the procedures for descent and ascent, then released the air from our vests and slowly floated downward. I felt my ears popping along the way and blew air out gently to relieve the squeeze. I felt calm, confident and excited. We swam down and west toward the reef and before I knew it, my depth gauge measured 20, than 30, than 40 feet. The reef drops off quickly and we swam down alongside. I struggled a bit in the first dive to keep my fins out of the coral, but did better in subsequent trips.
One remarkable thing in diving is that as you descend, you have no concept of depth. Only your gauge (and the pressure in your ears) warns you that you are dropping steadily, and on our third dive we reached 57 feet below in just a few minutes. I love the feeling of swimming slowly after my partner, pushing the heavy water behind me with my fins and slowly propelling my body forward. I didn’t want to come up.
I was, today, introduced to an entire new universe on Earth. Just below the surface, just beyond our view from land, is a bustling, vibrant world of plants and animals, of colors and species, of predators and prey, reproduction and families, communities and interconnected systems of life. Of course I knew this stuff was there – but never really thought about it. Today I swam among it all, a tiny intruder in this bustling world below. The fish are everywhere and all around, and they continued with their lives unfettered by our presence. J and a trumpet fish stared at each other for a few minutes, both visitors in a mutual zoo. A midnight parrot fish swam right up to me and I thought for a second she would keep on swimming through my legs.
We saw brain corral, and fire corral and dozens of others that I have not begun to learn. I longed to learn it all – the names, the habits, the rarity and more – and then wondered why it mattered. Does knowing the name of a beautiful creature make it more beautiful? Is it more of a wonder if it’s rare to see? Or perhaps in my totally ignorant state, I am best equipped to stand (or float) in awe of the rich beauty below.
Beneath the surface, I find I am able to remain totally present. I concentrate on my breaths, keeping them slow and long. I stare in every direction, and with each degree that I turn, I see another wonder. I feel so privileged to have been introduced to this world. I imagine that a small percentage of people on Earth have had this opportunity and am grateful to be among them. I am, quite simply, hooked.
Midnight Parrotfish
Bonaire, Holland
There’s a crew of parrots chattering away in the tree just beyond my porch. I can’t quite see them because they are brightly backlit by the sun setting just beyond. The palm trees are dark green silhouettes against the sky and water beyond them. It’s about 6 o’clock, I’m in shorts and a tank top, and the steady breeze that blows east to west all day here is making music in the leaves, setting the rhythm for the birds’ flutes and whistles.
We arrived in Bonaire two days ago, touching down on the small Caribbean island at half past six on a Sunday morning. 40 miles to the north is Venezuela. To our west 1 mile is the uninhabited little island of Klein Bonaire and 50 or so miles beyond that Curacao.
Arrival
We stepped off the plane and the warm breezy air bounced off the tarmac wafting up to my outspread arms. Ori and I smiled and danced in the hot sun, thrilled by to have arrived after so many months of anticipation. The small airport terminal, the hot air, the breeze – it all reminded me instantly of Rwanda. I don’t know if the airport terminals are both a colonial style of architecture, or if the two airports were built by the same architect, but this instant surge of reminder continued with me throughout our drive into town. We cleared customs and grabbed our bags quickly, found our friends and drove through the two-street main town.
The houses are simple, small, one story buildings. Many are painted bright colors. Shipping containers dot the landscape. We wove through several roundabouts, caught our first glimpse of the local flamingo population and entered into Kralendijk, the main town on island. A few miles beyond, heading north, we arrived at our friends’ home in Sand Dollar Condominiums.
Sunday
Sunday was a full day. Our friends quickly gave us a tour of our apartment which is, simply, perfect. We have a bathroom, full closet, kitchen complete with spices and stocked with beer and wine. Beyond that is a large room with couch, chairs, desk and bed, all opening up onto a screened in porch with an ocean view. This has become my breakfast nook, and now, my writing spot.
At night we sleep as in Tel Aviv - no air conditioning, with only the evening breeze and the sounds of birds and surf to cool our bodies and minds. It is glorious.
Our friends live a few doors down and have gone out of their way to make their home feel like an extension of ours. We have been eating, cooking and generally relaxing at their place, turning our own unit into more of a bedroom.
From our first hours here, Ori and I were impressed with the level of convenience and simplicity. Just next to the condos is the dive shop, the dock, the room to store our scuba gear and an ocean front restaurant. You can wake up here at 8am and easily be scuba diving by 8:30. All you have to do is grab your gear and go.
At 9:30 Sunday morning, we attended an orientation at the Dive Shop and learned a bit about Bari Reef. This reef, right at our doorstep, is the most diverse in the entire Caribbean. In the past few years it has been invaded by lionfish, a beautiful but threating fish that was let loose in Florida and has made its way throughout the Caribbean down to Bonaire. They sting horribly – a sting so painful they say, “It won’t kill you, but you’ll wish it had.” More significantly, they eat. A lot. (25% of their body weight each day) And their presence is a threat to the famous diversity of the reef.
After the orientation, we rented our gear and got fitted for BCDs, regulators, fins and more. It was exciting to have this equipment in my hands after reading about it in my dive course book for so many weeks. We hung the gear on a hook and crossed the lawn to pick up a few groceries at the market next door. Along the way, our hosts introduced us to a few of the local characters, several of whom are American expats who have moved their lives to Bonaire. I took a brief nap, euphoric but overwhelmed by the fact of being here, in this amazing place.
Scuba Lessons
At 2 o’clock, I met up with J and my scuba class began in full. He and I have charged into the course with intensity and I am enjoying every minute. I am incredibly grateful for the opportunity to learn this way, one on one with someone I trust. He has completely dedicated these few days to teaching me to dive, and is a talented, patient and encouraging instructor. We began by reviewing some of the written lessons and then quickly headed down to the docks with our gear.
Up to this point, everything about diving has been wonderful – magical. There are two small tasks involved that I find challenging/frustrating, but both are getting easier each time.
1.Checking the air pressure in a tank.
This is a funny issue. Checking the pressure is easy, but releasing the gauge from the valve on the tank requires hand strength that I haven’t quite mastered. J is great about having me do it myself so I will learn, but I’ve bruised my palm about trying.
2.Suiting Up
I am borrowing a wet suit (more gratitude!) but it’s a bit snug. I actually think it’s the right size, but donning it involves a lot of pulling and pinching the materials to drag it up and on.
I point these out, mostly, because they are so mundane, and to underline how much I love everything about this new sport.
The Course
We began with a series of five “Contained Water Dives.” During these sessions, we never ventured lower than 10 feet. With Ori joining us for the first dive, I learned how to breathe in and out of the regulator, focusing on breathing only with my mouth. The very first time was scary at first. I froze for a few seconds, fearing I wouldn’t be able to do it. With a leap of faith, I slowly let air out of my vest and allowed myself to sink underwater. It worked. Air flowed in and out of my mouth easily and my confidence began to rise as my body descended. During the first few dives, I learned to remain neutrally buoyant, suspended in the water not floating or sinking. With each deep breath in, my lungs propel me up a few feet. Release the air inside, and I sink back down. Diving has been an amazing way to get in touch with my body, and to learn to appreciate breathing, and the ease with which my body performs this crucial function. I learned to swim in and out of hoops under water and practiced taking off my mask and putting it back on, using air from my nose to clear out the water.
Even in the shallow water, the view beneath mesmerized me. All around me swam blue and purple parrot fish. I would go under for 2 minutes and find myself surrounded by a giant school of tiny fish. Below me in the sand, I saw a flounder, hiding camouflaged with his eyes looking up at me. (When I first saw him, I thought it was a skeleton of a dead fish because he was exactly the color of the sand and sunk in a bit, giving me the impression that he was nothing but the discarded bones of a former creature.)
While J and I spent Sunday and Monday completing all five confined dives, Ori and C relaxed, rode bikes and dove. At night, we gathered for dinner. Sunday night we went to a delicious place in the capital town and Ori and I got a tour of the many restaurants along the waterfront. There is a Cuban bar, a harbor, and a special area where the giant cruise ships come in each day. Last night, J and I bought groceries at the local supermarket and cooked up a dinner of soup, rice and salad. We were joined around nine by E, the head of the local conservation society. All of us laughed, shared stories and went out to the delicious ice cream shop that is right next door. E invited C, J and Ori out for a dive the next day to work on controlling the Lion Fish population. As I write this, they are out diving, spear guns in hand, working to slowly fight against this invasive species.
Tuesday
I was up early today, excited to have my first “Open Water Dives.” These dives, carefully monitored by my instructor, offer the opportunity to practice my new skills in deeper water. No new skills are introduced, but the stakes are higher when the surface isn’t just overhead.
We swam out to a buoy about 100 yards off the dock, went over the procedures for descent and ascent, then released the air from our vests and slowly floated downward. I felt my ears popping along the way and blew air out gently to relieve the squeeze. I felt calm, confident and excited. We swam down and west toward the reef and before I knew it, my depth gauge measured 20, than 30, than 40 feet. The reef drops off quickly and we swam down alongside. I struggled a bit in the first dive to keep my fins out of the coral, but did better in subsequent trips.
One remarkable thing in diving is that as you descend, you have no concept of depth. Only your gauge (and the pressure in your ears) warns you that you are dropping steadily, and on our third dive we reached 57 feet below in just a few minutes. I love the feeling of swimming slowly after my partner, pushing the heavy water behind me with my fins and slowly propelling my body forward. I didn’t want to come up.
I was, today, introduced to an entire new universe on Earth. Just below the surface, just beyond our view from land, is a bustling, vibrant world of plants and animals, of colors and species, of predators and prey, reproduction and families, communities and interconnected systems of life. Of course I knew this stuff was there – but never really thought about it. Today I swam among it all, a tiny intruder in this bustling world below. The fish are everywhere and all around, and they continued with their lives unfettered by our presence. J and a trumpet fish stared at each other for a few minutes, both visitors in a mutual zoo. A midnight parrot fish swam right up to me and I thought for a second she would keep on swimming through my legs.
We saw brain corral, and fire corral and dozens of others that I have not begun to learn. I longed to learn it all – the names, the habits, the rarity and more – and then wondered why it mattered. Does knowing the name of a beautiful creature make it more beautiful? Is it more of a wonder if it’s rare to see? Or perhaps in my totally ignorant state, I am best equipped to stand (or float) in awe of the rich beauty below.
Beneath the surface, I find I am able to remain totally present. I concentrate on my breaths, keeping them slow and long. I stare in every direction, and with each degree that I turn, I see another wonder. I feel so privileged to have been introduced to this world. I imagine that a small percentage of people on Earth have had this opportunity and am grateful to be among them. I am, quite simply, hooked.
Midnight Parrotfish
Sunday, December 20, 2009
The Joys of Travel...
Rwanda - Brussels - Israel --- the long way.
I left Rwanda yesterday – Thursday – at 5 PM. We drove down the newly finished red dirt road and made our way toward Kigali, the capital city. We passed deep green valleys and a forest of eucalyptus trees. Along the road, and on it, were villagers walking in every direction, carrying water, baskets and bushels on their heads. A boy, no older than six, ran along side the road, spinning a bicycle tire with a stick.
Rwanda is beautiful. Stunning, lush, tropical, breathtaking beauty that belies the country’s recent history. There are birds with feathery plumes of the brightest blue and orange that pecked at our windows in the morning. Flowers grow large and quickly in the warm and fertile growing seasons that come with the rains. The capital city has coffee shops (some with WiFi!)and at least one shopping mall. The government is quickly cleaning out its slums – replacing them with walled villas or open green space. Despite being one of the poorest countries in the world, Rwanda is clean and small, accessible, and relatively easy to negotiate. (I have to admit that I saw a miniscule portion of this country and am only reporting on this TINY portion that I experienced. From what I have read, the vast majority of Rwandans live in poor agricultural villages spread throughout the country.) I look forward to going back, to learning more. I know so little about the place, had such little chance to talk to people, to listen, to hear stories, or to share culture.
Despite all the beauty, and experiences still awaiting me there, I was thrilled to be going back to Israel. But what a long long way it seems…. A direct plane from Rwanda to Israel would not take very long – perhaps 8 hours. Even with a stopover in Addis Ababa, it should only be about 12. I had the fortune of being routed through Brussels, with a 13 hour layover between flights.
We arrived very early at the Kigali Airport, and learned that our flight was delayed. On the second floor of the airport, there is not much to keep a traveler entertained. For entertainment, we had only the two small duty free shops selling familiar souvenirs, chocolates, liquors and wine. We grabbed the last table at the cafeteria and learned the kitchen was closed. I had a dinner of Macadamia nuts and two granola bars, chatted with my companions and read emails. At this point, a man at the next table asked me to check the homepage of Brussels Airport; we learned that a snowstorm was in full-force in the city, and was expected to last the whole night. Most flights were delayed; many were canceled. Were we going to leave Kigali at all? Would we be there another four or five days waiting for the next flight out? Or crazier yet, perhaps we would get stranded in Entebbe of all places – where our plane was scheduled to pick up more passengers. (As a Jew, it was hard for me to imagine that I would be in Entebbe at all; it was not a city I’d ever expected to step foot in, and wrong as it is, in my mind the word connotes only one thing.)
As it happened, we did our board out plan and we did fly 35 minutes to Entebbe. Right after take off, two flight attendants raced down the aisle spraying some sickening-sweet-smelling substance from two aerosol cans held high above their heads. Simultaneously, a loudspeaker reassured us that this spray was completely harmless, and was simply part of health code regulations on certain flights. Yet even the flight attendants seemed to be trying to escape the stuff, spraying it high into the overhead bins, and running a few steps ahead of the mysterious mist. No further explanation was offered as to the nature or purpose of this fumigation. I buried my face into the pillows, wondering what the “Brussels Airway Health Spray Policy” might look like. They sprayed again after we took off from Entebbe.
Despite being a frequent flier, and a pretty relaxed one at that, I am often struck by the total lack of control or agency that we have as airplane passengers. Strangers touch our bodies, tell us to remove our shoes, to take apart our belongings, to sit for hours in a chair, to wear our seat belts, to sit straight up, to not talk on the phone. We are told when we can use the bathroom, when to eat, what to eat, and when we can use our computers or lean back in our chairs. We have to beg for a blanket or a glass of water. If things don’t go our way, there are few choices. First class, business and coach alike, we are all prisoners of airport regulations and the whims of airlines. These experiences are part of the price we pay for the luxury – and it is an incredible luxury – of having the world accessible to us, and for the privilege of being transported, safely and efficiently, from place to place.
In Entebbe, none of us had any choice except to sit for two hours, while the airline searched for one man. They woke up everyone who was sleeping to see if he was the “missing’ passenger. AS it turned out, the person in question had left the airplane in Entebbe, not realizing that passengers continuing to Brussels were supposed to stay on the aircraft. The flight attendants counted us three times, before they finally found the man, wandering, oblivious, somewhere in the Ugandan terminal.
We took off again, and I fell asleep on my tray table until dinner was served. We still did not know if the Brussels Airport was open, but we crossed our fingers and settled in for the long flight.
Brussels
We arrived in Brussels around nine in the morning, tired and happy to have made it. The runaways were lined with fresh white snow and we shivered outside in the shocking 20 degree air as we waited for a bus to the terminal. The airport was full of exhausted, stranded passengers waiting for rescheduled and delayed flights to finally board. I said goodbye to my friends and hopped on a train to the city, 15 minutes away.
I slid along the slushy cobblestone streets, ducking into stores every few minutes to avoid a deep freeze. I had a winter jacket and a wool hat, but had gotten dressed the previous morning in Rwanda. My thin cotton pants and shirt were hardly enough.
Even though there had been decorations in Rwanda it didn’t quite feel like Christmas. The heat and lush scenery didn’t fit in my Christmas schema, and until my day in Brussels, it had been several years since I had experienced the Christmas spirit. Even as a Jew, there is something cozy and enchanting about the season. In Brussels, it was in full force. A giant Christmas tree stood in the central square and lights dangled across the streets dangling from one quaint building to another, beckoning my eyes up to the ornate lamp posts and carved edifices overhead. The Christmas Market seemed to spread across the whole city center. Dozens of little booths were set up in each plaza, with crafts, jewelry, scarves, and endlessly tempting foods. There were all the delights that I recognized from France – cheeses and pates, tapenades and herbal blends. There were people huddled everywhere outside the booths, snacking on sausage or French fries, warm wine, waffles and chorros. The stores, too, were fascinating. There was a store full only of exotic mushrooms, and another only for herbs. There were many full of delicately crocheted lace, endless chocolate boutiques and beer breweries. I sampled a glass of hot wine, ate a big bowl of handmade, fresh noodle soup and tasted my first, unforgettable, Belgian Waffle.
Too cold to tour any longer, I hopped on a train back to the airport. When the conductor came by to collect my ticket, he looked concerned. He informed me, as if it was painful for him, that I was on the wrong train. The woman behind me confirmed that the sign on the platform had indeed said that this was the train for the airport. The sign had been wrong. We were headed express for a town not far from the German border. The generous conducted spent a good five minutes with me, explaining exactly which trains to take in order to make it to the airport. He wrote out a special receipt so that none of the backtracking would cost extra and carefully explained which trains I should take, and when. Meanwhile, I chatted a bit to the woman behind me and enjoyed my free scenic tour of Belgium.
The fields and streets were white blankets; the houses and towns seemed model sized versions of an idyllic Europe. After 40 minutes or so, we arrived at the station and I turned around within 10 minutes on the express train back to Brussels. From Brussels, the trains to the airport were either canceled or running late. After a confusing twenty minutes or so filled with announcements sending us to a series of different tracks, our crowd of travelers finally found the correct platform. We packed ourselves into the train, luggage and all. By now, my 13 hour layover had dwindled to less than two hours. I was glad to see the train arrive and hoped we would make it to the airport without incident.
I need not have felt rushed.
I walked inside the Departure Hall, looked up at the screen of Departing Flights, rubbed my eyes twice, and checked with the woman speaking Hebrew beside me before finally admitting to myself what was written before me. Tel Aviv Flight: Delayed. 4 1/2
hours.
I had six and half MORE hours to entertain myself in the small Brussels terminal. The first hour was spent looking at every duty-free item on sale. Every one. Belts and handbags, blush and diamonds, cheeses and goose liver, perfumes, liquors and cigars. I walked from one end to the other and back again. Four times. Desperately bored, and feeling brave, I tried to snag internet by sitting near the Airline Lounges. To no avail. I splurged on 30 minutes of Internet time and then walked the length of the terminal a few more times. I made a few friends and struggled to stay awake. Somewhere around midnight, we finally took off.
I had a lovely aisle seat, in the very last row. The seat didn't go back and I was next to the bathroom, but none of this prevented slumber. I took my customary position on the tray table and relished the four hours to Tel Aviv. Arriving there, I could barely get off the plane fast enough. Again, (lesson learned?) I need not have rushed.
There were no lines as my passport was checked and I made it to the baggage claim before a single piece of luggage had begun to circle to belt. Most of the passengers were already down, and I thought to myself that this was the first time I had ever waited for luggage at Ben Gurion. They are usually remarkably efficient. Lesson learned?
A few minutes later, they announced: Passengers from Brussels Airport, please come to the Luggage Desk. We were informed that, due to a strike in Brussels, we would not be receiving our luggage. Each one of us had to fill out a form, get it checked by customs and then file the report with one of three or four agents working at the Luggage Desk. Frustrated, exhausted and at a point where I could only just laugh, I filled out the form and headed home at last.
Two days later, my luggage has yet to arrive.
Rwanda - Brussels - Israel --- the long way.
I left Rwanda yesterday – Thursday – at 5 PM. We drove down the newly finished red dirt road and made our way toward Kigali, the capital city. We passed deep green valleys and a forest of eucalyptus trees. Along the road, and on it, were villagers walking in every direction, carrying water, baskets and bushels on their heads. A boy, no older than six, ran along side the road, spinning a bicycle tire with a stick.
Rwanda is beautiful. Stunning, lush, tropical, breathtaking beauty that belies the country’s recent history. There are birds with feathery plumes of the brightest blue and orange that pecked at our windows in the morning. Flowers grow large and quickly in the warm and fertile growing seasons that come with the rains. The capital city has coffee shops (some with WiFi!)and at least one shopping mall. The government is quickly cleaning out its slums – replacing them with walled villas or open green space. Despite being one of the poorest countries in the world, Rwanda is clean and small, accessible, and relatively easy to negotiate. (I have to admit that I saw a miniscule portion of this country and am only reporting on this TINY portion that I experienced. From what I have read, the vast majority of Rwandans live in poor agricultural villages spread throughout the country.) I look forward to going back, to learning more. I know so little about the place, had such little chance to talk to people, to listen, to hear stories, or to share culture.
Despite all the beauty, and experiences still awaiting me there, I was thrilled to be going back to Israel. But what a long long way it seems…. A direct plane from Rwanda to Israel would not take very long – perhaps 8 hours. Even with a stopover in Addis Ababa, it should only be about 12. I had the fortune of being routed through Brussels, with a 13 hour layover between flights.
We arrived very early at the Kigali Airport, and learned that our flight was delayed. On the second floor of the airport, there is not much to keep a traveler entertained. For entertainment, we had only the two small duty free shops selling familiar souvenirs, chocolates, liquors and wine. We grabbed the last table at the cafeteria and learned the kitchen was closed. I had a dinner of Macadamia nuts and two granola bars, chatted with my companions and read emails. At this point, a man at the next table asked me to check the homepage of Brussels Airport; we learned that a snowstorm was in full-force in the city, and was expected to last the whole night. Most flights were delayed; many were canceled. Were we going to leave Kigali at all? Would we be there another four or five days waiting for the next flight out? Or crazier yet, perhaps we would get stranded in Entebbe of all places – where our plane was scheduled to pick up more passengers. (As a Jew, it was hard for me to imagine that I would be in Entebbe at all; it was not a city I’d ever expected to step foot in, and wrong as it is, in my mind the word connotes only one thing.)
As it happened, we did our board out plan and we did fly 35 minutes to Entebbe. Right after take off, two flight attendants raced down the aisle spraying some sickening-sweet-smelling substance from two aerosol cans held high above their heads. Simultaneously, a loudspeaker reassured us that this spray was completely harmless, and was simply part of health code regulations on certain flights. Yet even the flight attendants seemed to be trying to escape the stuff, spraying it high into the overhead bins, and running a few steps ahead of the mysterious mist. No further explanation was offered as to the nature or purpose of this fumigation. I buried my face into the pillows, wondering what the “Brussels Airway Health Spray Policy” might look like. They sprayed again after we took off from Entebbe.
Despite being a frequent flier, and a pretty relaxed one at that, I am often struck by the total lack of control or agency that we have as airplane passengers. Strangers touch our bodies, tell us to remove our shoes, to take apart our belongings, to sit for hours in a chair, to wear our seat belts, to sit straight up, to not talk on the phone. We are told when we can use the bathroom, when to eat, what to eat, and when we can use our computers or lean back in our chairs. We have to beg for a blanket or a glass of water. If things don’t go our way, there are few choices. First class, business and coach alike, we are all prisoners of airport regulations and the whims of airlines. These experiences are part of the price we pay for the luxury – and it is an incredible luxury – of having the world accessible to us, and for the privilege of being transported, safely and efficiently, from place to place.
In Entebbe, none of us had any choice except to sit for two hours, while the airline searched for one man. They woke up everyone who was sleeping to see if he was the “missing’ passenger. AS it turned out, the person in question had left the airplane in Entebbe, not realizing that passengers continuing to Brussels were supposed to stay on the aircraft. The flight attendants counted us three times, before they finally found the man, wandering, oblivious, somewhere in the Ugandan terminal.
We took off again, and I fell asleep on my tray table until dinner was served. We still did not know if the Brussels Airport was open, but we crossed our fingers and settled in for the long flight.
Brussels
We arrived in Brussels around nine in the morning, tired and happy to have made it. The runaways were lined with fresh white snow and we shivered outside in the shocking 20 degree air as we waited for a bus to the terminal. The airport was full of exhausted, stranded passengers waiting for rescheduled and delayed flights to finally board. I said goodbye to my friends and hopped on a train to the city, 15 minutes away.
I slid along the slushy cobblestone streets, ducking into stores every few minutes to avoid a deep freeze. I had a winter jacket and a wool hat, but had gotten dressed the previous morning in Rwanda. My thin cotton pants and shirt were hardly enough.
Even though there had been decorations in Rwanda it didn’t quite feel like Christmas. The heat and lush scenery didn’t fit in my Christmas schema, and until my day in Brussels, it had been several years since I had experienced the Christmas spirit. Even as a Jew, there is something cozy and enchanting about the season. In Brussels, it was in full force. A giant Christmas tree stood in the central square and lights dangled across the streets dangling from one quaint building to another, beckoning my eyes up to the ornate lamp posts and carved edifices overhead. The Christmas Market seemed to spread across the whole city center. Dozens of little booths were set up in each plaza, with crafts, jewelry, scarves, and endlessly tempting foods. There were all the delights that I recognized from France – cheeses and pates, tapenades and herbal blends. There were people huddled everywhere outside the booths, snacking on sausage or French fries, warm wine, waffles and chorros. The stores, too, were fascinating. There was a store full only of exotic mushrooms, and another only for herbs. There were many full of delicately crocheted lace, endless chocolate boutiques and beer breweries. I sampled a glass of hot wine, ate a big bowl of handmade, fresh noodle soup and tasted my first, unforgettable, Belgian Waffle.
Too cold to tour any longer, I hopped on a train back to the airport. When the conductor came by to collect my ticket, he looked concerned. He informed me, as if it was painful for him, that I was on the wrong train. The woman behind me confirmed that the sign on the platform had indeed said that this was the train for the airport. The sign had been wrong. We were headed express for a town not far from the German border. The generous conducted spent a good five minutes with me, explaining exactly which trains to take in order to make it to the airport. He wrote out a special receipt so that none of the backtracking would cost extra and carefully explained which trains I should take, and when. Meanwhile, I chatted a bit to the woman behind me and enjoyed my free scenic tour of Belgium.
The fields and streets were white blankets; the houses and towns seemed model sized versions of an idyllic Europe. After 40 minutes or so, we arrived at the station and I turned around within 10 minutes on the express train back to Brussels. From Brussels, the trains to the airport were either canceled or running late. After a confusing twenty minutes or so filled with announcements sending us to a series of different tracks, our crowd of travelers finally found the correct platform. We packed ourselves into the train, luggage and all. By now, my 13 hour layover had dwindled to less than two hours. I was glad to see the train arrive and hoped we would make it to the airport without incident.
I need not have felt rushed.
I walked inside the Departure Hall, looked up at the screen of Departing Flights, rubbed my eyes twice, and checked with the woman speaking Hebrew beside me before finally admitting to myself what was written before me. Tel Aviv Flight: Delayed. 4 1/2
hours.
I had six and half MORE hours to entertain myself in the small Brussels terminal. The first hour was spent looking at every duty-free item on sale. Every one. Belts and handbags, blush and diamonds, cheeses and goose liver, perfumes, liquors and cigars. I walked from one end to the other and back again. Four times. Desperately bored, and feeling brave, I tried to snag internet by sitting near the Airline Lounges. To no avail. I splurged on 30 minutes of Internet time and then walked the length of the terminal a few more times. I made a few friends and struggled to stay awake. Somewhere around midnight, we finally took off.
I had a lovely aisle seat, in the very last row. The seat didn't go back and I was next to the bathroom, but none of this prevented slumber. I took my customary position on the tray table and relished the four hours to Tel Aviv. Arriving there, I could barely get off the plane fast enough. Again, (lesson learned?) I need not have rushed.
There were no lines as my passport was checked and I made it to the baggage claim before a single piece of luggage had begun to circle to belt. Most of the passengers were already down, and I thought to myself that this was the first time I had ever waited for luggage at Ben Gurion. They are usually remarkably efficient. Lesson learned?
A few minutes later, they announced: Passengers from Brussels Airport, please come to the Luggage Desk. We were informed that, due to a strike in Brussels, we would not be receiving our luggage. Each one of us had to fill out a form, get it checked by customs and then file the report with one of three or four agents working at the Luggage Desk. Frustrated, exhausted and at a point where I could only just laugh, I filled out the form and headed home at last.
Two days later, my luggage has yet to arrive.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Perhaps, just perhaps, you’ve heard it said that “everything is big in Texas.” And probably you don’t doubt it. I didn’t.
Nonetheless, seeing it with my own eyes is completely astounding. The stretches of deserts, the endless monotony of road-kill-spotted two-land roads, and the infinity of strip malls defies plausibility. Can there really be enough people to shop in all these malls? To sleep in all these hotels? To eat at all these restaurants? The sheer number of Red Lobsters, Olive Gardens, TGI Fridays, etc . (not to mention the McDonalds) alongside the 80 miles between San Antonio and Austin is simply absurd. And the patriotism, too, fits the stereotype. Every American flag (and they’re everywhere) waves alongside the Lone Star banner. The Little Control signs on the highway read “Don’t Mess with Texas.” This place, for better or worse, has a culture of its own – one of pride, of excess, of down-home barbecue and 4-wheel-drive cars.
I write this from Houston, a few blocks from Bush Senior’s home, near Rice University and a hospital center that could be a city unto its own. We’ve been here for 2 days after stopping briefly in Austin and spending a night in San Antonio. After a 12.5 hour drive from Lamar, CO (during which the only “point of interest” was watching a bird get decapitated by the car in front of us), we arrived in San Antonio. We were tired and our legs were cramped. We stretched then with a walk along the River Walk, a winding path that runs along the river in downtown San Antonio. The stroll is beautiful. The sidewalk reaches right up to the narrow stream where boats ride back and forth and waterfalls are built here and there into the sidewalk. Lush trees hang overhead and the restaurant and pub options are abundant. We stopped for some margaritas and laughed at the intoxicated people who stumbled around us in high heels. We arrived back in to our corner hotel room around 1:30AM after a late-night snack of pizza.
Nonetheless, seeing it with my own eyes is completely astounding. The stretches of deserts, the endless monotony of road-kill-spotted two-land roads, and the infinity of strip malls defies plausibility. Can there really be enough people to shop in all these malls? To sleep in all these hotels? To eat at all these restaurants? The sheer number of Red Lobsters, Olive Gardens, TGI Fridays, etc . (not to mention the McDonalds) alongside the 80 miles between San Antonio and Austin is simply absurd. And the patriotism, too, fits the stereotype. Every American flag (and they’re everywhere) waves alongside the Lone Star banner. The Little Control signs on the highway read “Don’t Mess with Texas.” This place, for better or worse, has a culture of its own – one of pride, of excess, of down-home barbecue and 4-wheel-drive cars.
I write this from Houston, a few blocks from Bush Senior’s home, near Rice University and a hospital center that could be a city unto its own. We’ve been here for 2 days after stopping briefly in Austin and spending a night in San Antonio. After a 12.5 hour drive from Lamar, CO (during which the only “point of interest” was watching a bird get decapitated by the car in front of us), we arrived in San Antonio. We were tired and our legs were cramped. We stretched then with a walk along the River Walk, a winding path that runs along the river in downtown San Antonio. The stroll is beautiful. The sidewalk reaches right up to the narrow stream where boats ride back and forth and waterfalls are built here and there into the sidewalk. Lush trees hang overhead and the restaurant and pub options are abundant. We stopped for some margaritas and laughed at the intoxicated people who stumbled around us in high heels. We arrived back in to our corner hotel room around 1:30AM after a late-night snack of pizza.
Monday, October 05, 2009
Yom Kippur in a synagogue never felt quite right to me. When the rabbi's sermon waxes too political, I get all riled up. I get frustrated at the incessant chatter of the "twice-a-yearers" and feel disgusted at my own self-righteousness in the synagogue. (as if I am such loyal attendee) But mostly, I've spent many a Yom Kippur feeling, quite simply, bored. Looking at the watch, awaiting the minutes that won't pass, counting the pages remaining while praying guiltily for another year of life - and a faster passage of time until the break-fast.
Given all this, I felt that a serious change had to be made. If Yom Kippur is meant to be a time of spirituality and soul searching, I knew I had to go a place where I feel in awe of a holy presence, where my wonderment at the world is kindled, where my gratitude for life and its marvelousness is ablaze.
I went to Yosemite.
Yom Kippur, among other things - is about humility, about a bit of suffering and a lot of reflection. For me, the wilderness offers opportunities for all of these things. I am humbled by the grand scale of stars and mountains, the symbiotic patterns between pine cone and squirrel, fire and foliage. This year, my "suffering" came less from hunger and more from the miles of hiking, the pushing onwards up hill, in the dark, the overcoming of my fears - of being lost, encountering bears, or taking a fatal misstep. And as far as reflection is concerned... the lack of distraction, the stimulus of the natural beauty and my sheer state of bliss while in nature all helped me to wax far more spiritual than I ever could in synagogue.
****
At around three in the afternoon on the eve of the Day of Atonement, Ori and I set out for the most famous of hikes in Yosemite - the Half Dome. We intended to hike about 2/3 of the way up and camp - finishing the last 2 miles in the morning. We knew very little about the hike before we left. As we set out, a returning hiker mentioned something about needing gloves. We shrugged the suggestion off (we didn't have gloves anyway) and continued on. We stopped at ??? and then Nevada Falls, working our way up an endless set of stone staircases as most of the tourists were coming down. About 4-4.5 miles down trail from Half Dome, we cooked up a pre-fast meal of pasta and tuna, just in time to beat the setting sun and the stars eagerly waiting to emerge. During the meal, Ori made a bold and brilliant suggestion :
Let's just hike all the way up tonight!
It was perfect. We would have the popular trail all to ourselves. Fueled by our big meal and the magnitude of the holy day, we would fair far better than we would in the morning. Gleefully, and fresh-spirited, we headed on up. The crowds of hikers had thinned down to a trickle and the moon lit our way (mostly)the. We walked slowly, searching for sandy footprints to mark the path. After over an hour, we worried we had lost our way, but at last came to signs marking a fork in the road: "2 miles to Half Dome." We set ourselves up a fine looking campsite and strapped on a day pack of water and emergency supplies. 2 miles to go. Time: around midnight. Energy: High. Mood: Scared, eager, spirited.
The first mile of the hike continued to weave through the woods. To fend off bearsM we sang, desperately trying to come up with something better than a national anthem, "American Pie" or "The Other Day I Met a Bear." We wondered at times if we were going in the right direction - much of the time Half Dome was not visible even with the moonlight. At last, the trees began to thin out and the monolith set a crisp sillouhette before us. It looked so far away. The stars were outstanding, shooting in abundance with constellations harder to pick out given the multitude of glistening lights in the sky. The evening was immensely intense, awesomely beautiful - truly holy.
We reached a sign that spoke of the "Sub Dome" and the trees seceded leaving only rock face. We had no idea what the Sub Dome was but we headed up it, pushing on toward the behemoth Half Dome up ahead. Along the way up, we didn't run in to any bears or people, but we were creeped out quite a bit when we came across 2 pairs of hiking boots (empty) and a raincoat. Despite our singing and calls of "hello," we met no one. Someone who hiked the trail the next morning said the shoes were still there. I tried to push aside thoughts of "The Half Dome Killer" and focused my energy on going upward. The trail was hard to follow - if it existed at all - so we simply scrambled up the rock the best we could. At the base of the Half Dome itself, we found the infamous cables.
A pile of gloves was strewn beside the cables. We put them on and begin our way up. The slope was steep and sleek. Looking upward, I saw only rock and stars. I had no way to gauge the length of the climb - we had found THE stairway to heaven. Ori would ask me from behind if the end was close, but I had no idea. We stopped, with difficulty, to take a break. My arms ached a bit from pulling myself up between the cables and my feet offered little assurance on the steep rock face. The break was brief and we pushed onward. (Only a few days later did we learn that the cables are 150 meters long). At the top, we climbed a bit more to the edge of the dome and reveled in our success. It was around 2am I would guess and the moon had set. The only light came from the stars; I dared not look below at the abyss beyond the cliff.
Shaking from exhaustion and the intensity of it all, I allowed myself a snack for energy. Less strict fasting in exchange for much more spirituality - not to mention the very safety of my life. I am okay with this.
The way down the cables felt just as long and I couldn't see behind me to anticipate cracks in the rock. Ori would warn me and I would feel my way down after him. We turned on our head lamps to alight the blackness of the now moonless forest. At one point, I was terrified by the sight of three sets of sparkling eyes only a few dozen feet away from us. I pointed them out to Ori and we both silently prayed they weren't bears. They were deer and we terrified them with our fear - singing and ringing our bear balls until they skitted off jolted and confused into the woods.
Around 4am, we reached our campsite and settled in for a deep, welcome sleep. The next day, we hiked down only a few miles and relaxed beside a river on a sandy bank. I said some of the traditional Yom Kippur prayers and we fasted, heading to a new campsite in the late evening. As I said the closing prayers of the day, the lights receding and the moon appearing as I did so. With a view of Half Dome to my right and a waterfall below me, I was focused and awe-filled as I did the "ne-ilah" service. When at last we spotted three stars in the sky, we broke our fast with a wholesome meal - beef jerkey and chili. (what else?)
Given all this, I felt that a serious change had to be made. If Yom Kippur is meant to be a time of spirituality and soul searching, I knew I had to go a place where I feel in awe of a holy presence, where my wonderment at the world is kindled, where my gratitude for life and its marvelousness is ablaze.
I went to Yosemite.
Yom Kippur, among other things - is about humility, about a bit of suffering and a lot of reflection. For me, the wilderness offers opportunities for all of these things. I am humbled by the grand scale of stars and mountains, the symbiotic patterns between pine cone and squirrel, fire and foliage. This year, my "suffering" came less from hunger and more from the miles of hiking, the pushing onwards up hill, in the dark, the overcoming of my fears - of being lost, encountering bears, or taking a fatal misstep. And as far as reflection is concerned... the lack of distraction, the stimulus of the natural beauty and my sheer state of bliss while in nature all helped me to wax far more spiritual than I ever could in synagogue.
****
At around three in the afternoon on the eve of the Day of Atonement, Ori and I set out for the most famous of hikes in Yosemite - the Half Dome. We intended to hike about 2/3 of the way up and camp - finishing the last 2 miles in the morning. We knew very little about the hike before we left. As we set out, a returning hiker mentioned something about needing gloves. We shrugged the suggestion off (we didn't have gloves anyway) and continued on. We stopped at ??? and then Nevada Falls, working our way up an endless set of stone staircases as most of the tourists were coming down. About 4-4.5 miles down trail from Half Dome, we cooked up a pre-fast meal of pasta and tuna, just in time to beat the setting sun and the stars eagerly waiting to emerge. During the meal, Ori made a bold and brilliant suggestion :
Let's just hike all the way up tonight!
It was perfect. We would have the popular trail all to ourselves. Fueled by our big meal and the magnitude of the holy day, we would fair far better than we would in the morning. Gleefully, and fresh-spirited, we headed on up. The crowds of hikers had thinned down to a trickle and the moon lit our way (mostly)the. We walked slowly, searching for sandy footprints to mark the path. After over an hour, we worried we had lost our way, but at last came to signs marking a fork in the road: "2 miles to Half Dome." We set ourselves up a fine looking campsite and strapped on a day pack of water and emergency supplies. 2 miles to go. Time: around midnight. Energy: High. Mood: Scared, eager, spirited.
The first mile of the hike continued to weave through the woods. To fend off bearsM we sang, desperately trying to come up with something better than a national anthem, "American Pie" or "The Other Day I Met a Bear." We wondered at times if we were going in the right direction - much of the time Half Dome was not visible even with the moonlight. At last, the trees began to thin out and the monolith set a crisp sillouhette before us. It looked so far away. The stars were outstanding, shooting in abundance with constellations harder to pick out given the multitude of glistening lights in the sky. The evening was immensely intense, awesomely beautiful - truly holy.
We reached a sign that spoke of the "Sub Dome" and the trees seceded leaving only rock face. We had no idea what the Sub Dome was but we headed up it, pushing on toward the behemoth Half Dome up ahead. Along the way up, we didn't run in to any bears or people, but we were creeped out quite a bit when we came across 2 pairs of hiking boots (empty) and a raincoat. Despite our singing and calls of "hello," we met no one. Someone who hiked the trail the next morning said the shoes were still there. I tried to push aside thoughts of "The Half Dome Killer" and focused my energy on going upward. The trail was hard to follow - if it existed at all - so we simply scrambled up the rock the best we could. At the base of the Half Dome itself, we found the infamous cables.
A pile of gloves was strewn beside the cables. We put them on and begin our way up. The slope was steep and sleek. Looking upward, I saw only rock and stars. I had no way to gauge the length of the climb - we had found THE stairway to heaven. Ori would ask me from behind if the end was close, but I had no idea. We stopped, with difficulty, to take a break. My arms ached a bit from pulling myself up between the cables and my feet offered little assurance on the steep rock face. The break was brief and we pushed onward. (Only a few days later did we learn that the cables are 150 meters long). At the top, we climbed a bit more to the edge of the dome and reveled in our success. It was around 2am I would guess and the moon had set. The only light came from the stars; I dared not look below at the abyss beyond the cliff.
Shaking from exhaustion and the intensity of it all, I allowed myself a snack for energy. Less strict fasting in exchange for much more spirituality - not to mention the very safety of my life. I am okay with this.
The way down the cables felt just as long and I couldn't see behind me to anticipate cracks in the rock. Ori would warn me and I would feel my way down after him. We turned on our head lamps to alight the blackness of the now moonless forest. At one point, I was terrified by the sight of three sets of sparkling eyes only a few dozen feet away from us. I pointed them out to Ori and we both silently prayed they weren't bears. They were deer and we terrified them with our fear - singing and ringing our bear balls until they skitted off jolted and confused into the woods.
Around 4am, we reached our campsite and settled in for a deep, welcome sleep. The next day, we hiked down only a few miles and relaxed beside a river on a sandy bank. I said some of the traditional Yom Kippur prayers and we fasted, heading to a new campsite in the late evening. As I said the closing prayers of the day, the lights receding and the moon appearing as I did so. With a view of Half Dome to my right and a waterfall below me, I was focused and awe-filled as I did the "ne-ilah" service. When at last we spotted three stars in the sky, we broke our fast with a wholesome meal - beef jerkey and chili. (what else?)
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Since our time in Boise a week ago, we've been working our way through the northern wilderness with some time to relax in Calgary and now in Vancouver.
We went from Boise to Stanley, Idaho last Friday pulling over for some free camping not too far south of the Sawtooth Mountain town. In Stanley, we drove around to catch views of the Sawtooth Range and did a quick 'scenic' tour of Stanley. The town has a few hundred residents and its two main thoroughfares (Main Street and Wall Street) are wide dirt roads lined by quaint local businesses with Western storefronts. We did a hike up to Sawtooth Lake. We passed another lake along the way and took in her glacial, turquoise colors and the steep snow-spotted mountains that ringed her shores. When we found ourselves at last on the banks of Sawtooth Lake, we were surprised at how small it was. (more of a pond, I thought.) On our way down we wondered if we'd missed something; our suspicions were confirmed when we checked a map. The real Sawtooth Lake was another few hundred feet down the trail. Next time!
From Stanley, we headed north, taking a mesmerizing path through Idaho and Montana. We followed the Salmon River and stopped for lunch at a local park in Salmon, Idaho. We headed toward Glacier National Park in north-west Montana, but as night feel we decided to seek out a camp site.
We searched the dirt roads along the banks of Flathead Lake - a huge lake a few hours south of the park. We finally found a clearing and I heated up dinner while Ori prepared our tent. At one point I thought I heard Ori behind me, or to my side, but the roar of the stove made me question my own senses. I scanned the area, spotting something dog-like (but bigger) off to my right. Only when Ori Yelled, "Get in the Car" did I really register what was going on. We had seen our first bear! Ori said the small black bear had stared right at him, before sneaking off across the street and into someone's lawn. The bear set off the neighbor's motion detector lights, but generally let us be for the duration of the night.
A few days later, while driving near Glacier Park in Canada, we saw another Black Bear run swiftly across the highway.
Glacier National was absolutely stunning. Its beauty was simply incomparable to EVERY where else we had been. There is simply no comparison to the veritable and formidable nature in this park. Despite traffic and a good amount of visitors, we felt that Glacier was unable to be a mere Disney-ization of nature. We went on an amazing hike through an ancient forest, left unburned for several hundred years. Than we drove slowly over the continental divide, crossing the steep pass slowly amid snow flurries and hail.
From there we headed up for some couchsurfing in Calgary. We stayed with a couple who was nice enough to lend us their bikes, so we spent Monday exploring the city on bike, loving the cool fall weather the un-harsh sunlight and the brisk breezes of our northern-most point.
After a day and a half in Calgary, we hit the road again. This pasrt of the trip has felt a bit rushed because we are meeting up with friends and family in San Francisco for the New Year. Now in Vancouver, we have 5 nights until we have to be in San Francisco. It's a bit daunting, but I can say that I am enjoying the scenic drives more than I thought I would, and we are in fact trying to take the time to learn Arabic as we drive!
A trip highlight occured last Thursday as we made our way south and west to Vancouver. Seeking out a pretty, riverside lunch spot, we found our way to a small beach under a highway bridge, several miles off of Route One. We had to navigate around a few farms to get to this point, but we were rewarded by the serendipitous meeting of a local fisherman. He was enjoying the last of the summer's warm days to catch some of the salmon busily heading up stream with their bellies full of eggs. After our lunch, he offered to give us the next fish he caughtl!
This generous offer turned into an exciting afternoon. As I relaxed in the sand, photographing the mountains and gazing at the eagle overhead, Ori did some fishing. After a few hours, an unlucky salmon got caught offstream and beached himself on the sand nearby. Ori sprinted down the shore and caught the slippery swimmer in his bare hands! Meanwhile, our fishermen friend simultaneously got a nibble from a good-sized salmon, so together, the two guys could bask in their catches.
I was struck by the environmental tenderness and sense of responsibility that the fisherman expressed. He stuck strictly to the rules - 4 fish maximum, no barbed hooks, throw back the sturgeon and the smaller fish. As he carefully taught Ori how to kill and gut the fish, he explained the benefits of cleaning the fish on the beach. The head would go to feed the eagles and seagulls, the large store of eggs inside each fish were tossed back into the water to provide strength and protein to other fish.
Despite the fact that we were headed to the house of a strict vegetarian, we cooked up the fresh salmon in the neighbors' grill. Seasoned lightly with garden picked herbs and olive oil, it was simply fantastic. Here is a picture of Ori throwing the eggs back!
We went from Boise to Stanley, Idaho last Friday pulling over for some free camping not too far south of the Sawtooth Mountain town. In Stanley, we drove around to catch views of the Sawtooth Range and did a quick 'scenic' tour of Stanley. The town has a few hundred residents and its two main thoroughfares (Main Street and Wall Street) are wide dirt roads lined by quaint local businesses with Western storefronts. We did a hike up to Sawtooth Lake. We passed another lake along the way and took in her glacial, turquoise colors and the steep snow-spotted mountains that ringed her shores. When we found ourselves at last on the banks of Sawtooth Lake, we were surprised at how small it was. (more of a pond, I thought.) On our way down we wondered if we'd missed something; our suspicions were confirmed when we checked a map. The real Sawtooth Lake was another few hundred feet down the trail. Next time!
From Stanley, we headed north, taking a mesmerizing path through Idaho and Montana. We followed the Salmon River and stopped for lunch at a local park in Salmon, Idaho. We headed toward Glacier National Park in north-west Montana, but as night feel we decided to seek out a camp site.
We searched the dirt roads along the banks of Flathead Lake - a huge lake a few hours south of the park. We finally found a clearing and I heated up dinner while Ori prepared our tent. At one point I thought I heard Ori behind me, or to my side, but the roar of the stove made me question my own senses. I scanned the area, spotting something dog-like (but bigger) off to my right. Only when Ori Yelled, "Get in the Car" did I really register what was going on. We had seen our first bear! Ori said the small black bear had stared right at him, before sneaking off across the street and into someone's lawn. The bear set off the neighbor's motion detector lights, but generally let us be for the duration of the night.
A few days later, while driving near Glacier Park in Canada, we saw another Black Bear run swiftly across the highway.
Glacier National was absolutely stunning. Its beauty was simply incomparable to EVERY where else we had been. There is simply no comparison to the veritable and formidable nature in this park. Despite traffic and a good amount of visitors, we felt that Glacier was unable to be a mere Disney-ization of nature. We went on an amazing hike through an ancient forest, left unburned for several hundred years. Than we drove slowly over the continental divide, crossing the steep pass slowly amid snow flurries and hail.
From there we headed up for some couchsurfing in Calgary. We stayed with a couple who was nice enough to lend us their bikes, so we spent Monday exploring the city on bike, loving the cool fall weather the un-harsh sunlight and the brisk breezes of our northern-most point.
After a day and a half in Calgary, we hit the road again. This pasrt of the trip has felt a bit rushed because we are meeting up with friends and family in San Francisco for the New Year. Now in Vancouver, we have 5 nights until we have to be in San Francisco. It's a bit daunting, but I can say that I am enjoying the scenic drives more than I thought I would, and we are in fact trying to take the time to learn Arabic as we drive!
A trip highlight occured last Thursday as we made our way south and west to Vancouver. Seeking out a pretty, riverside lunch spot, we found our way to a small beach under a highway bridge, several miles off of Route One. We had to navigate around a few farms to get to this point, but we were rewarded by the serendipitous meeting of a local fisherman. He was enjoying the last of the summer's warm days to catch some of the salmon busily heading up stream with their bellies full of eggs. After our lunch, he offered to give us the next fish he caughtl!
This generous offer turned into an exciting afternoon. As I relaxed in the sand, photographing the mountains and gazing at the eagle overhead, Ori did some fishing. After a few hours, an unlucky salmon got caught offstream and beached himself on the sand nearby. Ori sprinted down the shore and caught the slippery swimmer in his bare hands! Meanwhile, our fishermen friend simultaneously got a nibble from a good-sized salmon, so together, the two guys could bask in their catches.
I was struck by the environmental tenderness and sense of responsibility that the fisherman expressed. He stuck strictly to the rules - 4 fish maximum, no barbed hooks, throw back the sturgeon and the smaller fish. As he carefully taught Ori how to kill and gut the fish, he explained the benefits of cleaning the fish on the beach. The head would go to feed the eagles and seagulls, the large store of eggs inside each fish were tossed back into the water to provide strength and protein to other fish.
Despite the fact that we were headed to the house of a strict vegetarian, we cooked up the fresh salmon in the neighbors' grill. Seasoned lightly with garden picked herbs and olive oil, it was simply fantastic. Here is a picture of Ori throwing the eggs back!
Wednesday, September 02, 2009
Out West
As I write this, I am sitting at the picnic table of our Grand Teton campsite, stars beginning to pop out above me, trees veiling the clearing that holds our tent, this picnic table and our car/home. Beside me our pasta is heating up to the roar of our backpacking stove’s burning and while we wait for it to cook, we’ll do some stretches to release the tension of today’s hike.
Our site is a bit off shore from Jenny Lake with Grand Teton herself looming over the trees. Today, despite a small bit of hail and rain, we enjoyed a 13 mile hike around the lake and through a canyon. There were quite a few people sharing the trail, but as usual, we run the late night shift, and they were coming as we were going. We saw several moose and shared the awe and beauty with our fellow hikers. The moose, even a mother and calf, chewed their grass nonchalantly as we tiptoed ever closer, cameras flashing and clicking wildly. We stood around them in disbelief for long periods of time, within 10 feet of the beautiful creatures – one photographer said “They’re too close for my zoom! Get me a wide angle lens!” We could see the enormous size and soft fuzz of their antlers and the necks that sustain their weight; we viewed up close the famous dangling chin-like protrusion.
The hike was a beautiful one, and despite spending the last several days in national parks, Ori and I felt for the first time that we were finally in nature. Yellowstone felt more like nature in a museum – a packaged sort of natural wonder made accessible to the old, the minivan family, the invalid. I think this is a wonderful thing. Truly. The brilliance of the national park system is that some of the most magnificent natural wonders – from geysers and waterfalls to 50 million year old trees have been preserved and made accessible to such a wide array of audiences. All in one –the parks preserve natural spaces and habitats, provide a sort of Eden for wildlife and allow the public an easy (physically and mentally) way to be in nature. You can sleep in a nice hotel, eat three meals in a restaurant (plus a stop for ice cream) and then drive by deer on your way to see a bubbling mud hole at 5000 feet. The parks go further though. For the “hard core” – there is back country camping, climbing and more. What we learned during our few days at Yellowstone is that stopping at all the “sites” of a national park is far less thrilling for us than one long hike. And that crowds and nature is not our favorite cocktail. Nonetheless, we loved it enough to want to see it one day in the winter –and to take hundreds of photos…
Tomorrow we are headed to Boise, Idaho via Craters of the Moon National Monument.
As I write this, I am sitting at the picnic table of our Grand Teton campsite, stars beginning to pop out above me, trees veiling the clearing that holds our tent, this picnic table and our car/home. Beside me our pasta is heating up to the roar of our backpacking stove’s burning and while we wait for it to cook, we’ll do some stretches to release the tension of today’s hike.
Our site is a bit off shore from Jenny Lake with Grand Teton herself looming over the trees. Today, despite a small bit of hail and rain, we enjoyed a 13 mile hike around the lake and through a canyon. There were quite a few people sharing the trail, but as usual, we run the late night shift, and they were coming as we were going. We saw several moose and shared the awe and beauty with our fellow hikers. The moose, even a mother and calf, chewed their grass nonchalantly as we tiptoed ever closer, cameras flashing and clicking wildly. We stood around them in disbelief for long periods of time, within 10 feet of the beautiful creatures – one photographer said “They’re too close for my zoom! Get me a wide angle lens!” We could see the enormous size and soft fuzz of their antlers and the necks that sustain their weight; we viewed up close the famous dangling chin-like protrusion.
The hike was a beautiful one, and despite spending the last several days in national parks, Ori and I felt for the first time that we were finally in nature. Yellowstone felt more like nature in a museum – a packaged sort of natural wonder made accessible to the old, the minivan family, the invalid. I think this is a wonderful thing. Truly. The brilliance of the national park system is that some of the most magnificent natural wonders – from geysers and waterfalls to 50 million year old trees have been preserved and made accessible to such a wide array of audiences. All in one –the parks preserve natural spaces and habitats, provide a sort of Eden for wildlife and allow the public an easy (physically and mentally) way to be in nature. You can sleep in a nice hotel, eat three meals in a restaurant (plus a stop for ice cream) and then drive by deer on your way to see a bubbling mud hole at 5000 feet. The parks go further though. For the “hard core” – there is back country camping, climbing and more. What we learned during our few days at Yellowstone is that stopping at all the “sites” of a national park is far less thrilling for us than one long hike. And that crowds and nature is not our favorite cocktail. Nonetheless, we loved it enough to want to see it one day in the winter –and to take hundreds of photos…
Tomorrow we are headed to Boise, Idaho via Craters of the Moon National Monument.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Wisconsin State Fair and other Midwestern Happenings
Chicago was difficult to detach ourselves from. The city far exceeded our expectations. The opportunities for culture, art and exercise are endless and we decided easily that it surpasses New York. We spent another day there to see Wrigley Field, eat at Uno’s, and enjoy the Lakefront beach. That night, we had the luck to discover that Wisconsin’s annual State Fair was in Full Swing – just 2 hours away in Milwaukee. Thursday morning, we hit the road and headed north.
The State Fair was a quintessentially American experience that managed to fit perfectly into all the expectations and stereotypes that I could possibly conjure up. I had long wanted to attend one of these events which take place every summer in most states. The emphasis on agriculture and livestock make the fairs particularly west/and midwest phenomenon, although they probably take place in other states as well.
The fair was held in a huge area that is set aside all year for this purpose. We followed signs to a giant car raceway which served as a parking lot. We entered the fair and were greeted immediately by stands selling beer, lemonade, frozen margaritas, hotdogs, and sausage. With a few minutes before the official start of the Cream Puff Contest, we grabbed a map and headed straight for the Wisconsin Cream Puff arena and the central mall. We arrived just minutes before the celebratory contest began. The contestants included local radio and television personalities, the Miss Cranberry Girl, Queen Dairy and a local football player. Each contestant introduced himself with a an air of friendly but fierce competition. One newswoman said she had been watching the contest her whole life, and was thus thrilled and honored to participate for the first time. A giant 5 pound cream puff was placed in front of each contestant. They were given about 5 minutes to eat as much as they could – without using their hands. The contest was a close tie, and the judges had to way the leftovers to determine a winner. Several television stations were filming the contest and journalists excitedly reported, live from the front row.
We followed up the event by sampling our own cream puffs which were filled with rich, thick fresh whip cream.
From there, we wove our way through the booths of local goods, crafts and rides. We stopped to watch a BMX and skateboarding show but hurried on to look for the swine race. Inside the Pig stables, we saw hundreds of pigs and watched as a group of 12-year-olds showed their own little oinkers off.
At 6 months old, the pigs are already huge, and a local nearby told me that most of them would not live past the weekend. The pigs are shown off by the owners who try to keep their animal near the judge by tapping them on the haunch with a stick. Some of the owners were gentle, but the girl who one was fierce with her pig. You could see bruises on the pink skin of the animal who looked miserable in the ring.
I left quickly, once again questioning my own choices in food consumption. We found a mini-racetrack nearby where baby potbelly pigs and ducks were racing around a short track while hundreds of people cheered their favorite on. The racers were released through small gates and encouraged by small bites of food at the other end. It was hysterical.
We saw horses and ducks, chickens, cows, goats and lamb. There were Budweiser Clydesdales being brushed and groomed and harnessed for the parade, and in another area we viewed baby animals.
All this touring made us quite hungry, so we headed for the tent filled with tastes of Wisconsin. The specialty of this season was chocolate covered bacon (sold from a booth outside the tent). I have to admit, the experience struck me as so once-in-a-lifetime that I tasted the first piece of pork I’ve had in many years. The bacon wasn’t bad; the guilt, subsiding. We tasted cheese and wine, honey and hot sauce. Bought some salsa and lunched on pulled lamb and corn on the cob (mom), a bison burger (me), and various sausages and beef jerkey. (Ori and me)
Yum!
Full and smiling, we bought 2 tee-shirts and headed out after a full day in the sun and smells of a real state fair. All stereotypes were confirmed…
From there, we went on an adventure to the little-known town of Iola. Our friend from Israel was amazingly on a business trip in the middle of Wisconsin in a small town among the chain of lakes. We drove north along Winnebago, stopping at a lighthouse in Fond du Lac.
Today was our second day in Wisconsin (the best-kept secret in America?) and yet I feel we've done about a week's worth of exploration. On one hand, I wonder if we will be so enthralled and surprised by other states along our way, or if Wisconsin is truly exceptional. Again, the theme of expectations has been strong for me on this journey so far. I had little to no expectations about what this state would offer, so its overwhelming variety of activities and attractions have totally surprised me.
We woke up in Waupaca, a small town amid a chain of lakes, about an hour from Osh Kosh on Lake Winebago. A good friend from Israel was, quite coincidentally, on a business trip in Iola, Wisconsin, so we crashed her hotel room. We went out for a cheap, American-style dinner at a local restaurant, shaped like a boat. We were aching for some Wisconsin cheese so we drove to a dairy nearby. Although we missed the guided tour, we chowed down on samples and had a great time talking with the staff. When we asked for some bread to complete our lunch, they sent us on a wonderful chase through windy, gravel roads (Country Road FF, O or Q anyone). We arrived an hour later in Wisconsin Amish country - Kingston. We stopped in a beautiful antique store filled with buried treasures at incredible prices. Lacking a trailer to cart home the furniture, we chatted with the owner and settled on a beautiful ring for my mom.
I have yet to see a supermarket in this state, although I am sure they exist. To get bread in Kingston, we went to an Amish bakery. The workers were fully adorned, bonnet and all, and we were asked kindly not to photograph them. The smell of donuts and fresh-baked bread flooded the parking lot and we couldn't resist stocking up bread, donuts and blueberry pie. The owner rung up our purchase on an old-fashioned cash register, pulling a handle to total the sums. There was quite a crowd at the bakery, despite the lack of people on the town's Main Street.
When I asked about picking up some tomatoes, the owner sent us a few miles across the town to her brother's farm. We found the house, with a sign posted out front, advertising produce. There were buggies parked in the driveway and 6-8 little children playing on the lawn in their Amish dress. They all looked under 12 and were staring curiously at us. The eldest boy approached us and helped lead us to park and find the garage where his older sister was selling the vegetables.
Amidst the rolling corn fields and silos of the state, we found a clearing in the woods for a picnic lunch. From there, we headed southwest towards Madison, or more specifically to the House on the Rocks. This place is really impossible to describe, but I will give it a go...
Alex Jordan, the imagineer of the house, was a wealthy guy from Madison with a taste for unusual art, obsessive collecting and, if his house is any indicator - a powerful dark side. Imagine the enormous lair of a vampire - a vampire obsessed with beautiful art. This would be his Eden.
We arrived with only an hour or so to tour, so we only got to see one third of the property. The sections we missed included the largest carousel in the world, covered in chandaliers, 20,000 light bulbs and carefully crafted characters riding eternally on the horses. The house has themed rooms, including an elaborate doll house, an enormous sea creature and a music room filled with self-playing orchestras.
We got to see Jordan's house, itself. Records show he only slept there four nights; he intended it as a getaway for artistic inspiration. The rooms are dark and small, with nooks and crannies built in to every wall. The ceilings are carpeted at times, the windows either stained glass, or covered with intricate lattice designs. Music echoes beautifully but ominously from self-playing bands of violins, drums, and pianos. The rooms are lit with stained glass lamps and old church windows are worked into the walls and used as tables.
The pinnacle of the house (literally and figuratively) is the Infinity Room, a jutting glass room that drives out off a cliff, parallel to the valley floor; it's 216 feet long and 156 high, ending in a point.
The Mississippi: We drove from Madison Wisconsin up to Minneapolis-St. Paul along the Mississippi. Our first sight of the river was near the border with Iowa, south of the Wisconsin city of LaCrosse. The river is impressive – wide, bordered by steep green cliffs and spanned by impressive bridges. We wove our way along and across the river a few times, driving along the Great River Road – a byway nationally recognized for its beauty and historical significance. There were houses and cottages along the way, and plenty of sailboats, motorboats, fishermen and ferries making use of the Great River. There were train tracks beside us most of the way and trains more than a mile long droned along side us on the traditional route from the Gulf of Mexico all the way to Canada. Just before reaching The Twin Cities, we stopped in a small town with Western store fronts and a distinctively mid-west feel. There were murals on the sides of the brick buildings and a clock tower near the town’s bridge that spans the Mississippi and heads over to Minnesota from Wisconsin. When a rain storm broke out, we took brief cover in a gas station along with some of the Harley Davidson riders we’d been trailing all along.
These days we’re in Minnesota. While we haven’t been doing typically touristy activities, we’ve been enjoying the chance to relax and get some errands done. We stayed with some great CouchSurfers who told us a bit about the neighborhoods of the city and showed us a great Thai restaurant. One of them grew up right by the Mall of America, but the other was a girl from the Mississippi. She grew up on the river, boating, fishing and stacking piles of woods with her nature-loving family.
Minnesota is full of all the kindness and politesse that stereotypes would lead you to believe. Our host last night called this “Minnesota nice.” She said everyone is extremely polite…and passive aggressive. By her definition, if a Minnesotan calls something “interesting” or “special” - beware. These are local euphemisms for terrible, ugly, or weird.
Minneapolis is a beautiful city. There is a large sculpture garden in the downtown and lots of theaters and art museums. The city is filled with water – the rivers and lakes make for great biking, waterfront hikes and - when weather permits – swimming.
Today, we spent the day with an old family friend from Maine who treated us like her own grandchildren. She fed us, played Scrabble; we in turn hooked up a new scanner and tried to help get her computer in shape. By we, I mean Ori.
----
We've done a lot of driving, and I soon hope to spend a few days doing nothing by a lake with some vegetables, a tent, and a good book.
UPDATE: We're now in NORTH DAKOTA!!!! It's pretty much as I expected, except for the glorious sky. I spent most of the day playing with our new camera and photographing the incredible and constantly shifting array of clouds that spread out beyond our windshield. We saw a huge rainbow and finally arrived in the capital - Bismarck - late in the evening. The state capital building (not a dome!) is across the street. The tallest building in ND - it's about 15 stories.
Chicago was difficult to detach ourselves from. The city far exceeded our expectations. The opportunities for culture, art and exercise are endless and we decided easily that it surpasses New York. We spent another day there to see Wrigley Field, eat at Uno’s, and enjoy the Lakefront beach. That night, we had the luck to discover that Wisconsin’s annual State Fair was in Full Swing – just 2 hours away in Milwaukee. Thursday morning, we hit the road and headed north.
The State Fair was a quintessentially American experience that managed to fit perfectly into all the expectations and stereotypes that I could possibly conjure up. I had long wanted to attend one of these events which take place every summer in most states. The emphasis on agriculture and livestock make the fairs particularly west/and midwest phenomenon, although they probably take place in other states as well.
The fair was held in a huge area that is set aside all year for this purpose. We followed signs to a giant car raceway which served as a parking lot. We entered the fair and were greeted immediately by stands selling beer, lemonade, frozen margaritas, hotdogs, and sausage. With a few minutes before the official start of the Cream Puff Contest, we grabbed a map and headed straight for the Wisconsin Cream Puff arena and the central mall. We arrived just minutes before the celebratory contest began. The contestants included local radio and television personalities, the Miss Cranberry Girl, Queen Dairy and a local football player. Each contestant introduced himself with a an air of friendly but fierce competition. One newswoman said she had been watching the contest her whole life, and was thus thrilled and honored to participate for the first time. A giant 5 pound cream puff was placed in front of each contestant. They were given about 5 minutes to eat as much as they could – without using their hands. The contest was a close tie, and the judges had to way the leftovers to determine a winner. Several television stations were filming the contest and journalists excitedly reported, live from the front row.
We followed up the event by sampling our own cream puffs which were filled with rich, thick fresh whip cream.
From there, we wove our way through the booths of local goods, crafts and rides. We stopped to watch a BMX and skateboarding show but hurried on to look for the swine race. Inside the Pig stables, we saw hundreds of pigs and watched as a group of 12-year-olds showed their own little oinkers off.
At 6 months old, the pigs are already huge, and a local nearby told me that most of them would not live past the weekend. The pigs are shown off by the owners who try to keep their animal near the judge by tapping them on the haunch with a stick. Some of the owners were gentle, but the girl who one was fierce with her pig. You could see bruises on the pink skin of the animal who looked miserable in the ring.
I left quickly, once again questioning my own choices in food consumption. We found a mini-racetrack nearby where baby potbelly pigs and ducks were racing around a short track while hundreds of people cheered their favorite on. The racers were released through small gates and encouraged by small bites of food at the other end. It was hysterical.
We saw horses and ducks, chickens, cows, goats and lamb. There were Budweiser Clydesdales being brushed and groomed and harnessed for the parade, and in another area we viewed baby animals.
All this touring made us quite hungry, so we headed for the tent filled with tastes of Wisconsin. The specialty of this season was chocolate covered bacon (sold from a booth outside the tent). I have to admit, the experience struck me as so once-in-a-lifetime that I tasted the first piece of pork I’ve had in many years. The bacon wasn’t bad; the guilt, subsiding. We tasted cheese and wine, honey and hot sauce. Bought some salsa and lunched on pulled lamb and corn on the cob (mom), a bison burger (me), and various sausages and beef jerkey. (Ori and me)
Yum!
Full and smiling, we bought 2 tee-shirts and headed out after a full day in the sun and smells of a real state fair. All stereotypes were confirmed…
From there, we went on an adventure to the little-known town of Iola. Our friend from Israel was amazingly on a business trip in the middle of Wisconsin in a small town among the chain of lakes. We drove north along Winnebago, stopping at a lighthouse in Fond du Lac.
Today was our second day in Wisconsin (the best-kept secret in America?) and yet I feel we've done about a week's worth of exploration. On one hand, I wonder if we will be so enthralled and surprised by other states along our way, or if Wisconsin is truly exceptional. Again, the theme of expectations has been strong for me on this journey so far. I had little to no expectations about what this state would offer, so its overwhelming variety of activities and attractions have totally surprised me.
We woke up in Waupaca, a small town amid a chain of lakes, about an hour from Osh Kosh on Lake Winebago. A good friend from Israel was, quite coincidentally, on a business trip in Iola, Wisconsin, so we crashed her hotel room. We went out for a cheap, American-style dinner at a local restaurant, shaped like a boat. We were aching for some Wisconsin cheese so we drove to a dairy nearby. Although we missed the guided tour, we chowed down on samples and had a great time talking with the staff. When we asked for some bread to complete our lunch, they sent us on a wonderful chase through windy, gravel roads (Country Road FF, O or Q anyone). We arrived an hour later in Wisconsin Amish country - Kingston. We stopped in a beautiful antique store filled with buried treasures at incredible prices. Lacking a trailer to cart home the furniture, we chatted with the owner and settled on a beautiful ring for my mom.
I have yet to see a supermarket in this state, although I am sure they exist. To get bread in Kingston, we went to an Amish bakery. The workers were fully adorned, bonnet and all, and we were asked kindly not to photograph them. The smell of donuts and fresh-baked bread flooded the parking lot and we couldn't resist stocking up bread, donuts and blueberry pie. The owner rung up our purchase on an old-fashioned cash register, pulling a handle to total the sums. There was quite a crowd at the bakery, despite the lack of people on the town's Main Street.
When I asked about picking up some tomatoes, the owner sent us a few miles across the town to her brother's farm. We found the house, with a sign posted out front, advertising produce. There were buggies parked in the driveway and 6-8 little children playing on the lawn in their Amish dress. They all looked under 12 and were staring curiously at us. The eldest boy approached us and helped lead us to park and find the garage where his older sister was selling the vegetables.
Amidst the rolling corn fields and silos of the state, we found a clearing in the woods for a picnic lunch. From there, we headed southwest towards Madison, or more specifically to the House on the Rocks. This place is really impossible to describe, but I will give it a go...
Alex Jordan, the imagineer of the house, was a wealthy guy from Madison with a taste for unusual art, obsessive collecting and, if his house is any indicator - a powerful dark side. Imagine the enormous lair of a vampire - a vampire obsessed with beautiful art. This would be his Eden.
We arrived with only an hour or so to tour, so we only got to see one third of the property. The sections we missed included the largest carousel in the world, covered in chandaliers, 20,000 light bulbs and carefully crafted characters riding eternally on the horses. The house has themed rooms, including an elaborate doll house, an enormous sea creature and a music room filled with self-playing orchestras.
We got to see Jordan's house, itself. Records show he only slept there four nights; he intended it as a getaway for artistic inspiration. The rooms are dark and small, with nooks and crannies built in to every wall. The ceilings are carpeted at times, the windows either stained glass, or covered with intricate lattice designs. Music echoes beautifully but ominously from self-playing bands of violins, drums, and pianos. The rooms are lit with stained glass lamps and old church windows are worked into the walls and used as tables.
The pinnacle of the house (literally and figuratively) is the Infinity Room, a jutting glass room that drives out off a cliff, parallel to the valley floor; it's 216 feet long and 156 high, ending in a point.
The Mississippi: We drove from Madison Wisconsin up to Minneapolis-St. Paul along the Mississippi. Our first sight of the river was near the border with Iowa, south of the Wisconsin city of LaCrosse. The river is impressive – wide, bordered by steep green cliffs and spanned by impressive bridges. We wove our way along and across the river a few times, driving along the Great River Road – a byway nationally recognized for its beauty and historical significance. There were houses and cottages along the way, and plenty of sailboats, motorboats, fishermen and ferries making use of the Great River. There were train tracks beside us most of the way and trains more than a mile long droned along side us on the traditional route from the Gulf of Mexico all the way to Canada. Just before reaching The Twin Cities, we stopped in a small town with Western store fronts and a distinctively mid-west feel. There were murals on the sides of the brick buildings and a clock tower near the town’s bridge that spans the Mississippi and heads over to Minnesota from Wisconsin. When a rain storm broke out, we took brief cover in a gas station along with some of the Harley Davidson riders we’d been trailing all along.
These days we’re in Minnesota. While we haven’t been doing typically touristy activities, we’ve been enjoying the chance to relax and get some errands done. We stayed with some great CouchSurfers who told us a bit about the neighborhoods of the city and showed us a great Thai restaurant. One of them grew up right by the Mall of America, but the other was a girl from the Mississippi. She grew up on the river, boating, fishing and stacking piles of woods with her nature-loving family.
Minnesota is full of all the kindness and politesse that stereotypes would lead you to believe. Our host last night called this “Minnesota nice.” She said everyone is extremely polite…and passive aggressive. By her definition, if a Minnesotan calls something “interesting” or “special” - beware. These are local euphemisms for terrible, ugly, or weird.
Minneapolis is a beautiful city. There is a large sculpture garden in the downtown and lots of theaters and art museums. The city is filled with water – the rivers and lakes make for great biking, waterfront hikes and - when weather permits – swimming.
Today, we spent the day with an old family friend from Maine who treated us like her own grandchildren. She fed us, played Scrabble; we in turn hooked up a new scanner and tried to help get her computer in shape. By we, I mean Ori.
----
We've done a lot of driving, and I soon hope to spend a few days doing nothing by a lake with some vegetables, a tent, and a good book.
UPDATE: We're now in NORTH DAKOTA!!!! It's pretty much as I expected, except for the glorious sky. I spent most of the day playing with our new camera and photographing the incredible and constantly shifting array of clouds that spread out beyond our windshield. We saw a huge rainbow and finally arrived in the capital - Bismarck - late in the evening. The state capital building (not a dome!) is across the street. The tallest building in ND - it's about 15 stories.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Two weeks ago was a special season of holidays here in Israel. It was my first time being in the country during this season, and I hadn't expected the season to be so significant, so poignant, so full of customs and traditions that are far more Israeli than Jewish.
The season began on April 24th with Yom HaShoah - a day set aside in memorium of the Holocaust. Like all Jewish holidays, the day started at sunset the night before and was marked by a minute long siren - once at night and again in the morning. During the sirens, which would ring again the following week in honor of those who have fallen fighting for Israel, the whole country stops. Traffic stands still. People freeze. Families sitting alone in their living room stand up, in silent solidarity - a country taking (over the course of a week) 5 whole minutes to simply remember her fallen sons and daughters. Stores close, restaurants too. The radio plays dirges, on TV are movies about the Holocaust. It is impossible, in this tiny island in the middle east, to forget.
And yet around the world, as Holocaust survivors dwindle with time, I still worry that forgetting will happen.
In Israel, suffering is always in the back of people's minds. (This is one woman's opinion, of course.) But I see it and hear it all the time. I see the lines on people's faces, the worried looks of passersby, the stress that accompanies life in Israel.
Things here are never simple. Nothing is laid out on a table - rich or poor, black, white, brown - everyone here has a story of how they got here. Some are survivors or children of survivors. Others walked from Yemen or fled Iran. Some took an overnight-] plane from Ethiopia and arrived in a strange world with no common language or culture. Few have had the easy life, and virtually no one's parents did.
But all this suffering, or culture of suffering does a lot for building unity.
A week after Yom HaShoah, there is the even more solemn holiday: Yom HaZikaron. This day is set aside to honor soldiers and victims of terror who have lost their life in the 61-year history of this country. During one of the sirens, I found myself in the middle of the busy Tel Aviv market place. As the siren started, everyone froze. Arab and Jew, children, elderly. The fruit stood still mid air, the scales found their equilibrium, the shekels settled into comfortable positions inside pockets. The siren lasted two whole minutes - a long and surreal amount of time. Eyes turned inward or toward the ground. And I was left alone in this crowd with my thoughts and my utter awe at the awesomeness of such a moment.
Actually, several moments. The length of this pause was part of what made it so significant. For sure I've heard about it before. Read about it. But experiencing it, as with so many things in life, was something else entirely.
At sunset, the solemn mood ends in an instant. Memorial candles are replaced by fireworks. The sad songs by cheers. Flags wave from windows and windshields, grills ignite, marshmallows sizzle on sticks, and the entire country floods outside to celebrate Independence Day. Just like that. Back to back. Tears aside, not even a memory. Everyone eats steak and burgers, even the vegetarians light their grills. The air reeks of ash and smoke. The sky is a light smokey grey with flashes of fireworks grinning through the haze.
We took the opportunity of our days off to head up north for a 4-day hike. I thought that Israeli Independence Day was a perfect time to hike the breadth of the country. Ori, myself and 3 other friends headed up northeast to the Sea of Galilee (Kinneret). We parked our car, drove back across the country (70ish km) to the west coast town of Nahariya on the Mediterranean. While our friend Robert volunteered to set up the grill and keep our steaks cold, the rest of us began hiking from Sea to Sea. Sea to shining Sea in Israel - a hike of 4 (doable in 3) days. In the US, it would take a full year and a half to hike coast to coast.
And yet the richness and diversity of scenery seems to rival the US. We began amidst fields of bananas and avocados as we traced our way through the orchards owned by community farms. From there, we headed into a river bed far beneath the crusader fortress of Montfort. We spent our first night above the canyon and partook in the Independence Day tradition of barbecued steaks and chicken. On the second day, we hiked all day in the dry river's path and ended our evening in a Druze village.
We found an amazing restaurant which was quite the perfect example of Druzian hospitality. We filled ourselves and our bags with provisions and even found shelter in the skeleton of a Druze house. (A man at the gas station offered us the house his family is building as a place to lay our mats and sleeping bags.)
The rest of the hike wound us through rivers and up and over Mount Meron, of Kabbalistic Fame. We had views of Tzfat and Lebanon throughout. And of course we topped off our hike with a swim in the Kinneret.
Seeing so many aspects of this land within so few days helped me yet again to appreciate the unique richness of this country and also underlined its remarkable compactness. This country is tiny! And yet...
it seems to have it all. We find a way to hike on new terrain every month. The diversity of culture and traditions far rivals that of many much older countries.
All is well.
The season began on April 24th with Yom HaShoah - a day set aside in memorium of the Holocaust. Like all Jewish holidays, the day started at sunset the night before and was marked by a minute long siren - once at night and again in the morning. During the sirens, which would ring again the following week in honor of those who have fallen fighting for Israel, the whole country stops. Traffic stands still. People freeze. Families sitting alone in their living room stand up, in silent solidarity - a country taking (over the course of a week) 5 whole minutes to simply remember her fallen sons and daughters. Stores close, restaurants too. The radio plays dirges, on TV are movies about the Holocaust. It is impossible, in this tiny island in the middle east, to forget.
And yet around the world, as Holocaust survivors dwindle with time, I still worry that forgetting will happen.
In Israel, suffering is always in the back of people's minds. (This is one woman's opinion, of course.) But I see it and hear it all the time. I see the lines on people's faces, the worried looks of passersby, the stress that accompanies life in Israel.
Things here are never simple. Nothing is laid out on a table - rich or poor, black, white, brown - everyone here has a story of how they got here. Some are survivors or children of survivors. Others walked from Yemen or fled Iran. Some took an overnight-] plane from Ethiopia and arrived in a strange world with no common language or culture. Few have had the easy life, and virtually no one's parents did.
But all this suffering, or culture of suffering does a lot for building unity.
A week after Yom HaShoah, there is the even more solemn holiday: Yom HaZikaron. This day is set aside to honor soldiers and victims of terror who have lost their life in the 61-year history of this country. During one of the sirens, I found myself in the middle of the busy Tel Aviv market place. As the siren started, everyone froze. Arab and Jew, children, elderly. The fruit stood still mid air, the scales found their equilibrium, the shekels settled into comfortable positions inside pockets. The siren lasted two whole minutes - a long and surreal amount of time. Eyes turned inward or toward the ground. And I was left alone in this crowd with my thoughts and my utter awe at the awesomeness of such a moment.
Actually, several moments. The length of this pause was part of what made it so significant. For sure I've heard about it before. Read about it. But experiencing it, as with so many things in life, was something else entirely.
At sunset, the solemn mood ends in an instant. Memorial candles are replaced by fireworks. The sad songs by cheers. Flags wave from windows and windshields, grills ignite, marshmallows sizzle on sticks, and the entire country floods outside to celebrate Independence Day. Just like that. Back to back. Tears aside, not even a memory. Everyone eats steak and burgers, even the vegetarians light their grills. The air reeks of ash and smoke. The sky is a light smokey grey with flashes of fireworks grinning through the haze.
We took the opportunity of our days off to head up north for a 4-day hike. I thought that Israeli Independence Day was a perfect time to hike the breadth of the country. Ori, myself and 3 other friends headed up northeast to the Sea of Galilee (Kinneret). We parked our car, drove back across the country (70ish km) to the west coast town of Nahariya on the Mediterranean. While our friend Robert volunteered to set up the grill and keep our steaks cold, the rest of us began hiking from Sea to Sea. Sea to shining Sea in Israel - a hike of 4 (doable in 3) days. In the US, it would take a full year and a half to hike coast to coast.
And yet the richness and diversity of scenery seems to rival the US. We began amidst fields of bananas and avocados as we traced our way through the orchards owned by community farms. From there, we headed into a river bed far beneath the crusader fortress of Montfort. We spent our first night above the canyon and partook in the Independence Day tradition of barbecued steaks and chicken. On the second day, we hiked all day in the dry river's path and ended our evening in a Druze village.
We found an amazing restaurant which was quite the perfect example of Druzian hospitality. We filled ourselves and our bags with provisions and even found shelter in the skeleton of a Druze house. (A man at the gas station offered us the house his family is building as a place to lay our mats and sleeping bags.)
The rest of the hike wound us through rivers and up and over Mount Meron, of Kabbalistic Fame. We had views of Tzfat and Lebanon throughout. And of course we topped off our hike with a swim in the Kinneret.
Seeing so many aspects of this land within so few days helped me yet again to appreciate the unique richness of this country and also underlined its remarkable compactness. This country is tiny! And yet...
it seems to have it all. We find a way to hike on new terrain every month. The diversity of culture and traditions far rivals that of many much older countries.
All is well.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
I am sure many of you are wondering about the cliff-hanger ending of the last blog. So was I. I only found out last Sunday night that the man had passed away, most likely due to blood loss and the long delay in getting him to the hospital. On Saturday, there was an eerie feeling in town. Funerals are held en masse at the end of the month, so most people were wandering around town in black cloth and head wraps. Sunday, too, was a day of mourning. Apparently, funerals here are occasions for copious drinking, so believe it or not, another man was killed when he wandered drunkenly into the street and was hit by a car.
I was glad when those grim few days were over and Monday morning arrived to mark the arrival of a new week. It is my last week in Ghana and I am extremely excited to go home to Israel. I miss my friends more than I imagined I would, but mostly I miss the feeling of being at home. Of familiar food, faces – of feeling comfortable and clean. I am truly surprised at these feelings (and don’t usually write about them in my blog) but I think they are closely tied to the many dramatic life events that have occurred in the past 6 weeks.
I am take advantage of the rest of my time here. I have become very close with my neighbors and will miss them. They are great to laugh with, to cry with, to cook and watch movies for hours… I feel totally comfortable around them, at home – and don’t feel like I have to host, or act as a guest. We can talk about everything from politics to sex or racism. They are very open. I know that keeping in touch with them will be virtually impossible; they don't even have a mailing address.
There have been countless memorable moments amid the long hours I have passed with my neighbors. Whole days spent doing laundry or watching television were spiced up by surprising moments of cultural exchange. They would bring over a machete and chop down plantains from my yard, or fashion a stick from a palm leaf to knock down ripe papayas. When I offered my friend a snack of cheese one day, she asked what it was. She had never tasted cheese! On another occasion, I gave my small boy his first taste or peas.
But if my eating habits surprised them, I, too, often needed to conjure up an adventurous spirit when tasting the neighbors cooking. When Ori was visiting, the neighbors labored hours over traditional foofoo. This dish is made by boiling plantains and cassava. Then, the two are ground together and mixed with a long pole. The result is a sticky white dough that is formed into balls, served with stew, and eaten with your hands. Apparently, I ate it all wrong. They laughed when I chewed the foofoo, telling me that it should be swallowed. I was reminded of how Ori laughs when I chew grape or pomegranate seeds instead of swallowing them whole in much the same way. I marveled, meanwhile, at the my neighbors’ ability to eat every part of chicken and fish – bones, eyes, feet, skin… nothing went to waste on their plates, and I was embarrassed by the large pile of rejected morsels on my own.
In the end, I found that the simplest Ghanaian foods made me happiest. I just couldn’t spring for the haut-cuisine of Ghana which includes “rat,” huge snails and cow skin that can all be found on display at the markets. Instead, I took lunch for 40 cents at a stall every day; it consisted of rice, pasta and spicy pepper sauce. On my last day in Osino, I finally tasted “Osino graphic” which is a local specialty that is known around the country. Women carry it on their heads and sell it along the roadside. It’s a corn based meal similar to cream of wheat, but it is thick and sweet, and boiled inside many layers of leaves. For dinner, I usually had a rice dish. Patrick could cook up an oily-fried rice dish that I loved to eat with ketchup. He, a 17-year-old boy less lazy than myself, would bring out a mortar and pestle tomatoes and hot pepper to make a sauce for the rice. My favorite stews were the ones cooked with canned mackerel, and not with the small salted or smoked fish so ubiquitous at the markets and in the cuisine.
I also learned how to dye batik cloth in the last few days. A Peace Corps volunteer set up a Batik center in Osino about 10 years ago. A woman named Rosemary runs the center as an employee of the local public high school. Students take batik as an elective. She is a kind, astute woman who seems more worldly than many other people I have met in Osino. Her husband lives in the capital city of the Eastern Region, and she spends weekends with him. Her two young sons are named Abraham (who everyone calls “Father” as a nickname) and David. We laughed that 4 month old David has “obruni” hair, and decided it was because King David from the Bible had also been known for his hair; he was a redhead.
While Rosemary spent the day with me patiently choosing colors and patterns, various students and a woman who helps her run her small snack kiosk took care of the children. Villagers came in and out, visiting Rosemary, making batik orders and watching over the children. Once we got more involved in the cloth design, a horde of children crowded around the outdoor art room, eager to learn, watch and generally see what the white girl was up to.
I won’t go into all of the details of batik here – but if anyone is interested, let me know in an email. In brief, we used foam sponges to stamp the fabric with hot wax. Then, we dyed the fabric. Wherever there is wax, the fabric stays white. Once the initial dye is set and dried, we added another layer of stamps and dyed the fabric a second color. It was a long and messy process, but a lot of fun.
Yesterday, I visited a nearby village called Abompe and met up with a Peace Corps volunteer who has been living there for three years. The village is only 4km away from Osino, but it has a very different feeling. The village sits at the foot of some green brown cliffs that offer a stunning backdrop from every direction. At times, they are clear and feel incredibly close – like you could run right to the top. Other times, they are veiled in mist, silhouettes in the distance. The whole village is green and brown – and is free from the traffic and busy highway that bisects Osino and ruins any chance of serenity. In Abompe, there is a small gold mine, but it is not the primary sustenance for the villagers; most of the residents are farmers, with fields around their houses and terraced in the cliffs. They grow cassava, yams, plantains, bananas and maize. On top of the mountain is a large deposit of bauxite which some families use to make beaded jewelry. One main Peace Corps project is to help the bauxite artisans sell their crafts directly to markets and consumers, rather than receiving meager payment from middlemen. Over the past few years, a bead center has been set up and I got a chance to visit and also to learn how the beads are made. A bow drill is used to make the tiny hole and the a stone to polish and shape the beads. It is delicate and slow work, but the artists I met made the difficult technique look easy.
At the close of one of the most touristy experiences of my time in Ghana, I met up with two friends to have a beer at the village spot. Actually, we went to an adjacent village. Our usually “spot” was closed so we settled for beers in another place. Ghanaian Spots serve only drinks. Beers are about 1 dollar for a large bottle, and they sell domestic beers, Guinness and, randomly, Smirnoff Ice. (which might be more expensive, but I have no idea) It felt good to sit with a few friends. The wooden benches and dusty tabletop made no difference. We shared stories, laughed hysterically and felt like rebels for staying out after dark. I couldn’t believe I wasn’t home until 7:30. It was a first for my time here in Ghana! The streets came alive in the evening, in a way that I had not seen or known about. People were huddled in crowds chatting and many stores were still open. My new friend, B, told me that different towns have different habits. Abompe, for example, goes to bed early. But his town, Dwanase, stays up until 11 or 12 hanging out in the streets, listening to music, drinking at spots and chatting . Overall, it was a joyous evening; one that made me believe I could in fact stick around Ghana for a longer period of time.
I was glad when those grim few days were over and Monday morning arrived to mark the arrival of a new week. It is my last week in Ghana and I am extremely excited to go home to Israel. I miss my friends more than I imagined I would, but mostly I miss the feeling of being at home. Of familiar food, faces – of feeling comfortable and clean. I am truly surprised at these feelings (and don’t usually write about them in my blog) but I think they are closely tied to the many dramatic life events that have occurred in the past 6 weeks.
I am take advantage of the rest of my time here. I have become very close with my neighbors and will miss them. They are great to laugh with, to cry with, to cook and watch movies for hours… I feel totally comfortable around them, at home – and don’t feel like I have to host, or act as a guest. We can talk about everything from politics to sex or racism. They are very open. I know that keeping in touch with them will be virtually impossible; they don't even have a mailing address.
There have been countless memorable moments amid the long hours I have passed with my neighbors. Whole days spent doing laundry or watching television were spiced up by surprising moments of cultural exchange. They would bring over a machete and chop down plantains from my yard, or fashion a stick from a palm leaf to knock down ripe papayas. When I offered my friend a snack of cheese one day, she asked what it was. She had never tasted cheese! On another occasion, I gave my small boy his first taste or peas.
But if my eating habits surprised them, I, too, often needed to conjure up an adventurous spirit when tasting the neighbors cooking. When Ori was visiting, the neighbors labored hours over traditional foofoo. This dish is made by boiling plantains and cassava. Then, the two are ground together and mixed with a long pole. The result is a sticky white dough that is formed into balls, served with stew, and eaten with your hands. Apparently, I ate it all wrong. They laughed when I chewed the foofoo, telling me that it should be swallowed. I was reminded of how Ori laughs when I chew grape or pomegranate seeds instead of swallowing them whole in much the same way. I marveled, meanwhile, at the my neighbors’ ability to eat every part of chicken and fish – bones, eyes, feet, skin… nothing went to waste on their plates, and I was embarrassed by the large pile of rejected morsels on my own.
In the end, I found that the simplest Ghanaian foods made me happiest. I just couldn’t spring for the haut-cuisine of Ghana which includes “rat,” huge snails and cow skin that can all be found on display at the markets. Instead, I took lunch for 40 cents at a stall every day; it consisted of rice, pasta and spicy pepper sauce. On my last day in Osino, I finally tasted “Osino graphic” which is a local specialty that is known around the country. Women carry it on their heads and sell it along the roadside. It’s a corn based meal similar to cream of wheat, but it is thick and sweet, and boiled inside many layers of leaves. For dinner, I usually had a rice dish. Patrick could cook up an oily-fried rice dish that I loved to eat with ketchup. He, a 17-year-old boy less lazy than myself, would bring out a mortar and pestle tomatoes and hot pepper to make a sauce for the rice. My favorite stews were the ones cooked with canned mackerel, and not with the small salted or smoked fish so ubiquitous at the markets and in the cuisine.
I also learned how to dye batik cloth in the last few days. A Peace Corps volunteer set up a Batik center in Osino about 10 years ago. A woman named Rosemary runs the center as an employee of the local public high school. Students take batik as an elective. She is a kind, astute woman who seems more worldly than many other people I have met in Osino. Her husband lives in the capital city of the Eastern Region, and she spends weekends with him. Her two young sons are named Abraham (who everyone calls “Father” as a nickname) and David. We laughed that 4 month old David has “obruni” hair, and decided it was because King David from the Bible had also been known for his hair; he was a redhead.
While Rosemary spent the day with me patiently choosing colors and patterns, various students and a woman who helps her run her small snack kiosk took care of the children. Villagers came in and out, visiting Rosemary, making batik orders and watching over the children. Once we got more involved in the cloth design, a horde of children crowded around the outdoor art room, eager to learn, watch and generally see what the white girl was up to.
I won’t go into all of the details of batik here – but if anyone is interested, let me know in an email. In brief, we used foam sponges to stamp the fabric with hot wax. Then, we dyed the fabric. Wherever there is wax, the fabric stays white. Once the initial dye is set and dried, we added another layer of stamps and dyed the fabric a second color. It was a long and messy process, but a lot of fun.
Yesterday, I visited a nearby village called Abompe and met up with a Peace Corps volunteer who has been living there for three years. The village is only 4km away from Osino, but it has a very different feeling. The village sits at the foot of some green brown cliffs that offer a stunning backdrop from every direction. At times, they are clear and feel incredibly close – like you could run right to the top. Other times, they are veiled in mist, silhouettes in the distance. The whole village is green and brown – and is free from the traffic and busy highway that bisects Osino and ruins any chance of serenity. In Abompe, there is a small gold mine, but it is not the primary sustenance for the villagers; most of the residents are farmers, with fields around their houses and terraced in the cliffs. They grow cassava, yams, plantains, bananas and maize. On top of the mountain is a large deposit of bauxite which some families use to make beaded jewelry. One main Peace Corps project is to help the bauxite artisans sell their crafts directly to markets and consumers, rather than receiving meager payment from middlemen. Over the past few years, a bead center has been set up and I got a chance to visit and also to learn how the beads are made. A bow drill is used to make the tiny hole and the a stone to polish and shape the beads. It is delicate and slow work, but the artists I met made the difficult technique look easy.
At the close of one of the most touristy experiences of my time in Ghana, I met up with two friends to have a beer at the village spot. Actually, we went to an adjacent village. Our usually “spot” was closed so we settled for beers in another place. Ghanaian Spots serve only drinks. Beers are about 1 dollar for a large bottle, and they sell domestic beers, Guinness and, randomly, Smirnoff Ice. (which might be more expensive, but I have no idea) It felt good to sit with a few friends. The wooden benches and dusty tabletop made no difference. We shared stories, laughed hysterically and felt like rebels for staying out after dark. I couldn’t believe I wasn’t home until 7:30. It was a first for my time here in Ghana! The streets came alive in the evening, in a way that I had not seen or known about. People were huddled in crowds chatting and many stores were still open. My new friend, B, told me that different towns have different habits. Abompe, for example, goes to bed early. But his town, Dwanase, stays up until 11 or 12 hanging out in the streets, listening to music, drinking at spots and chatting . Overall, it was a joyous evening; one that made me believe I could in fact stick around Ghana for a longer period of time.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Ghana 5
First of all, the frogs in my house are getting a touch out of control, but I am determined to complain less in this blog. I worry that in highlighting the more extraordinary aspects of my Ghana experience, I may be giving off the impression that life here is far more challenging, or less enjoyable, than it actually is.
So I will get the “bad stuff” out of the way in one paragraph - and it will be vivid! - before moving on to the more glorious aspects of my journey and life here in sub-Saharan Africa.
The frogs continue to be a problem. I see at least two a day, and it’s the suddenness of their appearance that makes me jump. I will creep to the bathroom in the middle of the night, carefully eyeing around corners for a small ribbeting intruder, and just when I think I’m clear… I will sit comfortably on my ivory throne and … hop! yet another frog will join me in the most private of moments.
But I have other tormentors as well. Last night it was a dead cockroach, a few spiders and a large slimy millipede slithering under my table. Two nights ago, in Accra, I was tormented by a single ravished mosquito. Finally, in the dark of the night, I turned on the lights determined to overcome my tormentor. When I finally smacked him, he released a shocking amount of blood, and I returned to the most satisfied state of slumber that I have experienced in a while.
It’s hard to believe I’ve spent so much time traveling, living in nasty youth hostels and sleeping in the wilderness, isn’t it? How have I never identified my fear of bugs, my jumpiness over them, until now? It’s a mystery.
That’s all the gore for today. I am back in Osino after a weekend of utter relaxation and self-care in Accra. I hadn’t been feeling great, but I returned to work this afternoon. My colleagues at the bank greeted me joyfully. However, when I told them that I had spent the weekend in bed, they were unanimously convinced that I was referring to less-pure and more enjoyable things than food poisoning. I explained to them that my boyfriend was back in Israel, but they laughed and nodded as if they were “in on” a secret. A few minutes later, another co-worker asked me if I’d been sure to “treat my boyfriend right and show him the best time in Ghana.” I am amused and somewhat shocked by the blatant sexual discussions at work. There were some more graphic remarks as well which I will pass on writing about.
Ori and I did have an unforgettable, wonderful week. He arrived on Friday evening. We were famished so I whisked him to a “great salad place,” something you can only get in the capital city of Ghana. Having just arrived from Israel, he was far less impressed with the meal than I was. We journeyed through the city, starting at Independence Square. It is a huge empty parade ground marked by a boxy-looking arc-de-triomphe with a huge black star in the center. The square looks over the ocean so we wandered from there to the beach. We saw young teenagers playing soccer and adults and children dancing and drumming along the boardwalk. Locals were swimming, but we were too disgusted by the sewage flowing toward the ocean to want to dive in.
We went out for a fancy Valentine’s Day dinner at a South African place called el Goucho. Ori ordered crocodile tail. It sort of tasted like a cross between chicken and fish. We also had the most amazing frogs legs. Really. Incredible. Which is actually why I think that the frogs in Osino are tormenting me so much. Guilt. Payback. It’s rough.
The next morning we headed north to the Volta Region and to visit the Wli Water Falls near the border with Togo. At the Accra bus station, we were grateful to find a new, air-conditioned tro-tro van headed our way. Still, we had to wait over an hour for it to fill up, and the entire time a loudspeaker screamed from its roof announcing the destination. My head was pounding before we even began the 4-5 hour journey. Once we arrived in the town of Hohoe, we still had to take a 40 minute van ride on a dirt road to arrive to the town of Wli.
But it was worth it!
In Wli, there is a paradise-like inn owned by a German couple. The couple, in their 50s, had set out about 10 years ago to drive from Germany to South Africa. Along the way, they had fallen in love with Wli, bought some land and are now running a clean, efficient get-away overlooking the largest waterfalls (arguably) in West Africa.
We could order simple, delicious food from their menu, but our orders had to be in by the afternoon. We would receive specific meal times: soup at 6:50 if dinner was at 7. We asked once for a 10 minute pause before our dessert. The Ghanaian waiter look slightly frightened, shook his head and said no. Then he said…maybe 2 minutes. It was clear that the Germans were running a tight ship.
The spot was spectacular. There was lush jungle foliage, pineapples, bananas and "pawpaw" (papaya) growing on the property. Chickens and small goats wandered by, and the innkeepers kept a parrot as well. One of the trees would shed white snow-like fuzz in the wind and blanket the skies with beautiful flurries that glinted in the sun. We didn’t want to ever leave.
I felt a bit sick on Saturday night, but we managed to hike about 2 hours up to the falls on Sunday. It was a spectacular hike, with animals, insects, plants and hundreds of butterflies providing endless entertainment along the way.
At the base of the hike some wood sculptors were selling their wares to the tourist crowd. In addition to the traditional statues depicting lovers, masks and animals, there was also a huge collection of large wooden penises. Each sculptor told us the same thing: For AIDS demonstrations. I was tempted to buy one for my father – who is a urologist.
We left Wli on Monday morning and were sad to leave. Ori was feeling sick and had a fever so the long journey to my village was torture for him. We finally made it in the afternoon and he relaxed at home while I headed off to the bank.
During the course of the week, Ori had a great time interacting and meeting with villagers. He always had a camera in hand, so children would surround him, eager to have their picture taken and then to see the image on the digital screen. Around 2pm, when school lets out, throngs of children in their matching uniforms would literally follow us down the streets. I would glance back at Ori and laugh – he looked like the Pied Piper or the character in West Side Story leading the Jets gang through a New York City alley.
While I was working in various bank branches, Ori made plenty of friends around the village. He spent one whole afternoon talking with a storekeeper about politics, music, religion and the role of women.
Ghanaians are proud to describe themselves as “very curious” – to the point of being slightly nosy – but it makes for great conversation. This, and the impression I have that no one is ever in a rush, means that it is easy to find yourself in long conversations with people about all sorts of issues. I am often impressed by how much they know about Israel – Hamas, Netanyahu and Livni are well known names to many people I have spoken with. I also enjoy the ease with which I can ask people questions about race and their perception of whites, Africa or the “western world.”
My neighbor and I have discussed how Ghana has so much going for it – a port, natural resources including gold, oil, and some diamonds. There is plenty of water and fertile ground. There’s democracy, peace and a literate population. He lamented that in spite of all these great things, Ghana is still not living up to its potential. Why, he asked, (as I have as well) are so many people in Ghana living without running water, electricity, and roads? Why is malaria so rampant?
Last weekend I was resting in Accra for three days, worried I had caught malaria. My upset stomach and total loss of appetite were not eased by the fact that both water and power were turned off all day on Saturday. My friend explained that this is fairly normal. The political parties control the water/power and they ration it regularly. Before the elections that were held a few months ago, there was constant power and water. People had hoped that with the new government, there would be fewer outages, but apparently that is not to be the case. I couldn’t help but think that despite the unbearable heat and our being forced to flush the toilet with buckets of water, the “rationing” was an environmental blessing. I tried to imagine New York City having similar blackouts on a weekly basis.
Holy crap. Just now. I mean, really, just now, as I am sitting here writing this, one of the agents I work with came running into the room crying. What’s wrong? I asked. Through her tears she managed to tell me there had been an accident. “Go and see,” she said, which is apparently what everyone in town does when such a thing happens. All of Osino is now gathered along the roadside staring at the scene of the accident. It took me a while to figure out what had happened but people kept pointing at an object in the road and saying, “the leg! the flesh!” and I finally realized that the amorphous brown and red object in the road was part of a man’s leg.
Now, about 20 minutes into this tragedy, there are no police, and no ambulance. And no one knows anything; the community is just standing along the street crying and shouting as traffic buzzes by in the rain occasionally mowing over the severed body parts.
Here is the story that I have so far. A bus was heading south going about 60 miles an hour and hit a private passenger car. The body parts belong to a passenger from that car. The bus drove off, very fast. Oh! Sirens! Just now. Anyway…that is all I know. Ill be back. The police just arrived. I also saw an ambulance and a hearse. The crumpled remnants of a car door are lying by the road side. No one knows how the man is. No one knows if he is alive. But the saga continues, everyone is watching. Waiting.
First of all, the frogs in my house are getting a touch out of control, but I am determined to complain less in this blog. I worry that in highlighting the more extraordinary aspects of my Ghana experience, I may be giving off the impression that life here is far more challenging, or less enjoyable, than it actually is.
So I will get the “bad stuff” out of the way in one paragraph - and it will be vivid! - before moving on to the more glorious aspects of my journey and life here in sub-Saharan Africa.
The frogs continue to be a problem. I see at least two a day, and it’s the suddenness of their appearance that makes me jump. I will creep to the bathroom in the middle of the night, carefully eyeing around corners for a small ribbeting intruder, and just when I think I’m clear… I will sit comfortably on my ivory throne and … hop! yet another frog will join me in the most private of moments.
But I have other tormentors as well. Last night it was a dead cockroach, a few spiders and a large slimy millipede slithering under my table. Two nights ago, in Accra, I was tormented by a single ravished mosquito. Finally, in the dark of the night, I turned on the lights determined to overcome my tormentor. When I finally smacked him, he released a shocking amount of blood, and I returned to the most satisfied state of slumber that I have experienced in a while.
It’s hard to believe I’ve spent so much time traveling, living in nasty youth hostels and sleeping in the wilderness, isn’t it? How have I never identified my fear of bugs, my jumpiness over them, until now? It’s a mystery.
That’s all the gore for today. I am back in Osino after a weekend of utter relaxation and self-care in Accra. I hadn’t been feeling great, but I returned to work this afternoon. My colleagues at the bank greeted me joyfully. However, when I told them that I had spent the weekend in bed, they were unanimously convinced that I was referring to less-pure and more enjoyable things than food poisoning. I explained to them that my boyfriend was back in Israel, but they laughed and nodded as if they were “in on” a secret. A few minutes later, another co-worker asked me if I’d been sure to “treat my boyfriend right and show him the best time in Ghana.” I am amused and somewhat shocked by the blatant sexual discussions at work. There were some more graphic remarks as well which I will pass on writing about.
Ori and I did have an unforgettable, wonderful week. He arrived on Friday evening. We were famished so I whisked him to a “great salad place,” something you can only get in the capital city of Ghana. Having just arrived from Israel, he was far less impressed with the meal than I was. We journeyed through the city, starting at Independence Square. It is a huge empty parade ground marked by a boxy-looking arc-de-triomphe with a huge black star in the center. The square looks over the ocean so we wandered from there to the beach. We saw young teenagers playing soccer and adults and children dancing and drumming along the boardwalk. Locals were swimming, but we were too disgusted by the sewage flowing toward the ocean to want to dive in.
We went out for a fancy Valentine’s Day dinner at a South African place called el Goucho. Ori ordered crocodile tail. It sort of tasted like a cross between chicken and fish. We also had the most amazing frogs legs. Really. Incredible. Which is actually why I think that the frogs in Osino are tormenting me so much. Guilt. Payback. It’s rough.
The next morning we headed north to the Volta Region and to visit the Wli Water Falls near the border with Togo. At the Accra bus station, we were grateful to find a new, air-conditioned tro-tro van headed our way. Still, we had to wait over an hour for it to fill up, and the entire time a loudspeaker screamed from its roof announcing the destination. My head was pounding before we even began the 4-5 hour journey. Once we arrived in the town of Hohoe, we still had to take a 40 minute van ride on a dirt road to arrive to the town of Wli.
But it was worth it!
In Wli, there is a paradise-like inn owned by a German couple. The couple, in their 50s, had set out about 10 years ago to drive from Germany to South Africa. Along the way, they had fallen in love with Wli, bought some land and are now running a clean, efficient get-away overlooking the largest waterfalls (arguably) in West Africa.
We could order simple, delicious food from their menu, but our orders had to be in by the afternoon. We would receive specific meal times: soup at 6:50 if dinner was at 7. We asked once for a 10 minute pause before our dessert. The Ghanaian waiter look slightly frightened, shook his head and said no. Then he said…maybe 2 minutes. It was clear that the Germans were running a tight ship.
The spot was spectacular. There was lush jungle foliage, pineapples, bananas and "pawpaw" (papaya) growing on the property. Chickens and small goats wandered by, and the innkeepers kept a parrot as well. One of the trees would shed white snow-like fuzz in the wind and blanket the skies with beautiful flurries that glinted in the sun. We didn’t want to ever leave.
I felt a bit sick on Saturday night, but we managed to hike about 2 hours up to the falls on Sunday. It was a spectacular hike, with animals, insects, plants and hundreds of butterflies providing endless entertainment along the way.
At the base of the hike some wood sculptors were selling their wares to the tourist crowd. In addition to the traditional statues depicting lovers, masks and animals, there was also a huge collection of large wooden penises. Each sculptor told us the same thing: For AIDS demonstrations. I was tempted to buy one for my father – who is a urologist.
We left Wli on Monday morning and were sad to leave. Ori was feeling sick and had a fever so the long journey to my village was torture for him. We finally made it in the afternoon and he relaxed at home while I headed off to the bank.
During the course of the week, Ori had a great time interacting and meeting with villagers. He always had a camera in hand, so children would surround him, eager to have their picture taken and then to see the image on the digital screen. Around 2pm, when school lets out, throngs of children in their matching uniforms would literally follow us down the streets. I would glance back at Ori and laugh – he looked like the Pied Piper or the character in West Side Story leading the Jets gang through a New York City alley.
While I was working in various bank branches, Ori made plenty of friends around the village. He spent one whole afternoon talking with a storekeeper about politics, music, religion and the role of women.
Ghanaians are proud to describe themselves as “very curious” – to the point of being slightly nosy – but it makes for great conversation. This, and the impression I have that no one is ever in a rush, means that it is easy to find yourself in long conversations with people about all sorts of issues. I am often impressed by how much they know about Israel – Hamas, Netanyahu and Livni are well known names to many people I have spoken with. I also enjoy the ease with which I can ask people questions about race and their perception of whites, Africa or the “western world.”
My neighbor and I have discussed how Ghana has so much going for it – a port, natural resources including gold, oil, and some diamonds. There is plenty of water and fertile ground. There’s democracy, peace and a literate population. He lamented that in spite of all these great things, Ghana is still not living up to its potential. Why, he asked, (as I have as well) are so many people in Ghana living without running water, electricity, and roads? Why is malaria so rampant?
Last weekend I was resting in Accra for three days, worried I had caught malaria. My upset stomach and total loss of appetite were not eased by the fact that both water and power were turned off all day on Saturday. My friend explained that this is fairly normal. The political parties control the water/power and they ration it regularly. Before the elections that were held a few months ago, there was constant power and water. People had hoped that with the new government, there would be fewer outages, but apparently that is not to be the case. I couldn’t help but think that despite the unbearable heat and our being forced to flush the toilet with buckets of water, the “rationing” was an environmental blessing. I tried to imagine New York City having similar blackouts on a weekly basis.
Holy crap. Just now. I mean, really, just now, as I am sitting here writing this, one of the agents I work with came running into the room crying. What’s wrong? I asked. Through her tears she managed to tell me there had been an accident. “Go and see,” she said, which is apparently what everyone in town does when such a thing happens. All of Osino is now gathered along the roadside staring at the scene of the accident. It took me a while to figure out what had happened but people kept pointing at an object in the road and saying, “the leg! the flesh!” and I finally realized that the amorphous brown and red object in the road was part of a man’s leg.
Now, about 20 minutes into this tragedy, there are no police, and no ambulance. And no one knows anything; the community is just standing along the street crying and shouting as traffic buzzes by in the rain occasionally mowing over the severed body parts.
Here is the story that I have so far. A bus was heading south going about 60 miles an hour and hit a private passenger car. The body parts belong to a passenger from that car. The bus drove off, very fast. Oh! Sirens! Just now. Anyway…that is all I know. Ill be back. The police just arrived. I also saw an ambulance and a hearse. The crumpled remnants of a car door are lying by the road side. No one knows how the man is. No one knows if he is alive. But the saga continues, everyone is watching. Waiting.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Ghana 1
Written on or about Jan. 25, 2009
I arrived in Ghana about 5 hours ago and already so much as happened. My flight from Frankfurt stopped first in Nigeria, to drop off most of the passengers. I wasn’t aware of the pit stop beforehand, but it gave me a chance to see the landscape in daylight. The runway was surrounded by green – a small paved strip lined with umbrella like trees. The air was thick with very low visibility, as if covered by a fog. As we approached the runway, I saw scattered yellow lights and what appeared to be small fires burning here and there amidst the jungle.
After about an hour to refuel, we continued on a very short flight to Ghana. As we passed through the doorway and out onto the stairs of the aircraft, I was struck with the thick nighttime heat. (I later learned that this week has been a particularly cool one.) I made it through customs, passport control, baggage claim and emerged tentatively from the airport into the eager throngs beyond the airport entrance. There was a din of collective name calling and countless signs, but eventually I saw a white face in the crowd and heard her calling my name. My boss had a taxi waiting for us and as we toured the Accra evening streets, she and I played a bit of Jewish geography and reminisced about Cortelyou Road in Brooklyn. She told me the plan for the weekend and even surprised me with the wonderful gift of a SIM card and minutes! She also told me that one of her friends in the ex-pat community was hosting a party tonight, and that we were welcome to come.
I couldn’t see much at night, but I did notice the ubiquitous construction. On every street there were half built houses – huge ones. Apparently, people here will build homes little by little – the foundation one year, the walls the next. Even on this wealthy side of town (or perhaps especially) this phenomenon was clearly visible. We found my hotel, not far from the airport, and were both impressed by the A/C, cable TV and hot water (which I still think isn’t true…). It’s a simple motel room, but the bed is comfortable and the mosquitoes limited.
Accra has a din, a sound track. You can hear the airplanes as they head to and from the city, and everyone knows the daily flight schedules. Amidst the roar of the engines, someone here can identify “Delta” or “Ethiopian Airlines.” You can easily tell when people are coming to town, or when your friend has arrived from afar. I am not sure if this airplane-identification is an ex-pat pastime, or if the locals also play along. In addition to the airplanes, there is always some sort of music playing; sometimes American rap songs, sometimes West African hits. Apparently, much of the music comes from the Ivory Coast which is known to be a cultural hub for the region.
I rested for half an hour in my room, and then we left for the party. My boss left telling me, very nonchalantly, that she didn’t want to stay long because she had been sick last week and wanted to get rest. She described this in about the same tone and level of concern that someone would use to discuss a cold.
“Sick with what?” I asked.
Malaria and Typhoid.
Oh. Right… She told me they were very treatable (she was cured!) and that she hadn’t missed any work. She’d felt a bit sick, gone to the doctor and taken some medicine. Now she’s fine. Ok… I took a deep breath and tried to match her easygoing approach.
We’re staying in the eastern, wealthy part of the town. The neighborhood where the party was is even wealthier – huge mansions surrounded by high fences. We hopped in a cab that costs a dollar or two to get almost anywhere, and arrived at a dead end street. The house had a gate and several guards standing out front. Inside the huge home were marble floors, art on the walls, large, open rooms. Not your typical bachelor pad, but the inhabitant is a young European making a killing here in Ghana. Not sure what business… There was catered food – meatballs, potato salad, kebabs grilled up fresh all night. There was a table cluttered with various juices, wine and liquors – and a large bin of sangria. Around midnight, a DJ arrived, and rumor had it that later on there would be a band and yes, prostitutes or at least some “questionable” local women. People ran in and out of the swimming pool, jumping with fanfare and splashing the other guests.
It was a curious party – part high school house party, part college-drinking binge until you noticed the crowd. Despite all the hired help, it had a very casual, young feel. But the guests were all in their twenties and thirties, and only a few were drinking in excess. Mostly, people chatted in small groups, mingling and flirting. The crowd was filled with young singles, brought to Ghana by the hope of adventure, or charity, world-changing, money-making and more. The culture had an impulsive feel to it, as if Ghana for ex-pats is a place where actions have few consequences and love lasts only one night.
There were Europeans, Americans, Australians, Senegalese, Ivorians. Here, in one yard, was a collection of people who shared only their foreigness, if not their values. There were World Bank employees, mingling with staff from several NGOs. There were a lot of people working in shipping, and others making big cash in short term stints in Africa working for foreign companies. Ghana has one of the strongest markets in the world, and the country just recently found oil. It’s the hub of West Africa for foreign diplomats and there are endless ways to take advantage of its resources and potential for the foreign entrepreneur. I spent the night speaking in French, happy that I had not totally forgotten the language although each time I wanted to say the French word for “but,” I said it in Hebrew. I made a few friends, got invited to go to the beach today and for a moment felt sad that I didn’t have more time to spend in Accra with my new ex-pat community.
I introduced myself as being from Israel, mostly because I hope that if people enjoy my company, maybe they will improve in some small way how they think about the country. There are about 60 Israelis living in Accra and most of the people at this party had not met very many. (One guy told me proudly that he once knew some Jewish people in France who had moved to Israel.) People asked me a lot about the war and the Americans were curious about the upcoming elections. People listened and I didn’t feel attacked, but clearly the sentiment was against the recent events in Gaza. One man described to me in detail the length that his shipping company goes to ensure that their boats and cargo never go to an Israeli port. He told me they will travel all through the Mediterranean, with the sole exception of Israel.
Around 1AM (GMT), we headed home, although the party was going strong. The night air was blanketed with sand from the Sahara; apparently the air here will remain dry, dusty and hazy until the rains of late March wash it away.
Written on or about Jan. 25, 2009
I arrived in Ghana about 5 hours ago and already so much as happened. My flight from Frankfurt stopped first in Nigeria, to drop off most of the passengers. I wasn’t aware of the pit stop beforehand, but it gave me a chance to see the landscape in daylight. The runway was surrounded by green – a small paved strip lined with umbrella like trees. The air was thick with very low visibility, as if covered by a fog. As we approached the runway, I saw scattered yellow lights and what appeared to be small fires burning here and there amidst the jungle.
After about an hour to refuel, we continued on a very short flight to Ghana. As we passed through the doorway and out onto the stairs of the aircraft, I was struck with the thick nighttime heat. (I later learned that this week has been a particularly cool one.) I made it through customs, passport control, baggage claim and emerged tentatively from the airport into the eager throngs beyond the airport entrance. There was a din of collective name calling and countless signs, but eventually I saw a white face in the crowd and heard her calling my name. My boss had a taxi waiting for us and as we toured the Accra evening streets, she and I played a bit of Jewish geography and reminisced about Cortelyou Road in Brooklyn. She told me the plan for the weekend and even surprised me with the wonderful gift of a SIM card and minutes! She also told me that one of her friends in the ex-pat community was hosting a party tonight, and that we were welcome to come.
I couldn’t see much at night, but I did notice the ubiquitous construction. On every street there were half built houses – huge ones. Apparently, people here will build homes little by little – the foundation one year, the walls the next. Even on this wealthy side of town (or perhaps especially) this phenomenon was clearly visible. We found my hotel, not far from the airport, and were both impressed by the A/C, cable TV and hot water (which I still think isn’t true…). It’s a simple motel room, but the bed is comfortable and the mosquitoes limited.
Accra has a din, a sound track. You can hear the airplanes as they head to and from the city, and everyone knows the daily flight schedules. Amidst the roar of the engines, someone here can identify “Delta” or “Ethiopian Airlines.” You can easily tell when people are coming to town, or when your friend has arrived from afar. I am not sure if this airplane-identification is an ex-pat pastime, or if the locals also play along. In addition to the airplanes, there is always some sort of music playing; sometimes American rap songs, sometimes West African hits. Apparently, much of the music comes from the Ivory Coast which is known to be a cultural hub for the region.
I rested for half an hour in my room, and then we left for the party. My boss left telling me, very nonchalantly, that she didn’t want to stay long because she had been sick last week and wanted to get rest. She described this in about the same tone and level of concern that someone would use to discuss a cold.
“Sick with what?” I asked.
Malaria and Typhoid.
Oh. Right… She told me they were very treatable (she was cured!) and that she hadn’t missed any work. She’d felt a bit sick, gone to the doctor and taken some medicine. Now she’s fine. Ok… I took a deep breath and tried to match her easygoing approach.
We’re staying in the eastern, wealthy part of the town. The neighborhood where the party was is even wealthier – huge mansions surrounded by high fences. We hopped in a cab that costs a dollar or two to get almost anywhere, and arrived at a dead end street. The house had a gate and several guards standing out front. Inside the huge home were marble floors, art on the walls, large, open rooms. Not your typical bachelor pad, but the inhabitant is a young European making a killing here in Ghana. Not sure what business… There was catered food – meatballs, potato salad, kebabs grilled up fresh all night. There was a table cluttered with various juices, wine and liquors – and a large bin of sangria. Around midnight, a DJ arrived, and rumor had it that later on there would be a band and yes, prostitutes or at least some “questionable” local women. People ran in and out of the swimming pool, jumping with fanfare and splashing the other guests.
It was a curious party – part high school house party, part college-drinking binge until you noticed the crowd. Despite all the hired help, it had a very casual, young feel. But the guests were all in their twenties and thirties, and only a few were drinking in excess. Mostly, people chatted in small groups, mingling and flirting. The crowd was filled with young singles, brought to Ghana by the hope of adventure, or charity, world-changing, money-making and more. The culture had an impulsive feel to it, as if Ghana for ex-pats is a place where actions have few consequences and love lasts only one night.
There were Europeans, Americans, Australians, Senegalese, Ivorians. Here, in one yard, was a collection of people who shared only their foreigness, if not their values. There were World Bank employees, mingling with staff from several NGOs. There were a lot of people working in shipping, and others making big cash in short term stints in Africa working for foreign companies. Ghana has one of the strongest markets in the world, and the country just recently found oil. It’s the hub of West Africa for foreign diplomats and there are endless ways to take advantage of its resources and potential for the foreign entrepreneur. I spent the night speaking in French, happy that I had not totally forgotten the language although each time I wanted to say the French word for “but,” I said it in Hebrew. I made a few friends, got invited to go to the beach today and for a moment felt sad that I didn’t have more time to spend in Accra with my new ex-pat community.
I introduced myself as being from Israel, mostly because I hope that if people enjoy my company, maybe they will improve in some small way how they think about the country. There are about 60 Israelis living in Accra and most of the people at this party had not met very many. (One guy told me proudly that he once knew some Jewish people in France who had moved to Israel.) People asked me a lot about the war and the Americans were curious about the upcoming elections. People listened and I didn’t feel attacked, but clearly the sentiment was against the recent events in Gaza. One man described to me in detail the length that his shipping company goes to ensure that their boats and cargo never go to an Israeli port. He told me they will travel all through the Mediterranean, with the sole exception of Israel.
Around 1AM (GMT), we headed home, although the party was going strong. The night air was blanketed with sand from the Sahara; apparently the air here will remain dry, dusty and hazy until the rains of late March wash it away.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Ghana Part 4
A few anecdotes from yesterday. I love how every moment here is filled with surprises. Amidst what may seem like the most boring town, where on weekends I have spent hours playing Chutes and Ladders, there are tiny moments of fascination that make this experience so fulfilling for me. This morning, for example, I woke up to another breathtaking sunrise. The air is thick and misty and the large trees are silhouetted in the fog by the rising sun behind them. I opened my gate to a family of snails, nearly the size of hand, making their way across my path. Do snails live in families?
Last night, O, my neighbor, came over just to say hi. Suddenly, she squealed with excitement at the trees in my yard. Somehow, ridiculously, we had all failed to notice the hundreds of ripe plantains dangling mere feet from my door. She ran to get a machete, and before I could stop her, she had literally hacked down an entire tree in order to get to the high growing fruit. The huge bunches of plantains were laid out on the ground and the ripest ones were fried up immediately for a delicious dinner. O. also managed to chop down a few pawpaws (papaya) for dessert. Usually, I am not so keen on this fruit, but I loved the not-quite-ripe sweet crunch of the ones growing in my yard.
During dinner, I talked a bit with my neighbor R. about his work as a teacher. He told me there are 50 or 60 students in each of his high school classes so I asked him if discipline is difficult. R. is a small man who looks almost like a teenager. I have found him to be gentle, intelligent and the most intellectual person I have met in a while, in Ghana or otherwise.
He told me that discipline is maintained through the caning of students with a sort of bamboo or wicker rod. He complained that he has to thrash the students although he hates doing so, because of the ineffective headmaster of his school. He prefers the less violent method of having the teenagers kneel in front of the classroom when they misbehave. It has to be mentioned that one of his students is my small boy. In spite of the fact that we all spend time together nearly every evening, R. has still on occasion thrashed P. (my small boy) during the school day.
If students resist the punishment, they receive it on their backs, instead of their hands. A typical punishment might be 3-5 whips of the cane. R. told me that he once had to cane his entire class of 50, and that the process was exhausting. But the children he are stubborn, he explained, so I have to do it even though I don’t like to.
Evenings here are creepy. The house sits on a major road connecting Accra (Ghana’s capital) to the Northern part of the country and Burkina Faso. Cars and trucks roar by all night bringing people and goods to all the villages and towns along this north-south route. The house is set back from the road, but there is a constant din of traffic, ceiling fans and a choir of frogs who live outside my bedroom. Lizards scurry on the metal roof; the silence of the countryside I anticipated was as false a hope as clean air around here. With the constant music playing, and bonfires of garbage blazing, Ghana is not the peaceful refuge that I imagined. The tranquility manifests itself in different ways – through the patience of the people here and the lack of rush and business.
In addition to the hustle and bustle beyond my walls, there is plenty hubbub within. At night, the cockroaches come around, giant fast critters eager to overtake every dark, dank corner of my abode. There are grasshoppers too, and large spiders scurrying on the walls. It’s enough to make me nauseous, and the catalyst for my new purchase of a mosquito net – a wall between me and the nighttime visitors that terrorize my dreams.
This week, I spent my first Shabbat in Osino, in my house. It coincided with my first night alone in my new surroundings. A friend of mine from Hebrew University packed me a wonderful Sabbath kit, complete with candles for each week and 6 small gifts to create a festive mood. Her first present was a mini Kiddush cup, perfect for holding the sanctified Fanta-wine. I did Kiddush on the phone with my mom, and enjoyed a meal of sweet, sugar bread, pasta and tomato sauce. I cranked up the electric fence and settled in to bed with a movie.
The morning began with a phone call from my small boy who was on his way over to help with the laundry and cleaning. I told him not to touch anything, and ran to turn off the electric current surrounding the house. He was a bit shook up when I found him outside the gate, but I assured him that it was safe to enter. He told me had nearly come straight over without calling first and was grateful to god that he had opted for calling!
We spent Saturday assembling the mosquito net and cleaning the house. P. is good company and I enjoyed talking with him. After noon, we walked to town where passersby greeted us and asked if we were getting married. He laughed at them, inquiring, “Do you remember me having a wedding?” It was a silly question, brought on by fascination with my whiteness more than a true belief that we were actually a married couple.
P. invited himself over for dinner. Apparently, in Ghana it is much more appropriate to invite oneself over to someone's house, rather than to invite guests to your own. Thus, I am more likely to have guests come here than I am to receive invitations to their homes, unless I ask myself to come inside. In town we picked up ingredients for dinner – sweet plantains, tomatoes, cabbage and chicken. The meat here is sold at “Cold Store” stands, some of the stores featuring refrigeration. The storekeeper reached into her freezer with bare hands and pulled out a ¼ chicken from within the stacks of damp and soiled cardboard boxes. She then proceeded to hack apart the thigh and drumstick with a machete, before tossing my dinner into a plastic bag. With her same bare hands, she gave me change. Our whole chicken dinner cost around three dollars and easily fed five.
We began preparing the food at five o’clock, with O. from next door teaching me to cook. There were many steps involved; we pre-boiled the vegetables and chicken before frying them all separately. There is pepe pepper to grind with a mortar and pestle, rice to cook, vegetables to wash and clean for dirt and bugs. We didn’t eat until eight, but the food was great and the spiciness within reason. The chicken was hard for me to eat. I couldn’t tell what was flesh , bone or fat and I picked gingerly at the hacked chunks of poultry. The others ate it all, leaving only small pieces of bone on the side of their plates.
After dinner, two of the neighbors asked me about the recent war in Israel. They know about Hamas, but had not heard of the rocket attacks on S’derot or of Gilad Shalit. I filled them in as well as I could and then we changed subjects to music and dance.
O. played mp3s on her cell phone while P. danced in the hallway. They sang a Ghanaian hit for me that sings the praises of Barack Obama. Most of Africa is extremely excited about the new American president!
They left around 10, and then I went to bed where I crashed promptly onto the floor when my bed slats had come loose. Annoyed, I made another bed, disappointed that I could not try out the new mosquito net. I watched the rest of my movie and fell asleep.
Today most people are at church and shops are closed. I was going to go on a hike, but prefer to relax, read my book and catch up on writing. Tomorrow and this week will be full of travels and adventure.
Just now, I was cleaning my floors, collecting water from the faucet outside my door. I noticed the lizards running around furiously, brushing up against trees and frantically headed in every direction. Split seconds later, 5 large drops fell on my face, followed by a fury of angry rain spilling from the sky. The sun was gone in an instant, replaced by torrents of rain banging on the roof creating thunder in the house. I dropped the bucket and mop and ran for cover. I thought it didn’t rain here during the dry season, but it appears I had been misinformed.
Last night, O, my neighbor, came over just to say hi. Suddenly, she squealed with excitement at the trees in my yard. Somehow, ridiculously, we had all failed to notice the hundreds of ripe plantains dangling mere feet from my door. She ran to get a machete, and before I could stop her, she had literally hacked down an entire tree in order to get to the high growing fruit. The huge bunches of plantains were laid out on the ground and the ripest ones were fried up immediately for a delicious dinner. O. also managed to chop down a few pawpaws (papaya) for dessert. Usually, I am not so keen on this fruit, but I loved the not-quite-ripe sweet crunch of the ones growing in my yard.
During dinner, I talked a bit with my neighbor R. about his work as a teacher. He told me there are 50 or 60 students in each of his high school classes so I asked him if discipline is difficult. R. is a small man who looks almost like a teenager. I have found him to be gentle, intelligent and the most intellectual person I have met in a while, in Ghana or otherwise.
He told me that discipline is maintained through the caning of students with a sort of bamboo or wicker rod. He complained that he has to thrash the students although he hates doing so, because of the ineffective headmaster of his school. He prefers the less violent method of having the teenagers kneel in front of the classroom when they misbehave. It has to be mentioned that one of his students is my small boy. In spite of the fact that we all spend time together nearly every evening, R. has still on occasion thrashed P. (my small boy) during the school day.
If students resist the punishment, they receive it on their backs, instead of their hands. A typical punishment might be 3-5 whips of the cane. R. told me that he once had to cane his entire class of 50, and that the process was exhausting. But the children he are stubborn, he explained, so I have to do it even though I don’t like to.
Evenings here are creepy. The house sits on a major road connecting Accra (Ghana’s capital) to the Northern part of the country and Burkina Faso. Cars and trucks roar by all night bringing people and goods to all the villages and towns along this north-south route. The house is set back from the road, but there is a constant din of traffic, ceiling fans and a choir of frogs who live outside my bedroom. Lizards scurry on the metal roof; the silence of the countryside I anticipated was as false a hope as clean air around here. With the constant music playing, and bonfires of garbage blazing, Ghana is not the peaceful refuge that I imagined. The tranquility manifests itself in different ways – through the patience of the people here and the lack of rush and business.
In addition to the hustle and bustle beyond my walls, there is plenty hubbub within. At night, the cockroaches come around, giant fast critters eager to overtake every dark, dank corner of my abode. There are grasshoppers too, and large spiders scurrying on the walls. It’s enough to make me nauseous, and the catalyst for my new purchase of a mosquito net – a wall between me and the nighttime visitors that terrorize my dreams.
This week, I spent my first Shabbat in Osino, in my house. It coincided with my first night alone in my new surroundings. A friend of mine from Hebrew University packed me a wonderful Sabbath kit, complete with candles for each week and 6 small gifts to create a festive mood. Her first present was a mini Kiddush cup, perfect for holding the sanctified Fanta-wine. I did Kiddush on the phone with my mom, and enjoyed a meal of sweet, sugar bread, pasta and tomato sauce. I cranked up the electric fence and settled in to bed with a movie.
The morning began with a phone call from my small boy who was on his way over to help with the laundry and cleaning. I told him not to touch anything, and ran to turn off the electric current surrounding the house. He was a bit shook up when I found him outside the gate, but I assured him that it was safe to enter. He told me had nearly come straight over without calling first and was grateful to god that he had opted for calling!
We spent Saturday assembling the mosquito net and cleaning the house. P. is good company and I enjoyed talking with him. After noon, we walked to town where passersby greeted us and asked if we were getting married. He laughed at them, inquiring, “Do you remember me having a wedding?” It was a silly question, brought on by fascination with my whiteness more than a true belief that we were actually a married couple.
P. invited himself over for dinner. Apparently, in Ghana it is much more appropriate to invite oneself over to someone's house, rather than to invite guests to your own. Thus, I am more likely to have guests come here than I am to receive invitations to their homes, unless I ask myself to come inside. In town we picked up ingredients for dinner – sweet plantains, tomatoes, cabbage and chicken. The meat here is sold at “Cold Store” stands, some of the stores featuring refrigeration. The storekeeper reached into her freezer with bare hands and pulled out a ¼ chicken from within the stacks of damp and soiled cardboard boxes. She then proceeded to hack apart the thigh and drumstick with a machete, before tossing my dinner into a plastic bag. With her same bare hands, she gave me change. Our whole chicken dinner cost around three dollars and easily fed five.
We began preparing the food at five o’clock, with O. from next door teaching me to cook. There were many steps involved; we pre-boiled the vegetables and chicken before frying them all separately. There is pepe pepper to grind with a mortar and pestle, rice to cook, vegetables to wash and clean for dirt and bugs. We didn’t eat until eight, but the food was great and the spiciness within reason. The chicken was hard for me to eat. I couldn’t tell what was flesh , bone or fat and I picked gingerly at the hacked chunks of poultry. The others ate it all, leaving only small pieces of bone on the side of their plates.
After dinner, two of the neighbors asked me about the recent war in Israel. They know about Hamas, but had not heard of the rocket attacks on S’derot or of Gilad Shalit. I filled them in as well as I could and then we changed subjects to music and dance.
O. played mp3s on her cell phone while P. danced in the hallway. They sang a Ghanaian hit for me that sings the praises of Barack Obama. Most of Africa is extremely excited about the new American president!
They left around 10, and then I went to bed where I crashed promptly onto the floor when my bed slats had come loose. Annoyed, I made another bed, disappointed that I could not try out the new mosquito net. I watched the rest of my movie and fell asleep.
Today most people are at church and shops are closed. I was going to go on a hike, but prefer to relax, read my book and catch up on writing. Tomorrow and this week will be full of travels and adventure.
Just now, I was cleaning my floors, collecting water from the faucet outside my door. I noticed the lizards running around furiously, brushing up against trees and frantically headed in every direction. Split seconds later, 5 large drops fell on my face, followed by a fury of angry rain spilling from the sky. The sun was gone in an instant, replaced by torrents of rain banging on the roof creating thunder in the house. I dropped the bucket and mop and ran for cover. I thought it didn’t rain here during the dry season, but it appears I had been misinformed.
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