When I was coming to the end of my second year in China I had to decide what to do next, I realized I had two real alternatives, first to go back to Mexico and continue my work as freelance interpreter and translator forever or move to Europe, preferably to Geneva, Switzerland and try to land a job at the UN, possibly as interpreter.  I had a third option, which was to move to Taiwan and study Chinese and eventually add it to my working languages.  I consulted my mother and she suggested that the Taiwan option was not very realistic, as it would be really hard to add Chinese to my working languages.

So as to the other two, going back to Mexico was out of the question and coming to Geneva and find a job at the UN looked fine but  … even then to get a job, first a post had to be advertised, you had to apply for it and if the offer was not rigged in advance, competition, exams, tests and the like lay ahead before anything could be considered.  But also there was the option of being already in Geneva and ready to do any job available, of any kind.

The problem was to be in Switzerland as even then the Swiss had very strict rules about granting residence permits to foreigners, especially non-European.  A sure alternative was to become a University student as that automatically made it easy to obtain the resident permit as university student.  So in time I applied and was accepted at the Cours de Langue et Civilisation Francaise, at the University of Geneva. I also knew that, as a student I could probably find accommodation at the student’s residence in Geneva and all would be fine.

For the form I decided to invite my mother to join me in Geneva, although I knew she would refuse giving me all kinds of reasons or excuses. So I send her an “invitation letter” and in due time received the answer, brief as they come and totally unexpected where she said “yes, with pleasure I will come with you to Geneva”.  I almost fell in shock as all my plans for a new life in Switzerland were smashed in a line.  Now I had to consider how I was going to go and pick her up in Mexico, close my flat there where my mom was living and if possible find a tenant, pack my house and come here with her.  I only had money for a one-way ticket for both of us, so the challenge was considerable.

After a few weeks we finally arrived in Geneva, to a sub-let flat and we started our life Swiss-style. My mother died soon after and I was left alone to fend for myself, start my classes at the University and find a part-time job to support myself, as money was going faster than desired. I found three part-time jobs, I was allowed one, the rest of the time I was supposed to be studying French.

At the time my friend Urs was busy working and his support to my difficult situation was rather marginal, but he was there when needed.  During the first few months after University started I tried to find a job in many international organisations, discovered that at least in two instances of a post advertised for interpreter, it as rigged and the “winner” had been chosen in advance. Later I discovered that was rather common occurrence, and of course was despairing as then my chances were considerably reduced.

I was getting a bit desperate and the only way to extend my stay in Switzerland was to continue studying at the university, hard and boring as that was or find a job in the UN system, which was the only place where a working permit was not required prior to getting a job.

I have never been the marrying type, but in this difficult situation I had to recognize that marriage would be a way to solve my problems.  At the time you got your Swiss passport immediately upon marriage – as today you have to wait few years before being able to acquire the Swiss nationality. Now the problem was to find a marriageable Swiss guy that could be lured into marriage.  I did not now many that were single and could be convinced but…

During one of the holidays, when I went to Urs’s place to celebrate with the family, it dawn on me that he was Swiss, single and not committed to anyone in particular, to my knowledge, and that made him the ideal candidate for marriage in order to sort all my papers and my situation here. It was not easy but finally one day I decided to broach the subject and after telling him about the difficulties of not finding the right job and so on, I said something like: “If I cannot find a job soon, it might become necessary that you marry me” and after a few seconds of shock, surprise and whichever other feelings he had, his unequivocal answer was “Do not worry, I am sure and certain you will find a job soon”.

Speak of a cold shower!!!!  This one was not cold, but freezing.  I do not remember exactly in which order but I know I felt angry, sad, disappointed, enraged and at the same time decided then and there that I would indeed find a job, even if it killed me, as I was not going to beg again for help, not of that kind at least.  Once the shock was over and I returned to Geneva, finding a job was number one priority, I was ready to clean houses – that would not have been the first time I worked as a maid, wash dishes or get job at the UN. After a few weeks I got a job as a temporary translator at one of the UN agencies, it was the best possible job available.  Then by word of mouth I was called to another organization for a trial as translator, as there was a post advertised.  I did a test, worked with them two weeks as a trial period and with a lot of luck and help from the Mexican Ambassador in Geneva got the job as a translator.

When all became official I told Urs and besides his congratulations he said:  “You see, I told you, you would get a job”.  Luckily for him we were talking on the phone, otherwise he might not have survived unscathed.  We both laugh a little and that was it, my job as a translator later became one of interpreter and then chief interpreter of my organization, I worked there over 20 years and when I retired I continued working quite a lot as freelance for another five years and now I am enjoying my free time and no more clocking bells nor wedding bells!!

 

While working in China, I decided to use the one month long holiday to visit India and Nepal, so I organized my trip with the help of an agency in Hong Kong and as soon as possible after the end of the classes, I left for Delhi. I arrived couple of days before Independence Day and the city was more chaotic than usual with all the people coming to see and share in the celebrations that included a magnificent parade and lots of festivities mixing religion, politics and simple joy.

Delhi was and I believe has been for a long time a very populated place, where crowds are the rule and pushing and shoving are not necessarily signs of bad manners, simply there are more people than space in the streets.  It is somehow difficult to explain, but with such mobs there is always insecurity and risk, the least of which is to be robbed.  That is what happened to me.  I was out enjoying the sights and the different temples and views.

                                                   Street traffic on a regular day

At the time, credit cards were not as common as they are today and for the most part tourist used traveller’s cheques to cover their expenses. To cash a traveller’s cheque that bore your signature, you had to double sign it in front of the teller where you wanted to cash it and also it was necessary to identify oneself with your ID most commonly your passport and that is how I discovered my mishap.  I wanted to change a cheque and of course needed my passport and looked for it all over, emptied my bags and suitcase and all the little “secret places” one usually has to keep valuables but to no avail, passport AND traveller’s cheques were gone with the wind and had left no forwarding address.

I immediately reported the theft at the nearest police station, not that I expected them to launch global international search for theft of a passport and few hundreds of dollars, especially because at least at the time, a passport had a considerable value in the black market, even a Mexican passport although the most valued were from the u.s.a. or Europe.  I also reported the theft of my traveller’s cheques to the issuing company that tells you never to leave home without them, and there since I had the numbers they immediately started the procedure of replacement, but considering it was just the day before a long holiday weekend – the national day, remember, I was told not to expect them in less than a week and my plans did not include to have to wait in Delhi for the money.  They gave me some replacement cash – charged to my card of course and then the problem was the replacement of my passport.

 

I located the Mexican Embassy and went there to ask for a replacement passport, easier said than done, of course.  A consul or a similar official received me and the first thing he asked me was for my birth certificate to confirm that I was really Mexican.  As it might be easy to imagine, I do not travel with a copy of my birth certificate, especially because at the time I was living in Beijing, P.R.C. and there my passport was not really necessary. I had all my Chinese documents.  Also living in China I had forgotten the basic rules of caution and protection against theft.  Life was extremely safe there. My answer to the insistent request, stating that without one they could not really help me and the prospect of having to move permanently and totally unwillingly to India was as unattractive as being bitten by a rabid dog.  I was soooo angry at what I perceived as his lack of understanding or empathy or disposition to help that all the expletives I know came out, and believe me I know a considerable number of expletives as mild or as rude as they come.  They all came out of my smiling mouth with a clarity of meaning and such a feeling that after a while the embassy official told me to stop, calm down and that he would authorize that I was issued a Mexican passport just on the basis of my use of expletives.  He said, “no one other than a born and bred Mexican can use them so properly and with such accuracy”. So this was the second time my extensive knowledge and use of not very nice words saved the day (for information on the first time, read my blog about how I ended up living in China).

As I mentioned, I was living and working in China at the time and China had very strict rules for issuing a visa, even more so a working visa and of course my working visa was in the stolen passport but I had to have it reissued in Delhi for my return to what was home at the time.  The only other document I had issued in China was my yellow fever vaccination certificate.  I had had the shot done at the Beijing Central Hospital, and they had stamped the yellow little paper.

So here I go to the Chinese Embassy where I had to explain again my misfortunes, show them my brand new passport, as well as the police report of the theft of the previous one and request that on my word they reissue my entry visa to China.  Here I could not use expletives in Chinese as confirmation, first it probably would not have worked and second, I did know a few but certainly not enough. Besides I did not want to pass for Chinese, just wanted my re-entry visa.  I offered them all information about my work place, my supervisors, etc. and mainly make them consider that unless I lived really in Beijing, I would not have my vaccination certificate done there.  So after a while I left with my new visa on my new passport happy as a lark.

 

But not so soon.  At the time Mexicans needed a visa for India and once you got there, upon entry, you were granted a temporary resident status, without which you could not leave the country at the end.  Again the prospect of permanent residence in India unplanned and unwilling was scary.  To make matters worse, the colour of my skin could very easily make me pass for Indian, from the north or south depending on my tan, but I could get lost there and end up wearing a sari, which is nice when it is for fun, but I did not want it to become permanent.  At any rate, I went to the government office that controlled the stay of foreigners and to my great surprise, realized that passport theft could be considered a national pastime, as many of us were there trying to regularize our stay after the theft of our precious travel passpartout!

This last hurdle was easier that the other two, as the Indian officials had great practice and experience with the problem as long as you had a police report of the theft and they could find you in their interminable lists of foreigners arriving in India. You were already there, proof you had ha a visa at one time, so issuing a temporary resident permit and exit visa were easy.

Now I had all my documents in order and except for the money that would arrive some days later, I could continue a most enjoyable trip of discovery of that fantastic country, colourful, noisy, smelly – good and bad ones, religious and full of contrast.

 

 

Over 25 years ago I went to where for me was and still is a country full of mystery and very different ancestral costumes than mine.

 

All the written information I could gather told me that Papua New Guinea was a country that still lived in the mud age, in comparison to where I lived, full of concrete and glass.  That does not make them backward, just different and the fact that in general terms I knew so little about it made me even more curious to go.  When I told some friends my future destination, one of them, my dearest friend Urs even offered to send in advance some carrots and potatoes for the soup, the soup in which I would be the main ingredient as it has been said that in the past the Papuans had been anthropophagous.

I am still alive and kicking, so at least the people I met did not enjoy the idea of having me as the main dish or else they were on a low-cholesterol diet and did not want to hurt their arteries!

                             Head gear made of feathers, sweet mint flower and Huli warrior 

The capital city, Port Moresby was like any modern city, with some skyscrapers, concrete and glass, but the moment you left the city and went into the smaller towns all changed. The mode of transportation other than the plane for long distances was either your own two feet or canoes and jeeps in good but rudimentary roads.  I would imagine for the Papuans, the main mode was either walking or canoeing as the country is criss-crossed by many rivers.

                                                Tea plantations in Whagi Valley and a Papuan couple 

When I went to Mount Hagen by plane, but before boarding I had to be weighed to find me the right seat in order to keep the plane stable and balanced!  What a horrible feeling, especially because the suitcases were not subject to the same indignity, you could carry an elephant in your suitcase, not that there are elephants in PNG, and none the wiser, but I had to be weighed.  I was subject to the same process every time I took a plane and even on boarding a canoe, the master of the ship looked at the passengers to reckon where and how.  Most Papuans I met were rather slim and not very tall, so I guess it was for everybody’s safety but…

                                                       Preparing the Sagu for lunch

Mount Hagen was and I believe it is still the second most important town in PNG with many shops and restaurants, mostly for the locals as at the time there were not all that many tourist – or they had already been disposed of and become part of the menus?  One day I was wondering in town when shots were fired, where from and where to I do not know but I suddenly realized all were running like headless chickens and I was somehow kind of alone in the middle of the road. I of course wanted to hide, but in most of the stores they had closed the security curtains and would not open them only for me. One was in the process of closing so I shoved my way into the shop and all was fine, some time later all became calm again and I was let out, with the admonition of returning to my hotel and stay there at least for the day.

On the first days we visited a mud-village in the Whagi Valley, where they offered shows for tourists, wearing mud masks when the idea was to scare the villagers, but the women of the village defended the place.  If I had been a villager, seeing those bad spirits of course I would be scared, and when I wore one I can tell you it was also scary to be inside, very hot, stuffy.  The show continued, they explained in gests some parts of their traditions and culture and it was great fun. Bones are used as decoration of their houses and masks and feathers and flowers are integral part of the make-up wore by all, and like in many parts of the animal kingdom, the men’s make-up and head gear was far prettier and elaborated than the women. So be it, the macho world even in ancient cultures!

                                                      Mudmen and mudwomen 

Next stage was the Karawari River and for that we had to fly over the central and western mountainous areas, PNG is mostly mountains and lots of rivers. In the Karawari river area the houses are built over piles so that they can avoid flooding and also protects them from certain predators such as crocs. We attended several representations of their traditions, which allowed me to notice that we may be in the antipodes one from the other but basic celebrations such as marriage, birth, death and partaking food have a considerable number of similarities.  Dresses and spices may differ, but the concepts of togetherness do not.  I guess war also is similar, fought with different arms but seeking the control of the opposite faction and doing all that is possible to achieve it.

Next stage was the Tari Valley, which is the home of the Huli people, renown for their extraordinary wigs and make-up using mostly the feathers of the very abundant wildlife. We were shown how they make their wigs and how men make themselves beautiful and colourful.  Again, the male of the species tries to look the best.

                                               Huli men preparing their wigs and make-up 

I had never visited a country that could be described as primitive as this but that offered life and colour to their population, that was rugged as their land but also could be pleasant as their rivers and that did not seem to need the carrots for the soup.  I am living proof of that!

                                                                Kiribati river 

 

Almost 15 years ago, the more I read about this mysterious land, the more mysterious it became and of course the more I wanted to visit and discover why.  So I planned to travel alone into the land of Dragons where the king and his government measured the welfare and development of the land in units of HAPPINESS!!!

 

 

Most of us are used to measure development of a country in monetary terms, in food production, self sufficiency and industrial output, but once you have visited Bhutan, those units of measure loose all their importance. At the time of my visit  most of the country did not look very wealthy, there were if any few industries as such, their main activity was subsistence agriculture and husbandry and they seemed to spend a considerable amount of time taking advantage of leisure time and of course the unavoidable and omnipresent religious expressions of their beliefs.  When I was gathering information, all sources available at the time indicated that the best was to visit the different towns and monasteries during their religious festivals, which fortunately for me were so frequent that I could plan a chain of visits, changing towns often and seeing different festivities.

 

Arriving at Paro the one and only airport then, and after the normal visa, customs and immigration procedures I was welcomed by my driver and my guide.  Two young men dressed in their traditional national dress – compulsory at the time for all and that counted for the measurement of happiness. They both spoke very good English, as did most of the Bhutanese population, although all of course had their own language.  The trip from Paro to Thimphu took a bit over one hour, but it was a first glance at a terrain that was so rugged that there is only one straight road, not very long, in the whole country, all other roads are an endless succession of curves, bends, turns up and down, where visibility is not always great and where I would certainly not like to have to drive because the roads are narrow and the edges usually have on one side a mountain and on the other a precipice and the edges of the roads are not really well defined, so if you or your car slip, well you might end up at the bottom of this precipice, probably several hundred meters down and I do not even want to imagine in what condition.  My driver and guide were both excellent, I never felt scared, even if sometime I had the feeling they did, taking their precious cargo, i.e. me in these treacherous roads.

After a couple of days in Thimphu visiting the different museums, temples and attending festivities we started out trip crossing the land in all its length using the one and only road that connected the west with the east.  Bhutan is basically a Buddhist country so you can find their traditional expressions all over in the form of prayer flags, floating at the summits of roads, taking the prayers into the wind and into their destination.  Also in many walls, whether in the monasteries or just along the streets, one can find prayer wheels that will send their message as the persons make them turn, incense and candles are also present and the most striking art that mixes religion and craftsmanship is painting on the walls, window sills and door frames, in the beams of different constructions, etc.  Another craft that is an art is weaving/embroidery of cloth for their dresses, as tablecloths for the altars in temples, as wall decoration, all full of colour and beautiful designs.

Finally we started the festivals tour, almost one a day, similar but different, with very colourful costumes that I was told, were used in part as religious expressions and in part to educate the people about the different traditions and stories of their beliefs and history.  Most of the festivals include a great amount of humour, and they are performed for the locals. Tourists are tolerated, provided we behave, but mostly they are for the children, women and men that do not always participate in the monastical life.

                                  Part of the performance, how much fun to watch!

I was very surprised, not to say shocked, to see that the representation both in painting and in wooden images of the penis and its two accompanying partners were very common and did not have any indecent connotation, although their use and function were explicit and obvious. During many of the festivals there were fully dressed and masked characters that in full erection were running after the ladies of the public, in teasing and jocular form, all was taken in stride and none the wiser.

                                                                       Dancers 

Otherwise the serious dancers expressed their feelings by jumping, running and displaying their wares – knives, spears and the like to the music of drums and flutes, rhythmically giving the tone of the story, which unfortunately for me was in Bhutanese and out of my understanding, also because my guide although quite knowledgeable of their traditions could not always explain why and what was happening.

The visit to the markets was a full explosion of colour and as in most markets you could see all the crafts and arts of the country, as well as all the food available some of which was unknown to me, such as the betel nuts that are commonly chewed as digestive but that turn the teeth of the users into deep red stains that do not wash easily, jewellery, the cloths already mentioned, musical instruments and meat.  I have never been a vegetarian, although I like my veggies, but I must confess that the meat I saw in Bhutan did not look very appetizing, so I decided to become officially vegetarian and thus avoid having to either eat something that I did not want or offending the host.  In Bhutan one of the staple foods are red chillies, very hot, that are served and considered as vegetables, not spices, so when they arrived I had to take them out otherwise I was risking a terrible stomach problem.  They look great, they taste fine, but I moderation otherwise they can kill you.

Last but certainly not least the people. During my time in Bhutan I never encountered a sour face, and unpleasant manner, not even or hardly a serious face.  Smile was the rule and the common denominator, and not because they had to, but because they wanted.  It seems to me that the king must have been very wealthy, if wealth was measured in happiness, the people I saw certainly made him really rich.

I hope they continue making the king rich in units of happiness for many years to come. I certainly enjoyed my visit and the fantastic happiness that could be felt all over.

 

As most of my stories, this one started once upon a blue moon with little yellow dots, i.e. a long time ago.  I was working as interpreter in Mexico City and of course, because of my job, went from one place to the other and always had a booth colleague.  One day, one colleague called me with a strange offer.  She was teaching interpretation to a group of Chinese students in the Colegio de México, a sort of high-level university.  However, since her pregnancy was advancing, she needed to find a replacement for those classes and thought of me.  The idea sounded a bit crazy as I did not know a single word of Chinese but she said neither did she and explained what and how she did it.

                                             Flowers in the gardens of the Friendship Hotel

The students were all teachers of Spanish in China that had obtained a scholarship from the Mexican government to come and perfect their Spanish and also learn some interpretation skills, so they all spoke very good Spanish.  Interpretation, as most of you know, is the “art” of putting the words and ideas expressed in one language into another, to make them understandable for the public that does not master both.  Well, to teach it, in principle, you have to know both languages, the original and the destination one, so you can correct the students and improve their skills.  But what happens when you do not speak the second language?  Well, it took me a while but finally I established that half of my group would interpret from Spanish into Chinese and the second half from that Chinese back into Spanish, which was the only language I could judge. It was fun because we were doing like the children’s party game of “telegraph” but at the same time it was difficult and the results were not always great.  However, the students enjoyed the exercise and I did also.  We became very good friends.

                                 Tien An Men and a young woman waiting in a side street 

At the time the Mexican government had accepted a lot of Chilean refugees – those that had had to leave their country upon the arrival of Pinochet.  Most of them did not have any documents or certificates regarding their qualifications, but ended up as teachers and of course their Spanish language had a very strong Chilean tone snd vocabulary, especially for the everyday parlance and my students did not always understood it and worse even, they had difficulties communicating with the Mexican students that did not use the Chilean words, so same language, different words and sometimes lots of misunderstanding.  The worse was the use of bad words, insults that in Mexico sometimes are used as terms of endearment but as such you have to know how to apply them otherwise you risk insulting someone and end up in total isolation.

 

My mother used to tell me that when I was a kid she should have washed my mouth with soap, meaning I could use some rather strong words not of her liking, but for once, this knowledge of insults and swear words were my passport to China.  Let me explain.  My Chinese students wanted to interact with the Mexican students but did not know how to use or react to insults and swear words, as they did not understand fully the meaning, so once they invited me to their communal house in Mexico, for tea, so I could explain to them how and where to use all these words. Since there are so many words of this kind, the invitations became frequent and then at one point I was even invited for dinner, served at 6 o’clock on the dot. They certainly improved their vocabulary and I enjoyed their Chinese home made dinners.

                                           Teachers helping to prepare the Chinese ravioles 

They went back to China after some months and we kept in touch on and off.  A year of so later I received a letter from one of them, that was head of the Spanish Department of one of the universities in Beijing, inviting me to come to China to teach Spanish to undergraduate students.  The young people spoke little Spanish and had never had Spanish-speaking teachers, so the experience would do them good.

                                        Some of my students preparing the Chinese dinner 

He gave me a deadline to answer, and if I did not, then they would look for someone else.  As you might imagine, I was ready and almost packed in about ten minutes but first had to ask my mother for her opinion.  My father was no longer and my sister was somewhere in Europe, so my leaving for China meant my mom would be left to her own devices, and she was not in the best of health.  She immediately said I should go and take full advantage of that chance, and that she would rather miss me than have me there regretting it every day.  Great my mom!!

If I could, I would’ve sent a whatsapp or equivalent to reply but unfortunately at the time social media were limited to letters and most communication had to be done the old fashion way.  So, in order not to miss my chance, I sent three answers, one by regular mail – air mail of course, to my former student, another one I sent via a friend that was leaving the next day for Tokyo, so I asked him to mail it from Japan, just in case mail service in Mexico did not work, and the third one I asked another friend, living in Hong Kong at the time, to send a note to Beijing indicating that my “yes, thank you” letter was on the way. In the end, all three arrived and after some administrative procedures and getting my working visa and the like, I landed in Beijing at the end of August, was picked up by my friend, taken to the teacher’s quarters, settled down and started one of the most fantastic times of my life.  Learning curve steep but also pleasure curve war incredible.  Originally I had a one year contract but I ended up staying two years, making many friends, Chinese and foreign alike, learning a little bit of Chinese and travelling in that country as if it was the end of the world.

At that time, the tradition was that the unit – each university, factory, institute or the like was generically known as Unit, so the unit that employed me would offer a very nice welcome dinner at a fancy restaurant, with the main directors and administrators and of course, my personal interpreter, who happened to be Victoria, another former student of mine in Mexico.  The food was great, for the most part, and it was better not to be too curious about what it was. However, there were two dishes I really had problems with, one was sea cucumber like a long insipid snail of sorts, and the other one was cows tendons, which consistency made it very difficult to swallow, for me at least, but unfortunately in the Chinese cuisine both were considered delicacies, so the dean of my university, when I quickly finished them wanted to give me another helping, but through my interpreter I said I rather wait for the other dishes that eat a lot of only one. Fortunately he accepted the excuse and I was liberated.  When I was about to leave China I was offered another banquet, but then I forewarned my colleagues that I wanted Sichuan food, spicy and not inclusive of either sea cucumber or tendons.

                                                                Chinese Lions everywhere 

Our lodgings were at the Friendship Hotel – a rather big compound with lots of green areas built some years before to celebrate the friendship between China and the Soviet Union but since that friendship had cooled down, it was now used to house the foreigners that were working for the various units in Beijing. We came literally from all over the world, most of us were there to teach our respective languages, be that Tagalog, Swahili or Spanish but as in many places, English was the lingua franca. Each one had a small flat with one bedroom, one bathroom, kitchen and living-dining room area. We had hotel service, sheets and towels were provided and also there were three communal restaurants where we could eat all or any of the three meals and all was included as part of our salary.

 

Speaking of salary, at the time if you translated our salary into US dollars, we were being paid a pittance, but for China we were being paid splendidly and much more than many ministers of the central government. Besides, we had the right to receive half of our salary in convertible RMB (the People’s money) that as the name implies, could be converted into foreign currency or used to buy certain goodies that the Chinese Government considered luxuries and had to be paid with hard currency.  Also the convertible RMB could be used in hotels belonging to foreign hotel chains to buy for instance an espresso – real one, or a piece of cake or imported cheese, although a small portion of imported cheese could cost the equivalent of a week salary.  Not for every day but for an exceptional situation it was great. There was also the Friendship store operating on the same principle, i.e. you could buy imported goodies paying with RMB if you had your teacher’s card or with hard currency if not.

                                                              and more lions

So as mentioned, I spent two years in Beijing, learned a bit of Chinese and learned to love the country and its people. Different from mine, sometimes difficult to understand and of course, they assumed that coming from the Empire of the Centre, they were rightfully the centre of the universe and some behaved like that, but it was great and not a single moment of regret ever since.

 

The state of Oaxaca is located in the southwest part of Mexico; it is a big state, very rich in culture, crafts, colours, cuisine, and people and in my opinion very poor in good governance, which is a pity as the main victims are the children.  For many years now, the teachers under the sad control of a very corrupt and abusive teachers union have used any possible excuse on the book to cancel classes and protest for whatever they consider is wrong, without realizing that what is wrong is leaving the children without education, the only thing that can help them improve their lives and their future. This is my personal opinion that may or not be shared by others.  Unfortunately it seems the government – local and federal – is not decisive enough to take action towards stopping the abuses and increasing the welfare of the children and of the population at large.

 

The city of Oaxaca, capital of the state of the same name is very beautiful, it has a central square surrounded on one side by the cathedral, big and majestic, and on the other sides by old colonial buildings, only one story high, that today house some government offices and for the most part restaurants and shops. In the middle is the zocalo or central square that is a very beautiful garden, full of trees, with benches and in the middle a rotunda where music is played during the week ends and also used for dancing or political meetings.  The ambiance is always colourful, families strolling in the late afternoon, before going home for dinner, and of course the eternal tourists enjoying the views, the smells, the sounds and the multiple sellers of arts and crafts of all kinds, hats, embroidered dresses, jewellery, toys, balloons, necklaces makers and many other trinkets and of course food, delicious food.

 

I have visited Oaxaca several times and always had a great time.  The last time I was there I started chatting with some ladies that wanted to sell their handmade and home made necklaces of various colours and kinds of beads.  One thing led to another we started chatting about who did the necklaces, and they told me their story, that may be similar to many of the sellers regardless of what they offer.  Usually the patter familiasworks as labourer or in agriculture, not really as landowner but as hired hand, the earnings maybe sufficient for basic living, but not for any extras, so the wives have to find the way to contribute to the family budget by making goodies that can be sold in the markets or squares or tourist areas in general.  The young women I talked to had at least two children, and while their kids were at school, the lucky ones that had classes, they were in the zocaloor other tourist areas, trying to sell their wares.  School only lasted either morning or afternoon, so if the kids were at school in the morning it meant that mothers and kids had to be home in the afternoon, doing homework, housework and preparing the goodies for the following day. The work is hard and it takes relatively long time to make a necklace, they have to have all the different beads, mostly dyed seeds of various kinds, of different colours or else they specialize is leathery goods or orange peel which is also used to make jewellery, they also have to dye them, and be careful not to waste anything.  Add to that keeping the home in order, the meals on time and life is not easy.

 

Despite the hard work, they seemed to me cheerful, chirpy and mostly happy. Their necklaces, pottery, shirts, dresses, balloons and most other goodies have a range of colour that is amazing, where just the look of such array of diversity makes you happy, when the piggy banks come in so many different colours that it is a pleasure to fill them with coins, where dresses and shirts have such beautiful embroideries that is like walking with a garden on your shoulders, where the food smells good and tastes better, clean and fresh.  The balloons, many of which have “westernized” shapes have very Mexican colours, where you can see shoe shiners, cleaners and musicians together, having a good time and in general seem to be enjoying life.  Life is not easy for most of them, but they seem to enjoy as much as possible.

 

The food in Oaxaca has a diversity as big as the colours of the rainbow, the famous moles, also known in some English speaking countries as the Choco sauce because of its colour and because in some or all of its recipes, contains the famous Mexican chocolate.  Mole comes in different colours, you can find it black, red, green, with almonds, without, with sesame seeds, and in the traditional enchiladas, in Oaxaca it is served without sesame seeds, but with fresh onion rings and cheese, and then if you put a bit of crème on top it is called Swiss, reminding the invitees of the snow capped mountains in Switzerland and also this way it mellows the sharpness of the mole.  As a sauce, mole can accompany chicken or turkey, pork or be a vegetarian dish, when served with chopped cactus leaves, they are then described as swimming cactus leaves.

 

Another delicious food are the breakfast sweet breads, many of them are traditions dating from the times of the colony, like the conchas, timbales, roscas de manteca or the well known bolillosand teleras, the last ones salty white bread that can be used to make the traditional tortasfilled with any imaginable savoury filling, from ham and cheese to tamales, mole, sauces, meats and whatever fancies your imagination.  All delicious and quite filling, which in many instances is their main purpose as they are staple food for many that cannot afford big main dishes.

 

Oaxaca also hosts famous and beautiful archaeological sites representatives of the Zapoteca and Mixteca cultures such as Monte Alban and Mitla, which in themselves are worth the visit.  Also a point of interest is the impressive Tule tree on the road between Oaxaca city and Mitla.  It is an Ahuehuete (in Nahuatl), huge tree 41 meters high, 42 meters in circumference and 14.4 meters in diameter.  You need a good number of people to embrace it and its age is estimated between 1200 and 3000 years.  All the stories this tree could tell us, but it is silent witness of history and life, providing shade and protection and hopefully keeping an eye on the great people of Oaxaca.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Once upon a time, that is to say over 37 years ago, I travelled to Africa, my first trip to that continent, which took me first to Kenya and then to Zambia.  At that time, of course there were no intelligent telephones, even dumb ones were not portable, and if you wanted to take photos, it was necessary to have a camera and if you wanted to film, you needed at least a Super-8 movie camera.  When I took this trip I decided that since I was going to see animals in the move, I needed a movie camera.  I enjoyed filming the lions, the giraffes, the zebras and the like in the move, it was incredible to see animals without barriers, or more exactly, it was I that was inside the barriers cum vans, and the animals were free!

After the safari, my program took me to Zambia, first Lusaka the capital city which I did not enjoy much as I had a horrible back pain and could hardly move but after resting for about three days, I was able to take the plane and fly to Victoria Falls on the Zambian side, just overlooking the Zambezi river. I got there, checked in and was planning my trip and checking my equipment, when I realized that the batteries of my movie camera were low, and the camera was indispensible for next day.  So down to reception and asked if they had batteries in the little shop at the hotel.  They did not, and recommended me to go to the closest town, a few kilometres away. Can you call me a taxi please?  Well, there are no taxis, you must find your own way or hope another passenger arrives and you can take his/her taxi. Lucky for me there was a gentleman that worked in the area, had a car, was going to the town and offered me a ride.  I accepted happily and there we went. I remember he worked in pest control and needed some product, so we went to the main shop in town and after he got his product, we asked for batteries.  The look of the salesman was like “do you really mean batteries? What is that?”  He informed us that they did not carry batteries. I did not need very sophisticated ones; the AA batteries that can or could/should be found everywhere would suffice.  He directed us to another shop, and there also the looks were like if I was asking for a piece of the moon – and I believe at the time, man had not even landed on the moon, let alone leave a piece for me in Zambia.  Then the obvious question was “where can I get batteries?” and the not very obvious answer was “go to Zimbabwe, to Livingston”.

I had to return to the falls, cross into another country for which of course I did not have a visa, walk about 2 or 3 km, into the next town and hope and pray they did carry the blessed AA batteries!

So be it, back in the hotel I took my passport and my movie camera with low batteries, put on my best smile and walked to the border crossing, which was a bridge over the roaring Victoria Falls I so much wanted to see. On the Zambian side of the border I had to explain the whole story of the low camera batteries, that I needed to go into the neighbouring country to see if they carry them, and of course then return to Zambia.  Minor point of consideration, my visa was a one entry only visa. And I did not have a visa for Zimbabwe.  Operation Charm full blown and the customs officials were so amused about the reason a poor little Mexican young woman (at the time I was rather young!) needed to cross the border.  The explanation was so incredible it had to be true so they told me that if I returned the same day, before the closing of the border – of course luck may have it, it was not a 24/7 border but a 7-19 mainly for Zambian workers going to work in Zimbabwe, they would turn a blind eye or two and let me through.  So they did not even stamp my passport and after that I had to find transport to the other side of the rather long bridge over the falls.  As luck has it, there was a trucker that was travelling in the same direction and offered me a ride, accepted with thanks of course and thus I travelled on a big truck over the roaring falls, to the Zimbabwean side.  Once at the border he did his paperwork in no time flat and I of course had to repeat the story of the batteries, and the officials asked where was my big Sombrero – being Mexican and all, and the bottle of tequila.  I guess at the time none of them had ever seen a Mexican, let alone a Mexican woman alone, and even less a Mexican passport, so questioning about the sombrero and the tequila probably was their way to verify my identity.

 

Finally I was allowed in and had to walk about two kilometres to Livingston, the town on the Zimbabwean side of the falls. Once there, the first newsagent I found had plenty of batteries, so I bought as many as I could afford to make sure I would be able to film the falls to my heart content.  Later on I was told I had been very lucky because the road I had used was under the control of armed guerrillas that used it for target practice with the locals.  Fortunately my skin colour although darker than usual after the two weeks safari, was still light enough not to be taken for a local.  My bag full of batteries, I had an ice cream and started on my way back, to make sure I got to the border before it closed.  The hilarity of the guards on both sides was great and even more so when I showed them the batteries and asked for permission to return the following day to cross again and go into the Zimbabwean side to film. I had been told that was the best side of the falls.  Everyone agreed, and I returned to my hotel, had dinner and got ready for the following day when I had to start early, considering the time consuming process of crossing two borders, paperwork and no tequila to open doors!

By seven in the morning, opening time of the border, there was already a long queue of workers waiting to cross, so I joined the line and when I arrived all the guards recognized and greeted me like an old friend and went through like an old hand in the area. After a while there was a board that indicated that was the way to the falls, so in I go into a very dense forest, followed the path and all of a sudden there I was, in a clearing just in front of this fascinating and frightening mass of water roaring and spitting water many meters around.  What a view and what a sound!  Shouting was useless such was the volume of the water so mouth closed ears fully open and brain like a sponge absorbing the spectacle! I approached as much as I dared the edge of the falls, there was no sign of “BEWARE, YOU CAN FALL AND IF YOU DO NOT EVEN YOUR SPIRIT WILL REMAIN” or the like, but uncommon sense made me walk backwards and then I saw a path that went upriver along the edge.  Having done few meters I did see a sign that said “BEWARE – ELEPHANTS HAVE RIGHT OF WAY” and I hoped they could read and be aware they had priority, no need to trample down anyone crossing their path. Fortunately I did not see any but I decided maybe it was time to return to the clearing where I had been enjoying the falls, have a cigarette – yes I smoked at the time, and then return to Zambia.

 

I returned to the clearing but then I was not alone, there was a huge family of baboons of all ages, the young ones acting as the guards and protectors of the whole family, mothers with their babies, old and young but many many of them, and they looked at me like – “what the … are you doing in our living room?” I did not have an answer to that except “sorry, intruding but I was on my way out” and turned around and left them to their daily occupations.  Safely returned to Zambia, to my hotel and eventually to my country with all kinds of memories of sombreros, tequila, falls, baboons, invisible elephants, the roaring sound, and of course batteries!!!

 

1994

During one of my home leaves while working in Geneva, I decided to travel through the Cañón del Cobre (Copper canyon) in northwest Mexico and while doing so visit a Tarahumara town.

 

The Copper Canyon is magnificent, larger and bigger and much more beautiful than its better known grand canyon, but much less publicized and that is a good thing, as sometimes too many visitors to a beautiful area can ruin it, on the other hand visitors bring wealth to a region. The dilemma is constant and it is not for me to clarify it here but when I travelled, the train ride was from the city of Chihuahua to the port of Los Mochis or vice versa.  I took it from Chihuahua, a two days trip that allowed you to stop overnight in Creel, more or less in the middle of the trip, in comfortable cabins and in between trains, travel either to the edge of the Canyon or to the surrounding areas. It seems today you can even go down the canyon, there are lifts or something like that, but when I was there was either on foot, quite a few days march and not in my style, or just you admired the canyon from the edge.

 

I decided to visit the Tarahumara town that was relatively close by, and there were many reasons for this choice.  First: my maternal grandfather had some Tarahumara blood, I do not really know if half or one fourth, but there were some drops and therefore I also have my small share.  Second: although I do not know a lot about their culture and traditions, I do know they are very strong people, they run, mostly barefooted, for many kilometres and are known to win a considerable number of races – men and women alike. Third: they are brave people. Proud of their race and their ancestry. Fourth and most important: I wanted to do it!

We arrived in Creel in the middle of the afternoon, with enough light still to visit the neighbouring caves and vestiges of the native culture, their caverns and burial places and admiring the magnificent Copper Canyon. After and overnight stay in Creel, my guide picked me up and we drove sometime until we arrived at a little hamlet that had a school for Tarahumara children. There were two classrooms and the teacher explained to me that it was a live-in school as most children had to walk several kilometres from home to the school and could not do it daily, so before risking missing the students because it was too far, the system offered them room and board from Monday to Friday or Saturday and they went home during the week-end.  Another advantage of this was that the kids were assured decent meals, maybe not rich but plentiful and healthy.

 

The kids were looking at me like a strange animal, in part because they did not get many visitors and also because I was speaking Spanish, which for them was their second language, as they spoke and took classes in Tarahumara language.  Their faces glowing and of course I wanted to take pictures of all of them, but before that I had to get their consent.  They graciously agreed although not all of them looked happy at my camera, some were like doing me a big favour and not posing for the tourist!

 

 

They were great to photograph, more or less smiling but showing such pride on who they were and what they were achieving that really struck me, so upon return to Europe I managed to put up an exhibit and sale of some of my photos of the region, was able to collect a considerable amount of money that was sent to the school through the good services of one of my best friends in Mexico and from what she reported, they were able to buy linen for their dorms, pencils and copybooks and few other things needed there.  I also received some thank you letters written by the kids and a bag, embroidered with my name that was used sooo much, it has died of old age and use.

 

After that visit to the school we returned to Creel to take the train and continue the incredible trip to Los Mochis.  The landscapes are just magnificent and breathtaking.

 

 

 

 

 

Summer 1972

Once upon a time an innocent Mexican girl arrived in Europe, which she thought she knew well as she had travel quite extensively with her mom under the protection of a group first and another time, only with her mom.  However, a holiday and exploration trip have nothing in common with a trip to live in an unknown city, little known country and with a language that for me definitely does not rank among the easiest, even now, although it is less difficult but still… Berlin at the time was not an open city as it is now, there was a wall that could only be crossed in a limited number of crossings defined by the two German governments, where there was passport control, you needed to show proof of having at least 5 Eastern Marks bought at the border. Officially the rate of exchange was 1-1, although the unofficial exchange rate was of one western mark to around 5 eastern ones.  Having black market eastern marks was illegal but far more interesting if you wanted to buy certain commodities in the east.

 

 

When one is a smoker, as I was then, the budget for cigarettes has to be carefully managed, since it was most of the time the most important item of the budget. The wall, as mentioned, could only be crossed at certain designated points. As a matter of fact for foreigners there was only the famous and infamous Checkpoint Charlie.  True but not totally.  The Berlin metro system has one station; I do not remember its name, where western travellers could cross on foot into eastern Berlin and do some shopping at very reasonable prices, well under the western prices. This was particularly true for cigarettes, much cheaper in the east.  I have no doubt that the eastern authorities knew about it and turned a blind eye because it must have left lots of money from the “western foreigners” doing their shopping there. Besides in the never remote case of being caught by the eastern police besides the horrible freight of being sent to a gulag, probably a fine had to be paid, more money into the national coffers. I crossed many times to get my ciguis, never was caught.  I also crossed many times on the surface, the legal crossing, since the cultural life in the east was richer and with black market marks, much cheaper and affordable than in the west. The crossing was on foot, passport control and the payment of the 5 marks for the “visa” which was granted only to the non-Germans. Germans could not go into East Berlin or if they did, it was after innumerable requests and procedures.  The procedure that took me 20 minutes could take them several months. After crossing the Checkpoint Charlie you had to walk about 20 minutes until the theatre area, in full and total security, there were so many policemen and armed forces from the east that nobody could have dreamt of misbehaving in the slightest. After the theatre walking back was also very safe.   I crossed so many times that I almost became friend with the guards on both sides, although the eastern ones were less prone to make jokes or even smile, not that my German was so good as to make jokes but you get my point.

 

Many know Checkpoint Charlie, whether you crossed it or saw in spy movies, it appeared everywhere.  Today in the reunified Berlin it is difficult to ponder what a political weight it had, the fear it caused at the time. We all had heard of those that had escaped from the east, those that had tried to escape but were stopped by the wire fences, tunnels or even in the metro crossings. However, there was nothing visibly frightening if the only thing you had to hide were some eastern marks bought in the black market.  Control was severe but courteous and as in almost all over the world, “good morning/evening”, “thank you” and “good bye” opened a lot of doors, even between the border officials of the two German states.

Of course if you were German it was a totally different kettle of fish and you had to go through a very heavy burocratic process, justify the need to cross, and the reasons had to be solid and valid – going to the theatre was not one of them, and the eternal fear of not being allowed in or worse still, not being allowed out.  I did not suffer that but know of people that did, had to abandon family, wife or husband, kids and all trying to get freedom and peace. I do not really know if they found peace but I do know they found relative calm that probably was worth it.

 

Life as a student in Berlin was very interesting for me. Besides being the first time I was I Europe on my own, in a place I did not know, different traditions and also surrounded by foreigners, each one with its idiosyncrasy and styles that required for me to adapt to them, without loosing my own.  I lived in a student’s dorm that belonged to the University and during the summer was rented to foreigners wanting to learn the language of Goethe, although there were some regular students that could not go back to their places during the summer. While I was there, there was a rather big group of Iranian students with whom I became friend, the communication language was German or Farsi, which of course was not and still is not part of my linguistic acumen. Most of them were there with scholarships and studied engineering or related matters and one had his wife with him but the others were young, single and most were super gorgeous!  There were two of them that were particularly nice and pleasant to me, somehow taking me under their wings. Whenever they cooked some special Iranian goodies I was invited to partake and I even learned to cook some of their dishes, delicious and full of spices new to me.  In the outings I was also part of the group. Besides other advantages, as communication was in German, it also helped me to improve my knowledge of that language, maybe not a lot, but some.  With two of these friends, one called Hushan, I had my first experience in porno films, as I have never willingly gone again to see another porno film.

 

One evening they said, “let’s go to the movies” and there we went. In the cinema I sat between them, I guess their way of protecting me or at least keeping me close by but when the film started I wanted to get not between them but under the seat or disappear or the like. I vaguely remember the content and I believe today it would be considered as soft porno but for me at that time was as hard as they come.  When we left the movie theatre I believe I was deep red but they did not make any comment, we returned home to a delicious Iranian meal. They continued being my friends for several years, until there was a strong regime change in their country, strong xenophobia developed and almost everything foreign was considered to have been touched by the devil. I decided to cut communication, as it might be bad for them, one never knows. Fortunately before this political upheaval in their country I had the great opportunity of visiting the land of Alexander the Great and of Hushan the gorgeous (to me at least), but I guess that can be other chapter.

 

Back to Berlin, I crossed from West to East and return but never really saw the wall with modern graffiti, people close by, unless armed to their teeth and with very aggressive dogs in tow. I was never scared but it was never an invitation to get closer.  One had to keep a distance from a regime that had without any second thought separated a country, caused so many losses, sorrow and sadness. Now that the separation has disappeared and Berlin is a single entity, life there must be very different, visually also is so, although I have been there only once after the fall of the wall, but my reference points are lost in memory lane and in the reconstruction.

 

A very interesting experience was leaving Berlin by train, after my stay of three months. All trains for western Germany left in the evening and once they started rolling they were locked and sealed, no way to get on or off, of course they did not stop in the eastern territory and at night it was difficult to see the countryside of that eastern part that could not be visited without a very valid reason, which I never had. After reunification I had the chance of visiting Dresden, Potsdam and other cities and drive through the countryside, see the old and the renovated, but for that you can see all the tourist brochures on Germany.  My Berlin is filed in my memory, mostly pleasant memories, of friends that helped me to grow and other that crossed paths without any specific reason, but it was a great learning experience.

 

Paris, 1973

Over 45 years ago we were in Paris with the objective of learning French, although when the need to communicate became urgent, it was easier to talk in English.  Needles to describe Paris, but at that time for instance the metro worked with paper tickets, really little pieces of cardboard that had to be inserted in a punching machine, and once punched supposedly they were useless, as the rules said use one time only, but when one wants to save some money or simply have fun cheating the system, and with the age that allows to be so daring… well the punching operation is repeated as many times as possible, until you are caught or there is no more paper to punch.  I managed 17 punches in one ticket, and even if the savings were not negligible, the best was the daring.

We were a group of young people of many nationalities and cultures, with the same official purpose of learning French and that coincided in Paris at the same time. Paris was “our” city, where we could do what we wanted and later on Paris has never been the same since Paris without those friends is not really Paris, it is only a big city with nice things.

The Paris where we spend the long hours at Le Dome, to speak of classes or concerts, at La Cupole trying to catch some of the well known bohemians of the time, mostly without success but hoping always, Paris with free entry to museums, trying to buy tickets for concerts, the city where we listened to Rubinstein, wonderful pianist that although was not perfect in his performances instilled a very particular soul in his music, where under the coats we hid a small recording machine, forbidden of course then and now, with the hope of rendering immortal the concerts, the visits to the Jardin de Luxembourg with its fountains.  Also was the city where the tartes aux fruits were wonderful, and still are, but now they taste different. Is that due to time passing??

The residence of the Alliance Francaise was a special place, with rather small rooms and conservative rules, considering the time and place.  The building had 7 floors; the first three were for men/boys only and the upper one for women/girls.  The lift, of course, did not stop in the floors for boys and the stairs had a connecting door that remained closed under lock and key all the time. It was strictly forbidden for the boys to visit the girls in their floors, which of course made this far more attractive.  It was not easy, we had to coordinate the button of “arret” so that it stopped in the desired boy’s floor so they could get on, without noise and on arriving to our floor hope that there would be no girl that would squeal, but once we made, it was so much fun!!!  It could be said we never did anything “bad” but oh boy, we had fun, the number of tartes aux fruits and bottles of wine we had, as well as other great food we enjoyed together, listening to music or talking about books read in mixed groups was absolutely fantastic.  After our parties, coming down was not less dangerous, probably if we had been caught there would have been a punishment of sorts, but nobody could take away the fun we had had.

In the residence I also learned what the “family of romance languages” meant, since as already mentioned there were boys and girls from all over the world, and among the “all over the world” you could include of course people from Romania, the Romance part of Switzerland, Spain, Latin America, Italy, Portugal and of course French.  Once we carried out some kind of multilingual experiment, where each one of us members of this “family” spoke in his or her own language and were all surprised to realize that we could understand almost everything. Babel tower to hell, at least in this “linguistic family”.

In Paris I also learned that if at any one time in the future I visited South Africa, I had to carry my Mexican passport with me all the time since the colour of my skin did not allow me to move freely, without the risk of being taken for “coloured”, word used then to refer to people rather with darkish skin or of Indian origin.  That was proven right later when I visited that country, but that is another story. I remain thankful to Malcolm for the warning that saved me from many uncomfortable moments.

Paris is also Galleries Lafayette, a very big department store where you could find anything and everything, but with staff that for the most part were not really pleasant.  There I got my degree as thief! One day I wanted to buy some sawing little things and was queuing in different cashiers over 30 minutes, the speed of the staff was worst than snail pace slowness and the number of customers waiting grew non-stop.  Finally in total desperation I just put the stuff in my purse and left the store as is nothing had happened, so far I have not been caught.  I am not really proud of the theft but when one has many other things to do, besides waiting for the cashier to consider if she really wants to work… Rififi and his band of robbers, count me in.

At the end of our stay in Paris some of us exchanged little presents and I got a Punchinello from my friend Jugurcito, who is still one of my dearest friends.  He is turning 70 in a few days, I will follow suit next year but the Punchinello is still in my bookshelf as a reminder of the time in Paris, wonderful, that will never be the same again.

 

A visit to the capital city of the Kingdom of the Centre without visiting the Olympic site is not admissible, especially because as the Olympics in China had ended four years before one could safely assume the place was going to be relatively empty.  That of course is forgetting that China has many million people and no matter where you go, there are many many people around you, so the same is applicable to the Olympic park, especially on a Sunday, as the place is spacious and often used for a nice Sunday outing with the family.  I had been told which number of bus to take, go to the end of the line and there you are, at the Olympic site, with all its fancy buildings.  So I did, and when I finally recognized the place, I alighted the public bus into the furnace of a concrete hot and sunny area, where trees are not the most common feature.

Inside the building of the swimming pool, it is pleasant and you can see “in the flesh” what had been a daily occurrence during the Olympics.  Particularly as I like to follow diving and synchronized swimming, the venue was not really unknown to me.  After a tour of the site out I go into the furnace of the open air area between the swimming pool and the stadium, known as the “Nest”, which is an imposing big thing, closed to the general public so you can only see it from the outside, from the alleys around, where there are very few areas of shade but many vendors of water and ice-cream very welcome in the 34o C in the shade.  The benches are many, but the visitors are more, so you grab a seat and keep it for as long as possible to catch your breath and think about the return to your hotel and hoping to figure out where is the bus stop closer to your present location.

 

First thing first, get close to the gates walking under the sun!!!

 

On the way there I started considering how to get to the hotel or to the centre of Beijing the fastest and coolest possible way, it was really getting to me this walking under an unrelenting sun but walking I went and on the way, I saw a police station inside the Olympic site.  I imagined they could at least tell me where was the closest bus stop to take me to town, but of course for that you have to ask in Chinese, which is not the easiest.  The little Chinese I had learned 17 years before, when I lived in Beijing, was coming back, ever so slowly and very little at the time. However I get to the station and there were three police people (?), two men and a woman, chatting and hoping nothing distracts them from the pleasant status quo of doing nothing and here I am, little old lady asking in more than very broken Chinese, where is the nearest stop of bus number 89 to take me to Tiananmen.  I am not sure if my histrionic abilities are really so good or if I am more and more looking the part of a fragile little old lady, but they just needed to see me a moment and then after a very brief discussion among them, a good laugh at the “looser” they signalled me to follow the “looser”…. Into a police car!  I had only asked about directions and I was being directed into a police car!  You do not argue with the police so there I am, and we depart, fortunately no siren but all gates opened for us and the policeman asks me something, which I do not understand and my answer, presumably in Chinese, is not understood by him, so in the end we are mute, but suddenly in front of us is my bus number 89 and I point it out to him, my bus, my bus!!  He nods and keeps following the bus; I start to worry because unless you have sirens on, you cannot make a bus stop by following it, not in China nor anywhere else but so be it and all of a sudden the police car accelerates and at the bus stop intercepts the bus, parks just in front and without much need of encouragement I alight from the car full of smiles to the policeman, and the bus driver opens the doors and lets me in.

 

I am sure they would have given anything to find out how a foreign devil, little old lady or not, had managed to be taken to the bus stop by the police, or who I was to have deserved such an attention.  I would have been just as curious as a witness but language barrier oblige, they could not ask and I could not answer, so I can only thank the police at the Olympic site for the “lift” both in the car to the bus stop and of my morale for taking such good care of me.

 

Cruise to Alaska, Twentieth century

 

In a cruise from Vancouver to Anchorage and its logical extension to mainland Alaska, one sees many things, among others in Vancouver a pastry shop called “Death by Chocolate”.  The name is perfectly suited, since all they sold there was chocolate in almost incredible different forms and shapes that could be qualified as divine and if death came then and there it would be welcome.  Fortunately there was no death and we could continue with the cruise, and I say we because I was travelling with one of my best friends, and that was great not only to exchange views about the landscape or the chocolate cakes, but also to be jointly surprised of the many things encountered.

 

I had never been close to a glacier, so all those we saw during the cruise looked just great, some more impressive than others, but great none the less, those huge masses of ice, white, blue or with moraines, which are dirty looking parts as the sand mixed during centuries that gives them that dirty aspect, moving non stop towards the sea. During the trip, at one point we were able to listen how one glacier broke, the noise sounded like an explosion, those monsters falling into the sea.  From the ship and well covered as it could be rather chilly even if it was summer, we saw seals on the ice platforms, sun bathing or freshening up, hard to say, looking after their families and looking at the tourists, probably the common pastime of all animals in our route, since just a we go to the zoo to see animals, they observe us from their homes and maybe even have a laugh at our multicoloured, varied and warm clothing as humans, no matter how well protected or endowed by nature we might be, we do not have enough natural fat as seals, polar bears or other Nordic animals.

 

Upon arrival to Anchorage, economic capital of Alaska, we rented a car to tour the inhospitable, arid and unknown land.  In many of the national parks of Alaska, one is not permitted to use private car, since the spaces are very big, deserted and can be dangerous, not only for the local fauna, but also for the humans venturing in there.  In one of them, before starting a tour, they gave us a small introductory chat where we were told that in case we found a bear, of the brown grizzlies that with a paw can cut you into ribbons and are totally wild and not necessarily used to humans, the best thing to do is to talk to them, even shout if needed and gesticulate, just in case, since they are not used to having their potential “lunch” talking back, so words, shouts are the main difference they can see between a nice and tasty snack or a not-to-be-eaten human arm. The best is not to encounter them, but just in case, be forewarned.  During the tour with a bus and warned not to take your head out of the windows, except in the pre-established stops, we saw wolves, moose and other animals with impressive horns or little ones of various types.

 

While in Alaska, we arrived to a town where they advertised flights over glaciers, and even landing on one of them. Both of us have relative adventurous streak so we seriously considered the option and there we go to the airport-office.  The planes could be considered big toys, with capacity for 4 to 6 passengers, and we were passengers 3 and 4. Shortly after we took off and up up and again, to the top of the huge mountains, all caped with pristine snow until we finally landed in the glacier very high up, and from there we could see the whole world and neighbouring mountains. Neither my friend nor I are renown for our sporting prowess but the simple fact of walking on the glacier left us speechless, and that is already a lot for both of us.  After a short while on the glacier we had to take again our toy plane since the pilots said that somewhere in the sky they could see a possible storm forming and they did not want to encounter it on our flight back, neither did we. Flying down was just as exciting; we saw where we had been and where we were going.  Back on land we took our car and continued to Fairbanks, very close to the Arctic polar circle and one of the main cities in Alaska. Other than the permafrost on the outskirts of the city, permafrost as the name implies is frozen earth that never melts, permanently frozen more or less solid, although walking on it is like walking on a soft cushion, but other than that we could be in any US city, although we noticed with great pleasure that the people in Alaska are different from the rest of the country, they are kind, well brought up and know how to say “thanks” and “please”.

 

Travelling on we made it to Nome, that became very famous due to the gold rush in the XIX century and also renown because it is the end station of the Iditarod, most famous dog race celebrating the pioneers that managed to take urgent medications to the town, fallen victim of an diphtheria epidemic.  We arrived in the middle of the afternoon and although the town is rather small, we took our time looking at the documents and photos of the famous race, photos of the beautiful and famous huskies with magnificent blue eyes, having a drink in the bar, etc. and at one point I started to feel tired, but we had not really done much but looking at the watch we were shocked to see it was 11.40 in the evening, almost midnight but with full sun shining and even warm. That was then midnight sun! On a board near the information office it was written “Next sunset will be July 28^th” and we were mid-June. On the other hand, in the winter they do not see the sun at all during long gray months. During daytime there is some light, but no sun.  I prefer half and half, not always sun but certainly not total absence of if. We visited many other places in Alaska, great place to visit. Maybe another story will come up later.

 

 

PERU

 

When I visited Peru in 2007, besides visiting Cuzco and the archaeological jewel of the Inca Empire that is Machu Pichu, I also wanted to fly over the Nasca lines , in the desert of the same name at Pampas de Jumana. The origin of the lines is unknown but they represent stylized mythological animals and great designs that seem to have been done by a giant hand flying over the land.  Any encyclopaedia will show you the drawings and tell you the different stories that explain their possible origin.  However to see them is a little bit more difficult, or was when I was there, since in the first place you have to reserve a place in the small plane the overflies the most impressive and important of the lines and with a little imagination you could believe you are the giant that is drawing them, when you see the full extent of the design.  Of course this means you have to leave very early in order to arrive on time to the airport and then try to get a window seat because it would be useless to be inside the plane but unable to see the full extent of the landscape.  I was very lucky and got a window seat and finally take off, the small plain was of course full of tourists, Peruvian and foreigners alike since there are many that want to see those wonders drawn by humans, extraterrestrials, illuminaty, geniuses or whoever, but wonders they are indeed. After gaining some altitude, so that we all have a view of the landscape, the pilot wants to show us, on both sides of the plane, what the lines depict, so he first turns the plain some 45 degrees to the right, you take your photos and then after levelling just a bit, turns 45 degrees, this time to the left for the other side to have a chance and like that about one hour, left, right, left, right in the hope you can keep your eyes open and your mouth closed to see it all.  The most difficult part of this trip was to keep your mouth closed to prevent throwing up on your unsuspecting neighbour.  The stomach complains bitterly about the movement and the balancing effect, screaming and boiling.

 

Happily nobody vomited while flying but upon landing most of us had a very unbecoming green colour and those waiting for us were just laughing to their hearts content and telling us “you’ll get over it” or my guide for instance said “do not worry, you’ll feel better once we get to the hotel where we will have lunch”. Of course the simple word of lunch, the idea of food almost made me throw up. My stomach with the half digested breakfast did not want to hear anything related to food. We took the car and after a while arrived to a nice and very big hotel, two swimming pools, large eating area and full of families, enjoying the weather and the food that looked fine but did not really attract me.  My guide spoke to a waiter and they took me to a rather remote corner of the restaurant, preventive seclusion just in case and brought me a large cup of a darkish concoction that I was to drink in small sips and told me that in about 30 minutes I would fell just tip top.  It was coca leaves tea!!

 

Of course we all have heard about coca and cocaine and some have even tasted the latter.  With a little apprehension, since I had not come to Peru to try one of its most notorious and infamous products, I decided to try the tea, slowly but surely to keep my tummy calm and true to form about half an hour later I started to feel better and after about 40 minutes I even felt a bit hungry.  I could not believe it.  I had heard of course that the native Incas chewed the coca leaves to keep their energy and were able to walk long, very long distances, loaded with all imaginable charges through the tough Andean mountains.  But to see that in this XX century I was having a coca leaves tea to settle my stomach was a wonderful and most welcome surprise.

After the experience of coca leaves in Nasca, I was sold to the tea, since it really provides a sense of energy and wellbeing that otherwise would need a lot of rest and when one is travelling, discovering new peoples and cultures, it is not always possible to rest and the ideal would be limitless energy, 48 hours days and enough brain to enjoy and retain everything one has seen and heard.  When I arrived to Cuzco, at 3,400 meters above sea level, much higher than Mexico City, almost immediately felt the altitude and the travel.  The solution of course is coca leaves tea with the added advantage that most people do it so it is not that you turn into an addict or anything like it. Actually to produce few grams of cocaine, you need several kilos of coca leaves, so they say.  When I was there you could even buy coca leaves in bulk at the market but it was important to know the right leaves otherwise you could be chewing all day long, the wrong leaves, and end up with jaw pain and no relaxation. You could find also coca candy, but made of the leaves and not the powder so widely known in the world of drugs. The coca leaves for local consumption and also for its transformation into cocaine has been a blessing and a curse for the local growers. As they chew the leaves they can work longer hours than they already do and selling the leaves for chemical transformation provides them enough fallout to live more or less well, although it is well known that in any chain of transformation from raw material to final product it is the transformers and intermediaries that have the greatest gains, but enough of politics on drug control. It seems that today it is no longer very easy to buy leaves in bulk and even the candy is not easy to find, so if you ever decide to fly over the Nasca lines, make sure your stomach is empty just in case you do not find a provider of coca tea.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hurry, hurry, we have to get to the train on time!!  We hurry, although the train has just arrived to the station and we have at least 15 minutes to find our car and board.

On arriving to our carriage, I see a rather round man, well dressed, slightly bold, with the aureole of white hair. He seems to either preventing the train from turning over or helping his own balance by leaning on the side of the train.  His left foot is lifted like a stork, and it is bleeding profusely, but he seems not to have noticed it or at least his face does not denote any pain or special feeling.  I pass by him, thinking that the poor old chap, must be having a rough time, but … so be it. That is not my business and I have to hurry and find my carriage, my berth and that is my primary concern. Besides my lack of knowledge of the language of Pushkin prevents me from even the most basic communication.

 

 

I find my carriage, get my stuff on the train and finally sit, in the knowledge that I am safe and will not miss my train. The concern about missing the train is because as in Russia all trains run in Moscow time, regardless of your physical location, and considering that Russia has 10 time zones, you have to know if you add or subtract and how many hours from the printed schedule in order to make it to the train on time.  If you do not have a seat or a berth, you are not allowed on the train, nothing like «well, I will travel on the corridor » or the like.  So, I settle and then there is this man, the one that seemed to be holding the train, that comes in, his foot still bleeding and I ask « are you ok? » of course in English and although the tone might be understood, not so the words, but in audiovisual without audio, he makes sign that all is ok. Pointing to his foot, he signals that already it was taken care of so…. Then the steward comes in, to take away the little rug that is in all 1st class wagons, before the foot dares to stain it and leaves in place a pile of newspapers where the man can rest his foot and bleed till kingdom comes.  They talk, about … maybe his health or his foot or the weather, the conversation is rather short, but the steward is nice, smiles and seems to care about the man, notwithstanding what she leaves promptly and he takes his shoe off, but the sock is soaked in blood, he seems to apologize about the situation, as if he had created the mess on purpose.  I am glad not to be a very peckish person and do not faint at the sight of blood otherwise I would be causing an additional burden for the train steward.

Finally alone!! And the real audiovisual for the deaf starts.  The best system I have devised is the “me Jane, you???” or in this case “me Mercedes you ??”  He is Victor, maybe Viktor.  In a broken English, so broken you could think his English was crashed by a ton of bricks, he explains that the bleeding foot is due to a slip of the foot, if not of the tongue, in one of the stairs of the station, so he scratched the back of his heel, it must have been a serious scratch but… so Viktor continues to explain or so I think, that he is on his way to Moscow, to continue his travel to London, where he will be attending a meeting, I guess it will be a professional meeting, as he says “engineer”, so I assume he is one.  I indicate I will be going only to Moscow, end of my trip.

 

We cannot really go into extreme details about our lives, lack of the audio elements preventing any further communication, but fortunately some signs are like the modern globalisation system, they are used and understood all over the world or almost, so pointing out to my annular finger, where there is no ring, he gets the gist of my question and says, “yes, wife and two children”.  Waiting for more info, I learn his wife is also engineer, but living in a different city, he says he is engineer in a city A, she is in a city B.  I wonder then if that could be the secret of a long and lasting relationship??  Children – girl in finances and boy is in IT and also speaks a little English.

 

That is where we stop, no further information can be exchanged, age is out of the question as I believe he understands that me being slightly older would not be nice-polite to ask for my age so…. What does Viktor do?  Well, he pulls out his cell phone and dials and after talking a bit, and mentioning me – my name I can understand of course, even in Russian, gives me his phone.  Dear Viktor had called his son, who speaks some English, so I can communicate with him and “talk” in real English.  The son and I exchange some phrases, saying how nice it was to know each other and then I give Viktor his phone, he closes the conversation and puts away his phone.  I believed that his calling his son so we could communicate was so sweet and strange. As if Viktor really wanted to get to know me, likewise my dear man although this will have to be a silent getting acquainted.

It is getting late, night is falling and it is time to go to sleep, and so he goes and gets his pyjamas on and goes to sleep. Me too and the following morning we arrive to Moscow, each to his and her life, I hope he enjoyed London and I certainly enjoyed meeting Viktor. I also had a great time in Moscow.

China-Mongolia

 After 12 hours on the Chinese train from Beijing we finally arrive to Elian, at the border with Mongolia.  We had been forewarned that here we must all alight, as the carriages have to change shoes – i.e. the width of the tracks is different between the two countries and therefore the wheels have to be changed for the remainder of the trip. Each carriage has to be lifted and new wheels have to be secured for the remaining of the trip.  This may be done with cranes and the like, but tourists are not allowed to see this procedure. No matter how mechanized, it is still a very slow process.  In the meantime we tourists can wonder around the station, which of course is closed by now or almost, the town behind also is practically closed for the night so the only alternative is the local little shop in the station where we can buy from shoes to brandy, veggies, snacks and whatever we may fancy. We are still in China and will be here for a while but nobody is really sure for how long and to make matters worse, we are all without passports, gone for the traditional exit stamp, so the alternative of escaping to the outer world of the station is rather limited.

Shop, sleep if you can, smoke while you can as the outer court will soon be closed and you cannot smoke inside and in general wonder what is going on and why whatever is going on is taking so long.  FIVE hours later the train is back, new wheels, but we do not notice them, whistles blowing full blast and we all hurry on board, fearful of being left here any longer than necessary. By now it is one in the morning, we are tired and want to go to sleep but after just a few minutes we arrive in Mongolia where passport control, border control and customs control start again.  After another hour we have been cleared and can go to sleep. We wake up and the great surprise is the Mongolian dining car, richly decorated with different Mongolian motifs, good service albeit expensive, and finally a break in the routine.  In due time, around one o’clock in the afternoon we finally arrive to Ulaanbaatar, capital of Mongolia and one of the two border crossings, if long, was uneventful.

 

 

Mongolia-Russian Federation 

To think that the China – Mongolia border crossing had been long is really not knowing what was coming to us.  After boarding the train and leaving Ulaanbataar at 9 pm, we arrive at the Mongolia – Russian Federation border before 6 am, and then again get up bright and shiny and present arms, sorry, present passport (hide the arms) and wait until the Mongolian officials have done all the verifications to confirm that we are not hiding illegal aliens that might want to escape to Russia, that we do not have smuggled goods and that we are really bona fide tourists in this trans-mongolian adventure.  Once the Mongolian authorities are convinced we can be let out, we effectively get out of the train and suddenly notice that only one carriage is at the station, ours, no engine in front or behind, no other carriages, we are left all alone in the Mongolian side of the border, you have your passport but no information, no real timeframe to consider.  The wait here lasts only SEVEN hours, until finally a locomotive comes, hooks with our lonely wagon and pulls it during one hour until we arrive to the Russian side of the border and there again, the Russian border patrol checks passports, wagons looking for illegal aliens or aliens in short, smuggled goods and whatever they may imagine to find in the carriage and finally our passports are returned and we are allowed out of the train and visit the town with its little market, being Sunday does not help in the life of the border town, but… at least we buy bread, cheese, cold cuts and water, there to have our lunch express that we rush to eat by the lonely and solitary train, and also use the facilities, which have to be paid in rubbles that we do not have, so you have to take out money from the one and only ATM that takes foreign credit cards.  The wait in the Russian side is only of three hours and finally the train coming from Vladivostok arrives, we are hooked and ready to continue into unchartered or chartered but unknown Russian territory.  This second and last border crossing only lasted ELEVEN hours.

 

                                                    Mongolian – Russian Federation border

It is good that this adventure does not require any further border crossings; otherwise the whole trip, albeit of over seven thousand kilometres, would take half a year!

Easter holidays 1973

At the time this adventure happened, I was living in Paris, France (there are several Paris in the world, hence the need to specify the country), studying French and had decided to spend the Easter holiday in Iran, and going there, the most obvious intermediate point of interest to me was Istanbul, so I booked my flight Paris – Istanbul – Teheran and return.

In 1973 I was rather an inexperienced traveller and it did not occur to me that if you plan to stop in a city for several days, the best is to book a hotel room, so I had not done so. Upon arrival to Istanbul international airport, that at the time, over 45 years ago, it was just a big tin structure without all the modern refinements of waiting rooms, special pass control channels for different groups of passports and the like, it was just a place where you walked from the plain, there were three or four counters, tried to find the less crowded and queued to have your passport stamped, of course provided you had the corresponding visa. Thereafter you walked to recover your suitcase, go through customs control and finally board the bus that will eventually take you to Istanbul. On the bus I met some of my fellow passengers and since we had to wait a bit until the bus was full, we starting talking – the “we” being two Portuguese young women, a French young man, whose names I do not remember, some middle age Turkish passengers returning home and myself. Quite quickly the subject was accommodation in Istanbul. The Portuguese women had reserved a decent hotel – so they said – in the centre of the tourist area of the city, the French guy did not have any reservation but had been give some addresses in town, the Turkish guys were going home and I …. was left wondering what to do.

While in Paris I had had contact with a considerable number of Turkish young men that worked in the residence where I was staying. Most of them were correct, but I had always the feeling that they were trying to see through the clothes of the nice and pretty women around and that left me with a very uneasy feeling in Istanbul, when I realized I was alone and would need to look for accommodation on my own. I asked the Portuguese women if I could share their room, and they agreed provided of course, I paid the part of my extra bed, but once in the hotel, I realized the price went slightly beyond my budget so I continued the search with the French guy, who said he had been given a couple of addresses in the old town that he would explore and he did not object to my tagging along and take advantage of his savvy knowledge, so my problem was resolved, so I thought.

After the bus left the Portuguese ladies in their hotel, we continued and next stop was the old town, so we alighted from our chariot and pulling our suitcases walked looking for the address the French guy had been given. We walked through rather dark streets, not much regarding streetlights, it was late in the afternoon and natural sunshine was gone. We were surrounded of narrow, gray and shabby buildings. If the reader has seen the film Casablanca with Humphrey Bogart you can picture where I was, but without Boggy!!

We finally made it to the first address and went up a dark, damp, gray and uninviting stair to the first floor, where we found the “reception” of the establishment and asked if they had a double room. Of course they did, so up we go another flight of the same dark, damp, gray and uninviting stairs and add to that stinking, as we got closer to the communal toilet. Key in hand the receptionist opened a room with two beds, a lavabo and a corner that passed for the shower. The price was reasonable and within the limits of my budget, so I decided to take it. The French guy asked the receptionist if they had another room for him. “Of course, come with me” was the immediate answer and up they go again. In the meantime I had almost started opening my bag when they returned and the French guy explained to me that the room he was shown had 8 beds and when asked if he could have it on his own, the hotel guy explained that those beds were going to be used by late arrivals or his relatives, but he could get the bed at a cheap price.

In “my” room, speaking in French that we hoped would not be understood by the receptionist he explained to me that I had two alternatives: a) we stayed together in this double room, for one night only and the following morning we would go and look for the other address; or b) he would go now, alone and I would be left there, also alone. It was the first time in my life that I was facing such a dilemma, but it did not take me long to realize that it would be better/safer to share the room with the French guy than to be alone, “at the mercy of unknown and shady looking characters”, so I agreed and after making sure our bags were locked, we went out for a snack but soon realized that the area we were in was not the best to find a snack, so we returned to our luxurious accommodations and I decided I would not sleep, and be vigilant all night long, just in case. The following morning, after “not having slept”, I woke up and nothing had happened, my bags were still locked and I was still ok.

We packed and decided to leave as soon as possible, looking for the other hotel the French guy knew about. We made it there, the place was not much better but it was morning, so with natural light it looked much better. We got to the reception desk and asked them for a room – this time we decided we could share the room, save some money and also keep company as protection against any danger.  The man said, “yes, we have, please follow me” and there we go, he opened a room that for the few nanoseconds we were there, looked big and well lit. He approached the bed, pulled the sheets open and told the two men that were sleeping or the like “get out, these two need the room!” which we immediately denied, left the room, the hotel and our hopes to find a cheap and decent room in old Istanbul.

It was so early that very few cafes were opened, but a break and a Turkish coffee were urgently needed to consider our options. During the coffee we figured that the airlines had to put the crews in decent but not expensive hotels, so we went to the airline we had used in coming to Istanbul – PanAm that ceased to exist over 20 years ago! Once there we explained our problem and they gave us the name and address of the hotel they used for their crews and assured me it was a decent place.

So there we go, another pilgrimage walk to the hotel. We finally got there and what a change, at the reception they confirmed the availability of rooms and the prices were reasonable, although at this stage of the trip, I would have gladly paid more for a room that what I was ready to do the previous night. I immediately agreed on the price of a single room and when I submitted my passport for the compulsory registration, the clerk saw I was Mexican and was very happy as he had worked sometime in Mexico and was happy to see a Mexican “honouring” his establishment and I must confess, so was I. Meantime the French traveller decided he would still try his luck at the youth hostel, his last recommended address, before committing funds in a proper hotel. I did not go with him and we parted our ways.

I took a long shower and was getting ready to go out and discover daytime Istanbul when my phone rang – who could call me in Istanbul in the middle of the morning?? The reception desk informed me that a French gentleman was asking for me, could they give him my room number and allow him up. I said yes and was not too surprised to see Frenchy again, explaining that the youth hostel had not been much better than last night experiences, so he had decided to stay in my hotel, in his own room. We agreed that for the few days we were going to be together in Istanbul, during daytime each one would explore the town on his/her own and we would meet at the hotel for the “visit Istanbul by night but not alone” part of our experience.

For the three days I spent in Istanbul, that was the program, it worked very well as we both wanted our independence but we were not very reassured during the night to be alone exploring that magnificent but big and noisy city that sits in Europe and Asia, with a long and very interesting history that you can read in any good history book. I enjoyed it, despite or because the night looking for a cheap room in mysterious Istanbul.

India – February 1985

 

To me India has always been a country full of mysteries, contrasts, colours and smells that are very interesting and enticing. The first and up to now only chance I have had to visit this country was during the Chinese New Year of 1985. At the time I was living in Beijing and we had a full month of holiday, so I decided to make a big tour of India and of course among an other interesting places was Khajuraho, where most monuments and temples are of Hindu and Jain origin and cover a huge surface. Here eroticism goes hand in hand with open sexuality in the real and figurative senses. Most temples are dedicated to Shiva, Vishnu and the like.

However, this story only considers Khajuraho as a starting point, since once there you hear stories of other places, a bit further away better kept, with very interesting sculptures, incredible base reliefs, etc. etc and it is difficult not to fall into the temptation of “since I am already here, better see as much as possible” and thus I accepted the offer of a guide for the following day, to go to a group of temples about 20 kilometres from Khajuraho. The meeting point was in the centre of town, he would hire the taxi to drive us there. I am still not sure if it was my innocence, stupidity or simple greed to see more and better, but the following day with all my cameras and a bottle of water I was waiting for my guide and the driver. Both were dutifully waiting for me. I am used not to mix business with pleasure and that in a car the client sits in the back and the guide in the front, with the driver. So I sat in the back but to my surprise, so did the guide. He explained that it was because this way he would not have to be turning his head every time there was an explanation or information to provide. It made sense so I made no further comment and off we went.

A few kilometres outside of Khajuraho, the taxi started “coughing”, as if in need of some tuning – however my knowledge of mechanics is extremely limited. Coughing we made it to a small village here both the driver and the guide went to talk to the locals to see if anyone knew about cars and could lend a hand. They were speaking in their own lingo, of course, that was total gibberish for me and that made me a bit nervous. In cases like this one understands the need of an interpreter that can make or crash a trip or even a life, although in this case so far the need was for a trip.

My guide had started to become friendly, a bit too friendly but since I ignored the ways of the place, I could not complain and he had not really overdone it, but with a tone and manners I did not like. At any rate, in the village of course there was not mechanic or anyone who knew about cars. Cell phones were non existent at the time, already fixed lines were not all that common so the only alternative was to hope and pray for another vehicle to come by and give us a hand. In the meantime my guide continued to tell me the history of the area, which as in Khajuraho, was full of erotic and sexual elements, and his explanations were getting more and more detailed and I was getting more and more nervous, feeling that “I am here all alone and not a soul to protect me”.

After what felt like a very long time finally another taxi arrived coming from the place of the presumed great temples. The tourists was a family of Germans, mom, dad and a kid of around 10 that looked tired of the trip but fortunately their driver, with the courtesy of the road, stopped to see what happened. The three Indians checked the engine but with a very serious face that allowed even me to understand, said the only solution was to have a tow truck come from Khajuraho. The waiting time would be long, and I was there alone with the guide, driver and the locals.

I decided then and there that the solution would have to come from me so I approached the car with the German family, talked directly to the mother and explained my dilemma, I was bound to do their same trip, but my car had broke and that afternoon I had to take a plane to Delhi, so I could not wait there until a mechanic arrived. I did not mention that I was becoming panicky, but guessed it showed. I beg them for help and with my best smile, asked them to let me travel with them. After a short while they agreed. The mother a bit reluctantly but they agreed, so I returned to my car, picked up my stuff and was getting into the German taxi when my guide complained that I could not leave him with a broken car, all alone in the wilderness. My answer was “Yes, I can and I am doing exactly that!” The guide of course was very upset not only for being left alone, but also without payment, no trip no pay. The trip with the German family was basically a silent one but when we arrived in Khajuraho I was happy and all is well that ends well.

The memory of this trip has remained with me throughout the time and only the thought of what could have happened makes me jittery. What would have happened if the taxi had not “coughed”? Maybe nothing but instead of telling you the story of a coughing taxi I would have written about wonderful sculptures and base reliefs. I will never know, but I have seldom been happier to return to my hotel safe and sound. The guide probably was very angry as he did not get paid, maybe thought not very nice thoughts about my mother (typical insult on mothers) but he certainly did that in Hindi or other local language and since my mother only spoke Spanish and English, both very well, the insult was not felt nor understood.

Regarding Khajuraho itself, a fantastic place, almost a compulsory visit with all its temples, sculptures and bass relieve that have been described in many books, probably in many films and videos so that if you want to see more of them, just read about it and enjoy.

 

Mongolia (5-8 July 2012)

Arriving to Ulaanbaatar by train, it is hard to reconcile modern housing with a profusion of Gers* in the back gardens.

But it is so, well marked individual private properties where you can see sometimes a western style house, side by side a Mongolian ger, with all its trimmings. I had always imagined gers as part of the landscape of the Gobi desert and not an urban element.

 

Once in the capital, I alighted and was received by my guide, a young man with a reasonable level of English which could nonetheless be improved for ease of understanding but… his English was thousand times better than my Mongolian, so first thing first, I asked him to take me to the bank, as money makes the world go round, also in Mongolia. The bank was modern, clean and as always when you are in a relative hurry, full of people that have some time-consuming activity with the cashiers, but… you take your number and wait. My turn came and I wanted to change my Chinese currency into Mongolian Tögrög, and I leave the pronunciation to you! I received my Mongolian bills but one was almost torn in two, so I asked the teller to change it, as I would not be able to pay with that, many shops might refuse it. My guide was pleasantly surprised of my savvyness in refusing a torn note as if that was not the rule. Then I needed to go to the post office, I wanted

 

New modern hotel

to buy stamps, for postcards to a very limited number of friends to let them know that so far I was still around, and for my collection, which one day, maybe, will be updated and put in order. We walked to the post office and their collection of stamps was just great, I believe I got as many as I could to mail letters to the better half of the world population, although in reality one day they will ornate my stamp collection.

The city had just received a summer shower that meant lots of pools in the middle of the road and pedestrian crossings, where cars did not really cared to keep the trousers of the pedestrians more or less dry and clean, so it was up to the pedestrian to jump, backwards or forwards to keep clean, but to keep safe was another matter, as jumping forward meant the risk of dirty trousers/pants was great but that of broken or smashed limb by the cars was even greater, so the alternative was, for me, to bring out my Mexican instincts and cross the streets “toreando” (popular Mexican way to describe dodging the cars) the cars, it is risky, but for those of us that learned it in childhood, gives us the extra edge to cross more or less safely.

Then the city tour begins. We are in the main square of UB, huge, with a big statue in the middle and an even bigger at the far end, of a sitting person that now I know that is Genghis Khan, but it is pronounced Chingis Khaan, long “a” sound please. Once you get the pronunciation right, the explanations continue and at one point we see ground “Zero” of Mongolia, so I am in the middle of their world!!   Turning around we can see the new front of the parliament, with Chingis Khaan overlooking everything and everyone, the opera, office buildings, new hotels, etc. etc. and of course work in progress, roads being fixed, holes being closed or opened, cars, cars, and more cars of all forms and shapes, mostly middle old.

Finally after that we come to the inevitable tourist trap, the cashmere shop, where you can find all you ever dreamed on cashmere and were never able to afford!!! Maybe In Ulaanbaatar also, tourists are seen mainly as the eternal “rich-and-dumb-that-can-be-milked-at-will-anyway-they-do-not-understand-our-language” type. You do not dream anymore, but you still cannot afford it, so be it. The trap, sorry, the shop is full of Russians of all forms and colours, blonds, brunettes, fat red-nosed big bellied gentlemen etc. etc. all speaking Russian, which means you do not understand one single word, who cares, you want to leave with as little damage to your credit card as possible and I was able to spot sets of scarves and bonnets, nice and not too heavy, neither for the suitcase nor for the credit card, so I leave with my war loot and then we start our trip to the camp where we are to staying for 2 nights.

The camp is located 50 km from UB through hilly country with a decreasing number of cars, trucks, buses, etc. We finally made it to the camp of gers planted around a central building which I will learn later, is the dining room, recreation room and the area of showers and toilets. We are informed hot water is available from 5 to 10 am and pm.   The gers are all the same size, weather you are alone or a family of 10, you get your stuff in order and it is already time for dinner. Do not forget your flashlight for the return, as you must cross the wilderness to your tent-ger. Dinner is relatively uneventful but you share your meal with your guide, who takes advantage of the captive audience to instruct you on the uses and traditions of the locals and on how to behave when visiting their gers tomorrow. Some of the rules are: never enter a ger with the left foot; when you enter, sit on the left side, the side of the men and the guests, the right side is reserved for the women and family matters, not for guests; the deep end of the ger is devoted to deities, you should not touch anything there; beware of your manners when accepting or rejecting food offered to you. Like that, many other behavioural rules when visiting a ger.

In the early hours of a day in the camp it is possible to hear the silence of the countryside. Nothing moves, fog everywhere dampens the light and the sound, your breathing sounds like a roar, the light steps of animals feel like a careless dinosaur running around your ger. The noise of silence is like moving in the vacuum of life. At the same time the awakening of the camp is slowing becoming a noisy event, doors clap like thunder, whispered words sound like a noisy revolution. When rain falls it sounds like the deluge falling on your head and if your ger has a leak, then the deluge is actually falling IN your ger, on your head. Fixing the roof in our western homes requires probably changing some tiles or waterproofing the roof, but in a ger, in my ger in particular, the solution was simply take a long stick and move the plastic roofing, to redistribute the weight of the water on the top of the roof so it falls outside and not inside. It was done in a matter of minutes and then on top of that they turned on the stove, with a bit of coal and the fire and heat last like forever.

Finally the time has come to pay a visit to a group of nomads, camping close to our camp. We started our walk surrounded with the noise of silent, only broken by giant crickets and the soft wind of the morning.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Upon arrival, after entering with the right foot and sitting on the left side of the ger, you are offered tea with sour milk and salt that is not to really for my taste buds, but it cannot be refused without at least pretending you try it (rule number 250,000 of the well behaved tourist when visiting a nomad’s tent), so wet your lips and then you can place it on the table and not touch anymore, although your hosts will drink it with delighted relish all along the visit. You will be offered several cooked goodies, mostly made of dairy products but with an indefinable look so unless you are very adventurous, which I am not, express your delight and indicate you have a delicate stomach or that you just had an inordinately big breakfast and cannot fit another morsel of food. You stare at your hosts and they stare at you and that is the visit, unless of course, you decide to start asking some questions about them, their life style, their home, etc, at the risk of sounding more curious that is adequate for a first (and last) encounter. However, since you are not their fist visitor and will not be their last, they expect those questions and through your interpreter – unless you are fluent in nomadic Mongolian, it is advisable to have a good interpreter at hand, who as all interpreters know, will translate what he wants as he wants, but you are totally and irrevocably dependent on him….   You ask about the baby present, who does not belong to your hosts but to the neighbour, and then, suddenly, you see an iron, and electric iron in a tent without electricity, they are nomads, no generator, no wires, no nothing and my first thought was, is the iron part of their religious world??? It cannot be so, therefore the question is, how do you use an iron if you do not have electricity and the answer comes quick and clear – “we have electricity through our solar panel” et voila! In the middle of nothingness these nomads have a solar panel. I need to see it, so I mention this and we go outside and of course, next to the ger theye have a solar panel on a stick, taking up as much sun as possible to power the iron and maybe even a radio or some other appliance. My first thought was how these people could have a solar panel without any problem and me in my civilized world, to have one, need to fill up about three tons of paperwork, ask permission from all human beings in the surrounding 4 kilometres, and even then, pay through the nose for it, have to sell my electricity to the state and then buy the one the state sells me, of course at a higher price and here we are in the plains of Mongolia, enjoying a free solar panel!!!

Once outside I discover they also have a very modern motorcycle, of course they also have horses, but for everyday is the bike. Also big drums with water for washing, showers, cooking and all other activities and when they run out of water, go to the nearest river – remember that nomads know where rivers are – and fill them up again, bring them to the camp in a chariot and that’s it. Then comes a natural question to a natural activity – toilet. Where is the toilet in a nomad camp where they do not have any running water, no latrine, no dry WC or the like… how and where is it done? My body was quicker than my mind in needing an answer to this no longer rhetorical question and so my hosts gets me a very thick and rather stiff coat, and shows me: you put it on as a cape and then once you have walked sufficiently far from the gers not to be a nuisance or make a spectacle of yourself, you squat down and the coat will become a tent around you that will protect you from indiscreet onlookers and give you a rather decent level of privacy.

After the visit you thank the hosts and return to the camp, finish packing and start the return to UB. Getting close to UB the most obvious thing is the heavy traffic; one could think it is Friday afternoon in a big city. You finish your visit of the museums, the monasteries, the squares and then get ready to go to the train station and board your train that will take you, in due time, to the border with Russia and beyond.

 

 

It is a strange feeling to leave this country where things look real, where silence is noisy and where people are smiley and seem peaceful, even if their national sports includes archery, wrestling and horseracing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

*(The Mongolic nomadic structure the ger is often wrongly referred to by westerners as a yurt but differs in that the heavier roof wheel (toono) is supported on posts and the roof ribs are straight rather than bending down at the wall junction. The wall lattice of a ger is constructed of straight pieces as opposed to the yurt’s curved lattice. Courtesy of Wikipedia).

Madagascar (July 2011)

The tsingy de Bemaraha is a nature reserve and national park located in the Antsiranana province of Madagascar, close to the west coast of the island. It is very difficult to describe the tsingy but according to most encyclopaedias it is a more than 200 million years old formation of coral and shells that originally was underwater and then due to earthquakes and other earth movements, was left uncovered and subject to erosion from rain and wind. That is the official version, I would say it is like a big big surface of stiff whipped egg whites, to the point of hard snow – for those with some notions of cooking, it is really hard whipped whites that can be cut with a knife. But it is not egg whites; it is solid and very sharp rock! So much so that if you are not careful or not have calloused hands, you end up with shredded hands and skin in strips. The peaks and crevasses and formations of all sorts can be visited, but physical condition is a necessity that is not always clear to unsuspecting tourists like myself.

   

To get to the national park we had to ride a whole day in the 4×4, cross two rivers with “pangas” or skiffs and put up our tents, prepare our dinner and be ready early in the morning. Once you get close to the entry point of this wonder of nature it is hard to realize where you will be. At the beginning the walk was at the bottom of the canyon, narrow passages not fit for people a little over the twiggy size, you can see up and only see more of the formation, it looks imposing but nothing extraordinary. Go on and it starts getting fascinating, difficult and scary and of course size is important, the bigger your size, the more difficult it gets to climb the rocks, pass through small openings in the maze of formations and the like, hold your breath might help but not for a long time, as the effort forces you to breath. Some parts of the maze could not be visited if some incredible engineering feats had not prepared metal stairs, rope bridges, handrails and some relatively flat passages.

            

The more I walked through the maze of rock solid stiff peaks the more fantastic it became, but it is good to remember that there are several kinds of birds and lemurs, but also of snakes and although it is said that there are no poisonous snakes in Mada, I rather not meet them personally, add to this your back pack with water, your camera hanging from your neck, where it risks of hitting all and every wall of the tsingy and prevent your from seeing the floor, which is not an even road, but a series of spaces for your feet, but not a walk in the park at all. Walking and taking pictures becomes an almost impossible simultaneous action, either you walk or take pics and hanging the camera from your neck is not compatible with keeping the health of your persona and of your camera, so I had to relinquish my camera to our guide, although I would have preferred to relinquish myself to him carrying me but no way, he was regular size malgache. Up up and again up through metal narrow staircases, solidly anchored to the rock walls but felling flimsy, rope handrails also well placed and some rope bridges, hanging over small and not so small crevasses or down and down getting on all fours to go through a tunnel in this coral barrier, unlike the Australian one because it is in dry land and sharper than a sharp knife.

         

After what felt like an eternity or two, we – my fellow travellers, the guides and myself, made it to the top of the climb, a panoramic spot that is breathtaking for its beauty, the vastness of this tsingy landscape, but also because to get there I had to go up and down like never or very seldom before in my like. After a short break the others were ready to continue, on the way out of the maze of tsingy and back to the 4×4 that would take us to the camp, lunch and a well-deserved rest.

However, I am not the others and I was not ready to continue. I do not know if I mentioned it before, but I am diabetic and should take good care of my sugar balances and strenuous exercise if not paced, can be a killer. By the time we got to the top, I was of course out of breath, I believe my sugar levels were in the minus 100 level and I was having problems with fixing my view, standing up became a joke and my heart was pumping triple speed. I believe the guides got a bit scared, what if I had a heart attack right then and there, where nothing other than “brute human muscle” can take you out, no chance for a helicopter to pick you up and take you to the nearest hospital, mainly because I believe there are no helicopters in the area and hospitals may be even more scarce, so to make a long story short they decided to accompany the group minus me down I would be waiting there for them, as if I could start on my own or extend my wings and fly down!!

During the time it took them to take the group down, I had enough to admire the landscape, really beautiful and worth the efforts, but definitely I did not believe it was worth dying for, so I insulted myself quite enough for not being attentive to bringing my sugar complements, for coming to this remote place, for being me and then I calmed down. The guides finally arrived and I sadly realized that the laws of physics apply to me and to the tsingy alike and what goes up, must come down, and if I was at the top of one segment of the tsingy, I had to go down, fortunately through a shorter way, not just turn around and back, but continue on and go down and back. I have always found it harder to go down a mountain or a stair or a tsingy and this was no exception, but had to be done. The guides were very supportive in more ways than one, helpful and patient but coming down also meant sometimes crawling under parts of the peaks or laying on your back and push yourself under another even smaller hole, at the end jumping over tree roots thick as an elephant leg or pushing ferns tall as a house. When I finally saw the car it was like arriving to the gates of paradise, although fortunately Saint Peter was not waiting for me, just the car. I was at the end of my tether and was running on fumes of sugar that needed to be replenished like immediately or else, so the moment we saw a little shop, I asked them to stop and got a one and a half litter bottle of a cola drink – no ads please! that I personally dislike but for recovering sugar levels there is nothing better or faster, unless of course you have a liter of sugared orange juice, the real one, that we did not have, so the cola drink that went fast, like throwing it into an endless pit and once it was finished I asked for another so in a matter of ten minutes, three littler of over sugared dark liquid went into my depleted body and in a matter of one hour or so, all went back to normal or almost.

          

By then we were back at base camp, where all the others were already finishing lunch and being of the French persuasion did not loose much time to reprehend me for taking the tour, for delaying them – which was not exactly true, and other niceties of the sort and probably they would have complained for me being of the non-French persuasion. Fortunately I was well enough by then to say to them ONE time only how sorry I was and then in a silent comment, send them to enjoy their own personal company, if at all possible.

The following day the group was going to the Big Tsingy – the odyssey I had just finished is known as the Little Tsingy!!! And of course the guide and the dear members of my group all recommended I should not go with them and “spoil” the day one more time. If they had known that this decision had been taken hours ago, when I was alone at the top of the Little Tsingy waiting for my rescue team, they might have kept their mouth closed, if at all possible. Anyway, the following day they left early and happy, and I was left alone and happy. I got up late, for the tour and after my breakfast went for a walk, just to stretch my legs a bit and then back to wait for them, telling me the beauty of the day, the landscapes, etc. etc. But… what they did not know was that I had given my camera to our guide, who besides being a good guide and guy, also proved to be a very good photographer and of course he knew where the nice photogenic spots, animals or plans were and being the guide, was the first there and then continued the trail, come the unsuspecting tourist, many missed the real thing, as they did not want not care to be left behind.

       

The moral of the story is that if you want great photos either be in top form or give your camera to the guide, who is going to produce the best of the series, will enjoy using your camera that probably he cannot afford but will take excellent care of it and you can come home and show the beauty of the tsingy and of whichever other place you visit.