There and Back

My Last Stand

noreply@blogger.com (Samuel) — Sun, 28 Sep 2008 20:54:00 +0000

So it ends with the Mediterranean Sea out my window on the right and empty countryside all around. Spain was and shall always be for me a place of ease and enjoyment. And why should there not be such a place? Why should there be such depravity in my own country and relative happiness in the rest of the world? Well I know the answer and the answer is in me, in fact it is me.

But there's no sense in speaking in abstract banalities, better to recount some details I’ve learned here in the present. For example, in the seat next to me on this Euromed Express from Valencia to Barcelona happens to be sitting a Spanish high school teacher, the first one I’ve met since I’ve been here. Not only that but she works with the inner city, 95% immigrant population of Barcelona. She’s young, inspired, and intelligent. A bit cynical, disillusioned after two years of course, but realistic and positive about her own future if not that of her students. What’s more is that I’m quite sure I’m sitting here not only because this is my assigned seat, but to learn something about the society in which I’ve indulged over the past month. An enormous tension around immigration and assimilation, domestic violence, and a poverty of education, these are the problems she speaks of directly to me. In her school Colombian teenagers are breeding a new culture of street violence, Chinese shop owners not allowing their children to assimilate, and there´s economic crisis for all but especially for the immigrant poor. It may sound familiar to those of us Americans accustomed to the challenges of cultural pluralism and economic opportunism, but one difference is that here in Spain public school teachers are highly valued for their competitiveness and competency. They’re not necessarily paid more than their American counterparts but valued enormously in terms of respect for the profession and higher expectations on the job. This is true of Europe in general where the education system continues to function effectively, to create a final product that is focused, specialized, and in service of the economy at large. Whereas in America, I’d say the functionality of our public school system is doubtful to say the least and the economy is most certainly in a state of serious disrepair.

But I’m tired of talking about disfunctionality in societies. I am tried of living in one based on entitlement. I am tired of cities of garbage, where quality of life is sacrificed to no end. I am tired of being progressive in a society that retards my progress. And finally I am tired of having leadership that doesn’t lead. Not to bring up the question of leadership, because it is secondary to the state of the population, but I have to ask are WE actually ready to fix OUR problems? And how will we even know what the solution looks like if all we see is crisis, namely the blinding snowball effect of the 40 years of mismanagement since Eisenhower. To put it simply, the partisan era will end or else. Fortunately the legacy of George W could very well be the dawn the post partisan era, the new functional politic, an apolitical government, desirable or not depending on how one defines or desires the future.

I have hope, vision, and a plan, but none of that matters. What matters is what you have. You as in we. Leadership is a two way street. We’ve reached the point of near oblivion, crowned by the ultimate obliviousness in leadership, the mentality of an adolescent at the helm of the universe. But why now at this point is it finally so glaringly apparent? It could only be the result of that which we’ve tolerated ourselves for just so long. And what happens if we continue to tolerate and accept it, that which undermines the inherent individual intelligence and intellect of each and every person to think and act, the culture of materialism and fear? What happens if we remain ignorant of the uneconomic nature of our economy and the impact of this impossible abstraction on the lives of five billion poor people in other countries? What happens if we continue to believe that we can shape the world through marketing schemes and militarism alone, the belief in infinite expansionism, growth and guns? Perhaps if we continue to puff up and look big just a little longer, maybe the terrorists won’t notice that our economy and as such our entire society have collapsed.

These questions are more rhetorical than realistic, but unfortunately it’s a day late and a dollar short to be asking questions for the sake of changing old habits. It´s time to start thinking for ourselves, individually and critically. The terrorists are on our side now, they´re shouting at us to wake up, that the war is over, and that we never had a chance of obtaining victory over evil. But we’re just starting to realize something much worse than simple defeat: it is that we no longer own the future -- literally, it’s held by the Chinese in the form of US government securities. This is not as miserable as it sounds for they still trust in the core of the American economy and have not chosen to cash in yet. But they will if enough of us do not stand up to reclaim our education, intellect, and the will to work. Realistically I don’t expect anything to be drastically different under President Obama or McCain. But what I do expect is what everyone expects, that somehow we´ll manage. The only question is how long will it take to come to terms with the fallibility that caused this mess in the first place. And will we finally get it right this time around? Anyone´s guess is as good as mine.

noreply@blogger.com (Samuel) — Fri, 29 Aug 2008 08:07:00 +0000

How brilliantly ironic! I sit typing in the living room of a sunny apartment in the heart of Barcelona, simultaneously watching the rooftops of my neighbors and listening to Barack Obama's speech about the change stirring in America. It is that I am both here and there, my mind firmly attached to home in the immediate and the big picture. The attachment to the immediate, as in Spain and my particular living situation in Barcelona, is not hard to understand.

To begin with, the temperament of this country and especially it's most lively city is exactly suited to my needs, or maybe it's the other way around. Regardless, it is to say that my overall comfort, ahhh simple pleasures of life, dare I say happiness of the past three days is off the charts. It's not that my time here has been wildly adventurous nor in any way dull. It's just an extraordinarily happy medium to which I have aspired for a very long time and have arrived at finally for this final month of my trip.

Of course I hesitate to predict the future, but that reluctance seems to be overcome by the fact that I am here, it is sunny every day, and that every person I meet is interesting, friendly, and able to communicate (I with them!). I am thinking about where to go next- most likely south to Valencia and then a bit further to my friend Liza's house on the coast- but there is no urgency in the planning. I have a full month to circumnavigate the peninsula, from Valencia to Gibraltar, Madrid to the Pyrenees, and Galicia back to the United States via some nearby airport. Plenty of time, no rush, and no agenda except that which happens to inspire. At this point in my 30th year after some rough and tumbling around the planet, I figure why not be a bit selfish. Let my whole skinny self hang loose, get fat, so to speak. Perhaps strut a little with an air of confidence like never before. I mean why the ---- not!?! It's a damn good way to be and I really can't figure out why it never occurred to me before. Not only is it good to enjoy life and one's own way in the world for selfish reasons, but I would also venture to say that it makes the whole world a better place for everyone. Well actually I am only making that statement in regards to me and how I feel at this particular moment. Unfortunately, that's probably also the same way that George Bush and serial killers justify their existences and pursuit of happiness... Needing to be free to be one's self... But ---- that, obviously I am talking about sane people with brain cells to spare. People who can afford and deserve to be their true self; easy going, honest, open, relaxed, highly impassioned when necessary, comfortable with the craziness, accepting, humble, and extremely grateful.

Which brings me to exactly why people like Barack Obama are so essentially appealing to their fellow human beings. The man exudes this poise of true self. He comes not from the most dire of circumstances, he has not personally experienced the abject poverty, extreme physical suffering or total despair that is characteristic of some of the world's poor. But through his own relatively unique, and not excessively easy background, the man has experienced life through the eyes of the world. It is primarily this empathy and deeply personal understanding of the globe, and secondarily his ability to connect with the American people that gives Barack his super cultivated equipoise. His is confident in both his own experience and the very nature of humanity. He is confident in the direction that he is taking as it is a real reflection and response to the world in which he has lived. From Kenyan birth to Indonesian primary schooling to Harvard Law, this could very well be the embodiment of the ideal, rounded, modern education. This as opposed to an over-privileged, under-able Yale frat boy who had never traveled let alone discussed the world outside of North America before taking the office of presidency of the United States. It really does seem then, that wow all signs do point to a very new and different era on the horizon for those of us who care to participate.

I am only writing this this morning because I can't help but relate right now, in my own strange way, from own unique vantage point, to this conceptual 'new' era. But of course, let me be the first to say it, and remember it again and again, that it is no more than that. Pure concept. These ideas we discuss, the grand speeches we hear, the words which inspire and make us applaud, this is no more than the initial guidance, the version 1.0 users' manual, hopefully providing useful points of reference for later refinement, and in the ideal a contract to which we can adhere later on. But of course the real groundwork for the project itself has yet to come. The moment the first stone is laid, seemingly opposing ideas will emerge rapidly, new so called pioneers will gain the reins, potentially the old concept will be discarded or forgotten, and eventually this movement toward a new era shall once again be converted by the societal pressures and physical constraints that never ceased to exist throughout the time of heady planning. But this common tendency, surely a reoccurring theme in my own life and perhaps a larger trend of humanity, is by the same token not inevitable. Of course there is proof: The world is built by the labor of those that were not perpetually constrained by conceptual tail chasing, nor status quo limitations. That is to say, those who have achieved success in creating, augmenting, and evolving this place have done so from a place of balance, combining both practical flexibility and unrelenting mindfulness and retention of the original concept. This original conceptual force, the all powerful seed ideas, the foundational thinking, the structure, the logical framework of a constructive movement, this obviously is not to be discarded with yesterday's rotten apples. Somehow it ought to be vigilantly kept at the forefront of everybody's mind throughout the long potentially arduous road to come.

Alas, any tourist who has been to Barcelona with the slightest coherence should know exactly what object is driving the analogy I am trying to construct. Ain't no two ways about it, the 120 plus-year ongoing construction of Gaudi's Sagrada Familia is by all means one of the most powerful reminders I have ever seen of the human ability to conjure up and sustain greatness in action. It is an Obra in the highest sense of the word, a work of art and a physical manifestation of ultra refined human ingenuity. The embodiment of universally applicable laws and geometric form. The very reason for its existence is conceptual; it is an offering to the world of something new, inherently valuable, and fundamentally needed. And the concept itself is highly structured, centered around a reproducible system of geometry and a specific ascetic. It is only nebulous and sentimental to the degree that one fails to notice the inherent framework linking and guiding all continued efforts to construct the whole system. As a result of the unrelenting reincorporation of this conceptual framework as well as the practical accomplishments of the epic-spanning stone and steel engineering, the church is more appealing and attractive today than ever before. For me it is a simple testament to the fact that for any revolutionary movement to sustain itself and fulfill its destiny to truly evolve the world in a permanent fashion, there needs to be a clear accord upheld absolutely amongst all of its members, workers, and supporters.

There is no denying that Gaudi's Sagrada Familia and Barack Obama's program for change both utilize universally compelling concepts. When in the presence of both, the reaction on people's faces is the proof in the pudding. With Gaudi's church, there is little controversy and great support for its continued conceptual preservation and physical construction. The underlying concept in this case, the multi-nodal capital pillars and overall geometric design, is in no danger of being compromised or subsumed by new leaders. However in the case of Barack's movement as it rapidly gains traction towards securing the presidency, it seems the potentials for backsliding or complete hypocrisy are dramatically much more apparent, to say the least. The movement is in its infancy, in fact yet to be born, but the conceptual strength of both the individual candidate and the candidacy's ideas are undeniable. So as such, all I'm saying is damn we'd be better take some leads from the few cutting edge projects out there that have managed to survive and avoid the crumpling effects of status quo tendencies. I for one need to do the same thing on a very personal level, because of course my new era is also in its infancy and god knows the last thing I want to do is look back on this time and say oh how naive and misled, if only I had known how to maintain and persevere.

With that in mind, I have to venture out immediately as the morning stretches into the middle of the day, voy por the city of Barcelona, to check the Contemporary Art Museum and its surroundings, and hopefully to return empty handed triumphantly once again, god willing so to speak.

Requiem for a T-Shirt

noreply@blogger.com (Samuel) — Sat, 23 Aug 2008 15:27:00 +0000

I must get this off my chest, as it has been already three days since a helicopter sucked my most valuable piece of clothing into oblivion. This is a requiem not for the death of the t-shirt itself (normal people know that inanimate objects can neither die nor live), though initially that was exactly how I thought about it. No, now I mourn memories not things.

See I have few possessions in this year, and those which I do hold onto in my ragged rucksack are innately valuable for many reasons and obviously quite useful for why else would they be in there if I were not using them regularly. I do not hoard souvenirs, collectibles, or trinkets. I limit my load to that which is absolutely essential, including tent, sleeping bag and pad, clothing, minimal toiletries, minimal gadgetries, and a few writing implements including this laptop upon which I now peck out my thoughts.

I guess I have to admit that normally I am quite materialistic and attached to possessions. Anyone who has seen me get violently upset when I’ve lost or misplaced something knows that I don’t tend to take THINGS lightly. At first what makes me angry is the loss of an object as a simple waste, such as yesterday when after nearly one year with the same pair of nice quality Julbo sunglasses, I was suddenly aware that those sunglasses with which I had been bicycling all day were no longer attached to my head. My only guess now is that they simply bounced off during a particularly rough descent and I was too engaged in braking to notice. Like the t-shirt, the sunglasses had sentimental value, not nearly as much, but they had also traveled with me across three continents, up many mountains, through deserts, rivers, and lakes. They were worn down in many places but for the most part completely unscathed after so much use. For me it is this embodied use, the love in the thing so to speak, that creates the value, much more so than the original price paid.

Speaking of lost objects, I have purposely cast off my mountaineering implements, left them in Chamonix with a crazy American climber woman from New Jersey to kindly import to her parents’ house in Millbrook, I think. The point is that I am now traveling light and fast. This European backpacking gig is as they say generally easy on the soul and obviously wretched on the wallet considering today’s American dollar. No screeching dissonance in the streets, the European citizenry appear to be very well fed, and the bottoms of my shoes are so clean I could eat off them if need be. What this means is that out here on the open road of Europe, with sleek white computer at my fingertips, it should be very easy to be tranquil and write my thoughts how I please.

There are other uplifting factors. One is the use of couchsurfing.com. For all who are unfamiliar with the website and/or the practice, suffice to say that it is working very effectively on a global scale to reduce and one day end the dependence on hostels and strange hotels. At the same time, it is allowing me to meet and chill with utterly amazing people from all over the world, stay at their homes, go out on their towns, and generally, gain perspectives that would otherwise be completely inaccessible to regular old tourists. It ain’t perfect, but it definitely should be acknowledged that without it, the world would be a much less evolved place. So yeah for modern evolutions, keep em coming!

Anyways, one last note on the t-shirt. I mentioned it was whisked away by a helicopter, but really I have no conclusive evidence to that end. Fact is the t-shirt was a gift from a friend in Ethiopia, it had no price, it was vibrantly yellow and had a funny, eye-catching design. It was indeed the only cotton t-shirt in my wardrobe. The last thing I did with it was place it neatly over the pillow of the bed I had reserved in the mountain hut of L’envers. For some strange reason though, the hut manager decided (so she says) to make my bed and hang the shirt on the open window. Other Czech guests sharing the same room confirmed that indeed it was hanging there in the morning. Alas, when I returned from climbing in the evening, it was certainly nowhere to be found and the only explanation I was given was that the re-supply helicopter had come in the afternoon and it is distinctly known for sucking away loose objects. So now they would have me believe the existence of my yellow t-shirt is no more; shredded and scattered upon those many mountain crags, stuck in the gullet of some greedy marmot, or perhaps being worn elegantly by an Alpine Ibex. Hopefully it is some combination of the three and not stuffed in another dark corner somewhere.

In honor of Ethiopia, the t-shirt, and the trip itself, I have placed a reminder of the coffee ceremony lady at the top of this entry. A reminder to remember! It is very important for me to remember. Not the t-shirt itself but to encapsulate ALL of the memories, all of the possessions and their connotations, all of the places I’ve been this year, and most importantly to be able to always reconnect and feel again the absolutely brilliant relationships with so many extraordinary human beings that I have met along the way. I cannot say this enough. That now in looking back on this year as it begins to wind up and gasp as I begin to think about returning HOME, there is one thing that keeps reappearing in my synapses and that is simply to REMEMBER. Memories are the thread that creates the Fabric. Mine are raw and intense right now, which is all the more reason to dwell on them. This clothing that I spin upon myself is a mysterious combination of sadness, pain, anger, and joy. It could only be called aliveness. It is a massive geography of the mind; people, places, and interactions; three continents, thirteen countries, a few lost possessions and countless gained. The pot has been set to simmer and I am sitting by to savor.

noreply@blogger.com (Samuel) — Sat, 23 Aug 2008 14:57:00 +0000

Oh the glamor of the Alps...

The Rising and Falling of Late

noreply@blogger.com (Samuel) — Fri, 15 Aug 2008 16:52:00 +0000

It’s raining this morning, now this afternoon. The whole of the valley is enveloped in a cool grey mist, which obscures the peaks and walls hovering above. I’ve spent the past 10 days or so here in Chamonix, alternatively climbing and thinking about climbing while waiting to climb. My head is generally screwed on tight. Climbing encourages my focus of mind. Even while it drizzles and drenches the walls of my mind’s eye, I wait relaxed and with a light heart.

The irony is that much has gone awry since I arrived. The truth however is that none of these mild mishaps have been within my sphere of control, nor really of my own initiation except perhaps in the broadest sense of karma and ultimate destiny. In a strange way, I have come to appreciate these twists of (ill) fate, the least concern of which is the sloppy weather of late. In order to better understand this nouvelle state of mind of mine, I should attempt to at least begin to recount the progression of events and the nature of the changes.

The drama begins with the failure of my climbing partner Steve, to well, climb. Before this week in the Alps, I had not actually climbed with Steve but for one day back home in the Shawangunks. Undoubtedly though, Steve is a climber (and a human being) of the highest caliber - extremely committed, knowledgeable, safe and strong on the sharp end of the rope. I first met him during my last day of Northeast climbing before I left for Africa last October. I was looking for a partner that fine Monday morning when I came across Steve sitting on a boulder aside the carriage road waiting for his climbing buddies to show up. Within minutes of talking, we realized uncannily that both of us would be in Ethiopia and perhaps Europe at the same times during the coming year. By the end of the afternoon, we had tentatively agreed to meet up in Addis Ababa for a meal and to discuss putting together climbing trips to Jordan in November and Chamonix in August.

Sure enough, I arrived in Addis Ababa in early November and made a beeline for the National History Museum where I found Steve and his boss in a ground floor office at around 4PM, working away diligently – both are archeologists with a specialization in stone tools – to identify and catalogue copious piles of Ethiopian made stone chips. Steve has the rare combination of being an extremely hard working, easy going yet focused, dynamically talkative and innately intelligent guy from Long Island. Being myself, of a similar inclination except from the Jersey side of the JAP belt, I felt particularly equipped to make these judgments and get psyched about organizing together for some far flung climbing trips.

Alas, when Steve informed me three weeks later that he would not after all be able to meet in Wadi Rum Jordan for a week of sandstone climbing in the desert, I thought little of it. I had no prior knowledge of Wadi Rum and therefore no major climbing expectations, so it made little difference to me whether Steve would show up with the climbing rack or not. In the end I decided to go regardless of lacking a partner and gear, and sure enough by the grace of the Hebrew god, I found myself climbing with an outstanding young Israeli who had all the gear and more local beta than perhaps anyone but the Bedouins themselves. But little did I know, the foreshadowing had begun. An outstanding week of climbing and desert solitaire produced by Steve’s lack of commitment and my desire to go forward regardless of the adversity. Indeed there is gold at the end of the rainbow, which is as it turns out a lesson not as easily applicable to women as to trips into the mountains.

The Chamonix plan was different though, mainly because Steve was already set to be in France for the summer working on a dig in the Southwest. In addition, he had extensive prior experience in this sector of the Alps, having spent a part of the past seven summers in the Chamonix Valley. For him it was essentially normal and seemingly natural to commit yet another chunk of his summer to climbing on and around the Mount Blanc Massif. For me however, it was the opportunity of a lifetime; a 20 day stint in the alpine climbing capital of the world with an experienced and somewhat stronger climber as a partner who could lead the stiffest pitches. There it was, too good to be true, unseen but so it went. In late June, we agreed the arrival date would be August 4th. On July 31st, Steve told me he wanted to push it back to August 5th which I was more than happy to do since it gave me additional time with Irene who was visiting in Switzerland that week. Then two days later on August 2nd , Steve informed me that the earliest train he could catch from the Southwest would have him arriving in Chamonix on the morning of the 6th. I was disappointed for a moment but still eager and excited to meet up and start climbing.

When the morning of the 6th finally rolled around, I was as the Spaniards would say mildly rabid to climb. Steve strolled into the hostel around 10:30AM, dropped his bags and within two hours we were walking toward the town crag. I led every pitch that morning as Steve expressed no desire to climb, but only to relax and get some rest after a long overnight train ride. That was fine with me, though in my eagerness I was quick to overextend and pump out on routes that would not otherwise have been overly strenuous for me. We finished up at the Gailland Crag around six and headed over to the Micro Basserie de Chamonix for the best (and only) local beer in town. Over beer and burgers we discussed Steve’s general state of lethargy, physical ailments, and mental limitations. Very shortly it became clear that Steve’s head was not screwed on with climbing threads. The beach was more where he was at, having just completed a grueling summer’s unpaid archeology grunt work and having found a girlfriend who was occupying the remainder of his free time and energy. It was apparent that this was not the committed Gunks climber I had met last October but an overworked, physically suffering and emotionally dispatched guy who was far more eager to get back stateside than to get up high on any Chamonix alpine rock. By no means am I implicating that Steve or I were to blame for this unfortunate situation, predicated by a lack of clear communication. The fact is he has good reason not to be present. One cannot help but think about the fact that he starts a PHD program at UC Davis in two weeks, moves his life to California and on the way stops through Florida to see his new girl and confirm indeed that she IS the one. With these distractions plus a whole set of chronic health problems, Steve is obviously not the climbing partner I was expecting. Unfortunately it took an additional six days of back and forth for Steve to admit this to me completely.

I took off with another climber for three days to a remote glacier hut, expecting to come back and find Steve refreshed and ready to get out on some easy to moderate routes. It seemed this was indeed a possibility three days ago. The storm that raged for a day cleared out that evening and left crisp sunny skies with 30-40KM winds on the high ridges. We waited out the winds and the next morning at 7AM headed down to the gondola to ride up to the base of an easy 8-pitch climb that Steve had selected for its lack of commitment and ascetic ridges. Upon arriving at the gondola station, I went straight to the ticket counter while Steve studied the latest weather forecast print out. I walked over to get on line but Steve quickly informed me that he was not comfortable with the forecast. Though it was certain to be a bluebird day with zero risk of precipitation, Steve was convinced that the forecasted winds, 40-80KM/hr at 3500 meters, would adversely affect our route topping out at 2800 meters. In other words, he was simply not willing to climb if there was even the slightest risk of being uncomfortable. Steve was the first to tell me that this was unlike him and in any past season he would have had the same drive and vigor that caused the other 100 or so climbers who had also read the morning’s report to get on line and take the ride up to 3800 meters regardless of the potential to encounter a breeze. But today, this week, this summer, Steve was in no mood to suffer, and this was the end of a long week of heal dragging and reluctance to be forthright. After an hour of me attempting to convince him otherwise, I threw in the towel and accepted that my climbing partner was not going to be climbing this summer in Chamonix. I don’t blame him, I don’t blame myself, I only realize the need for better communication around these projects in the future.

After parting ways with Stevo, I headed straight for the Mountain Guides Office of Chamonix, which serves as information and reconnaissance base for all Alpine endeavors and potential climbers in the Valley. On the map table in the office, one can find the famous green covered Climbers Message Book, which contains all sorts of notes on route conditions, hazards, gear for sale, lost items, and most importantly for my sake messages from climbers looking for partners. I jotted down four names and numbers of potential partners, all of who mentioned having full gear racks and climbing comfortably at similar grades. When I returned to the hostel with numbers in hand, Steve the ever encouraging always forgiving former partner, generously offered me the use of his French mobile.

After several fruitless voice messages, I was fortunate enough to link up quickly with two Spanish climbers named Jose Maria and Oscar. We met yesterday morning to sus out our abilities on a moderate and extremely beautiful six pitch crack climb located on the Red Pillar of Blatierre, one of Mt Blanc’s many northerly satellite spires. It proved to be a brilliant experience, my first all Spanish speaking multi pitch endeavor, providing a much needed jump start before setting off for Barcelona in ten days. The climbing was strenuous but not exhausting. The views of Chamonix town, 2000 meters below, were spectacular. The weather was impeccable right up until the descent walk back to the cable car station during which in began to sprinkle lightly. Jose Maria and Oscar were both hilarious dudes, full of the classic Andulucian humor and laidback-ness that goes a long way to tame and amuse the typical rabid American.

We landed back on the Valley floor around 6:30 yesterday evening. Immediately I darted over to the nearest pay phone and once again began calling the list of potential climbing partners I had gathered the day before. The first guy I got on the line was Stefan, a very mellow, even-tempered, yet quirky and potentially hilarious Kiwi who has been living in France for the past year. He’s wanting to climb long rock routes, leading at a maximum of 6b+, and especially in and around the beautifully remote L’Envers Refuge, a mountain hut at which I spent my first three days of alpine climbing. This is essentially the perfect partner for me - bilingual, balancing temperament, and climbing just slightly harder than me. But of course, as it’s been written, twas too good to be true. He has no lead gear, nor ropes, and neither do I. So once again we both begin the search on our own.

After I reluctantly parted ways with Stefan, I went briefly to the supermarket for provisions (an easy 30 euros for one bag of groceries, ouch!) then marched back up the hill to the hostel where I stay when not at the L’envers hut. The ‘Ski Station’ hostel is located at the top of the hill on the south facing/north side of the Valley, directly adjacent to the Brevent Gondola, hence the name. It’s a long walk up the hill – especially the fifth time in a day after a few beers - but very straight up and good for catching a nice rhythm. In the middle of the hill yesterday evening, I came up behind a woman walking very pointedly, and fast. From what I could tell, she had blond hair, surf shorts, a tank top, and was nice to look at from the downhill perspective. Of course I was compelled to say something that would cause her to slow down and look back in my direction. I think my particular comment was something like “thanks for setting such a good pace.” Turns out I was right on with the compliment idea as she allowed herself to let up the pace enough for a conversation to develop while we walked up the rest of the hill. She told me she was actually in a hurry – that she was not normally a speed walker of the Rue de Moillard – to meet her two other blond Swedish friends who were waiting to go for a sunset hike in the hills. I kept walking with her to the top of the hill where one of the two friends was already waiting. There I said goodbye casually and started walking toward the hostel door, but quickly reason and good judgment caught hold and I turned around in mid stride.

When I returned to the corner, the third and final member of the team was approaching. When she arrived, I learned that all three are long time friends and have been living in the Valley for seven years, having fallen in love with the mountains and the vibe. Two of the three own Chamonix’s most successful language learning (English and French) school. The other, the speed walker Martina manages a local guide service and climbs on her days off. Needless to say, I was pleasantly surprised and extremely happy to find a team of three ahem Swedish team members, two of which who could potentially be my future bosses and one who was willing to go climb with me on her next day off. The day ended on a decidedly high note for this and other less tangible reasons. And today, now nearly transpired, has continued to uplift, though the rain continues to fall steadily.

Tomorrow I climb with a mellow Korean-American dude originally from L.A., now permanently relocated to Chamonix. We’ll head up at 8AM to the less committing south side of the Valley for some shorter sport climbs. Forecast is for zero precipitation. Should be well. The next day is another story. I have no idea what it shall bring. For the moment though, I am grateful for this simple and encouraging day-to-day program. This of course will also end, but for now I must let out a loud sigh as I do and pursue exactly what makes me happy, and I can only wish that everyone else can take a moment to do the same. Okay.

noreply@blogger.com (Samuel) — Sat, 26 Jul 2008 11:33:00 +0000

It’s come to this. I finally sit down to write. My state of mind is quite serene, but the state of Bali is deliriously hectic. I have been on vacation from India for nearly three weeks and I look forward to going back, even if for only a day to Kolkata en route to Europe. Before I head back up and over the equator, I thought I would attempt to rekindle the blog and thereby encapsulate yet another strange world. I dare say that by now I have learned about two worlds within the one mishmash of nations and economies that we call the globe.

Bali and to a lesser degree, the other Islands in the Indonesian archipelago is a foreign tourist haven. Better yet, a hive. At times perhaps, a maggots nest. Without wanting to drudge up derision and create the perception that somehow I am different or better than the rest of the foreign pleasure shoppers, I’d simply say that I have learned a lot here about the relationship between the tourist development paradigm and the response of the local economy and culture to outside influence. The theme sounds familiar, no, like some far off Himalayan kingdom I once knew. Fortunately for me I can now permanently cross off Bali and for that matter Australia from my list of possible future destinations.

Noah and I made the absolute best of this place, though at every turn there was unexpected pitfall and accompanying hilarity. Let’s see, our first day together here in the party central conglomerate of Kuta began with Noah losing his ATM card out of a hole in the pocket of his newly purchased surfer dude shorts. Next, I spent twenty dollars on calling my own bank’s office to attempt to get the block taken off my ATM which I had incurred by stopping for two hours in the Malaysia airport where I bought a coffee with my card. The following day, we took off on our rented motor scooters and headed down for the famous surf break called Uluwatu on the southern tip of the Island. Upon first glance at the six foot peeling waves and the relatively small crowd, I thought to myself hell I’ll paddle out and give it a whirl. Low and behold a whirl is what I got, along with an ass kicking (foot gouging actually) along the reef lying four feet below the inside of the near break. After twenty minutes of waveless misery and a steadily bleeding right foot, I exited the water only to find a large chunk had been mashed out of the rear of my rented surfboard.

And so the curse of Kuta began. Hobbled and without access to cash, we spent the next day attempting to move ourselves out of Kuta into mellower surroundings and gentler reef breaks. I managed to get the block removed from my card, and strangely enough Noah happened to find his card had been returned to a random hotel near where it had slipped out.

On the third day of our island adventure, we packed our bags, fled the Kuta sprawl, and sped (at a safe speed on fine paved roads) up the coastal highway to the roadside community of Medewi with its famed long left perfect for beginners. The journey was peaceful and so were the three days spent surfing eating and sleeping in the Mai Malu hotel. Sufficiently bored by the fourth day of small and sloppy waves, we sped off again, this time bound for Java, determined to make the impossible crossing with our motorbikes.

Upon arriving at the ferry landing on the far western tip of Bali, it was confirmed what we had already been told that our scooters’ registrations forbid us to remove the bikes from Bali. Alas, it was back to two-footed walking with clumsy clunky board slung under one arm. It took us an additional four hours to reach our destination, the remote jungle outpost dubbed G-Land by the illiterate surfing community.

Noah and I then spent another three days laughing hysterically to ourselves, having more brilliant conversation between ourselves and generally getting pummeled by waves we could neither catch nor ride. The surf camp scene down in this jungle outpost was just that: summer camp for boys. We made the best out of the futile company, bonding mostly with the local staff and passing the between time recapping the highlights of our lives in Brooklyn and gazing upon the glowing horizon of our upcoming decades.

I turned 30 one night amidst this east Java chaos of throbbing wounds, a gourmet dinner of ramen noodles and local mussels, warm beer, and a full moon over one of the most pristine stretches of beach in the world. At the time I thought nothing of it. In fact I could think of little else besides my shallow skin abrasions, swollen lymph in my groin and the impending systemic infection and fever that was to be my birthday present from gawd. But this piece is neither about my personal pain and suffering – which for some reason was far more serene than mentally disturbing – nor the physical details of the trip itself. Sure enough, Bali and Java are some of the loveliest places one can conjure up – full of rich culture, traditional agriculture, pristine landscapes, and relative harmony between the tourist and the local economy.

But today I do not wish to write yet another experience narrative. I know that stories of intriguing interactions are crucial for the readers’ delight and I certainly wish to entertain to the highest degree possible. But truth be told, since leaving India, the experience narrative has been fairly monotonous, mostly involving the pursuit of outrageously good and cheap local pleasures – selfishly hedonistic and quite relaxing. I achieved great success in this but the tales shall remain untold at least for the time being in this particular medium.

What I did come across though - this afternoon at about three while lounging about the poolside in front of my hotel room door – is something less tangible to the outside world but possibly worth telling. It seemed to settle over me like a fine mist rolling through an arid desert. It was the first moment in two weeks that I was alone to fully comprehend the gravity, or rather the lack thereof, in my life of late. I'd been saying throughout the week how much 30 feels like the youngest and most innocent I’ve been since perhaps I was five. Perhaps it is some kind of early mid-life rebirth, compounded by the fact that I am officially a free agent, gaily wandering the planet, for another month or so at least. Sitting by that pool watching the breeze stir the palm leaves there were moments of what could be called perfect composure. Blissful repose, unhindered by responsibility to do more than what was being done. I merely attempted to jot it down in my journal before it was gone.

Unfortunately, the details are again disappointingly sparse in the eyes of the outside world. It is nothing more than finally being able to say that I am happy and I know what I want. That’s that and it deserves only acknowledgment and of course further pursuit.

What I'd like to think my life consists of...

noreply@blogger.com (Samuel) — Sun, 13 Apr 2008 06:40:00 +0000

VIS Student Blog

noreply@blogger.com (Samuel) — Thu, 13 Mar 2008 10:39:00 +0000

If anyone is interested in reading my students' day-in-the-life pieces which are beutifully insightful and informative, please check out the new VIS blog we created last week. More of their personal and journalistic writing will follow, along with photos and stuff. Feel free to post commnet on their work, it will make them very happy to read. the blog is www.visladakh.blogspot.com enjoy!

Day-in-the-life… part one, until lunch.

noreply@blogger.com (Samuel) — Sat, 08 Mar 2008 08:51:00 +0000

I first become awake this morning at precisely 5:58 when a Ladakhi student rings their morning wakeup bell exactly two minutes early. The bell, nothing more than a square shaped slice of iron played with a small section of steel piping, hangs on a stick directly above the earthen cell rooms in which we (staff) live. The nice thing about this routine is that the six o’clock bell is what actually wakes me from the night’s slumber but for another 20 or so minutes I lie peacefully, contemplating the idea of the getting up and what shall come of the day. Perhaps I exaggerate slightly in that some mornings I close my eyes refusing to acknowledge the light and roll back to sleep until just before seven. But lately, with the light starting to filter in around 6:15, I am more and more able to go through this gradual, natural wake up without the lazy lapse back into dream space.

So take today for example. The bell rings and I open my eyes. Immediately I take in the intimate context of my very personal surroundings; the sagging ceiling, the adobe walls, the brightly colored fabric adorning the narrow shelves. I live in a cell, literally, eight by six feet with two small windows and a door. The door opens onto the stone walkway that separates the cell rooms from the garden beds, which currently are home to several bushy rows of chard. I prop my head up on the makeshift but extremely comfortable pillow, usually my down jacket stuffed in a cotton t-shirt. My eyes are pleased by the sight of the cluttered colorful interior of my cellular home. I feel tired but do not succumb to the temptation to persist dreaming. I manage to roll from my low lying and overly narrow sleeping apparatus at around 6:20. Placing my feet upon the carpeted mud floor, I then proceed to throw on the same old fleece pants and shirt that I’ve been wearing all week (laundry is drying on the fence), grab my tooth brush, towel and open the cell room door taking my first few refreshing breathes of the damp cool morning air of the greenhouse’s interior. I slowly walk the stone path preparing to throw open the main door and behold the eastern skyline of the Ladakh range, as the sun is streaming from behind the jagged ridges some 50 kilometers away. Nowadays, it is warm enough at this hour to linger on the driveway, casually absorbing the new day’s light and air while remarking internally upon how profoundly pleasant it is to see the sun rise over the Himalayas and start one’s day in this manner.

Continuing then on my journey east I head up and over the slight hill of the driveway arriving in less than a minute at the flap door of the bathroom complex, also a south facing, half greenhouse, half earthen barracks type structure. The main row of sinks, contained within the exterior greenhouse side of the structure, is connected by another stone pathway to yet another row of garden beds. This whole space becomes exceedingly hot during the afternoon, so much that so that I can easily work up a sweat doing my laundry before heading into the interior side of the structure where the shower rooms are located. Still the morning is cool but no longer cold. I turn on the tap from the sinks and - as of last week - the water flows forth freely. No more hauling buckets from the spring as the great March thaw has now penetrated all of the campus plumbing, including the kitchens and bathrooms. As James, my co-teacher pointed out yesterday, it is actually quite a blessing that we began here under dire conditions of extreme cold and cold related breakdowns, for now that the campus is alive with warmth and Spring activity, our appreciation for functional plumbing and the rest of the homespun ecological infrastructure is all the more. In the peak of the afternoon, it is indeed quite luxurious to bath in three gallons of nearly steaming solar heated water. But for now, I take a few splashes of cold water and pat my face dry with a cotton towel, which for some reason provides amazing satisfaction like nowhere else. One level more awakened I now return to the cell room complex for tea making and further preparations.

Our community kitchen is conveniently located at the last room of the far (eastern end) of the cell complex. When I open the door, I nearly trip over one of the two campus cats, who is exiting on my right just as I enter. These cats are fairly annoying with their continuous loud and high pitched meowing, except of course when they are eating or committing some food related mischief. God only knows why they are always making such a fuss when they certainly seem to be eating more than their fair share, relative to all the other intentional and accidental members of the community including, cows, chickens, semi-wild dogs, and a few crafty mice that inhabit the kitchen wall closest to the slop bucket. Incidentally, not a drop of food, or biomass for that matter, is wasted here in Ladakh. Without having experienced many other high altitude deserts, I would venture to say that this place in general practices the most complete and waste-less form of resources consumption out of anywhere on the planet. Here at SECMOL, cows and chickens are fed every last food scrap from onion peels to egg shells. As a result, there is no such thing as kitchen compost, only that of the toilets. Ladakhis are not able to practice cover cropping (the tilling under of half grown grasses and leguminous stalks) for they believe, and rightly so, that no green matter should be used for fertilizer if it could be used as animal fodder instead. This is not to say that green manure would not be a great benefit to the soil fertility of the region, but simply that the animals are a much higher nutritional priority. As a result of these culturally defined ecological practices and my own breakfast habits, I’m quite certain that the SECMOL cows have daily been consuming a very healthy meal of green tea leaves and crushed ginger amongst other bits of stale bread, lentils, and the occasional smattering of apricot jam.

Our community kitchen is small swampy little place with low ceilings, rickety tables, a makeshift sink with a drain I constructing entirely out of used bottles and scrap sections of plastic piping, but nonetheless, it has proven to be an enormously popular gathering spot for groups of Vermonsters and Ladakhis alike. With the tea boiled and a generous spoonful of fragrant Kashmiri honey added, I proceed out the door of the kitchen and plop my self down on the mud brick wall separating the pathway from the garden beds in order to sip my tea and stare off into space. Or, if I’m in a particularly jazzed up morning mood, I’ll read or write down dreams. Either way, this fifteen minutes of focused sitting, sipping, and staring is quite appreciated as I think of all the myriad other things I could be doing with morning time were I somewhere else…

Finally, the cup of tea is empty and I look at my watch. It’s 7:00 so I now proceed up to do a little bell ringing of my own. I take note of the quality of my rings and the expression contained within each tone and meter of the whole episode. This bell signifies that yoga class will be starting soon, and for many of the VISpas also serves as their last call to get out of bed. Yoga is of course optional, and most mornings draws about 5-7 students. It’s actually the first time in my life that I have had such a regular practice, and so I am quite grateful and indebted to the ones who initially asked me to do it, and to those who continue in persisting so that it has indeed become a regular feature of the program and something that I actually look forward to. The class is relatively short, only 45 minutes or an hour depending on how late we start and how hungry we are when the breakfast bell rings sometime between 8:15 and 8:30, but we compensate for time with intensity. My teenage students are surprisingly eager to be put through the wringer of ample jump backs and inversions and contortions that I would have certainly dreaded at 7 in the morning when I was 16. But alas this is Ladakh and the light is so pure and there is really nothing else to do until it warms up and they tell me starting the day with yoga makes them feel more awake and alive throughout, so I concur. We continue to learn more asanas, develop the whole breathing thing, meditate for a few minutes, chant om together and occasionally do the whole routine while listening to some nasty hiphop such as this morning’s Eardrum by Talib Kweli. Again it seem to be all about appreciation from afar, contrasts between old and new.

After Yoga, we’re already late for breakfast, which if it is extremely popular as it was with today’s chapatti, butter and homemade apricot jam, then we run the risk of missing out entirely. We arrived in the kitchen at 8:25 to discover breakfast was finished and none had been saved. In another more volatile setting, this incident could possibly have created waves of discontent, but fortunately we easily decided to head back to the community kitchen to make our own meal of eggs, onions, and spinach (from five feet away), topped off by generous dollops of the Velveeta-like canned - yes canned in a New Delhi factory - cheese. All this for six people in 20 minutes, leaving just enough time to make it over to the main building where our morning meeting had already begun in the VIS classroom.

The order of our classes is flexible. Yesterday, English was first. James opened with an in-class writing exercise on the concept of emptiness, which we have been eagerly applying to our studies of Buddhist history, philosophy and literature. Next came a discussion of Rushdie’s short story, the Hair of the Prophet, as part of a larger author and context study relating to the history of the Kashmir Valley. As a first year teacher working with such amazingly motivated and intelligent students, James has been able to successfully launch many facets of an English curriculum that is both thematic in its approach and intimately analytical in regards to the place based literature he has chosen. The students perpetuate the open ended discussion while at the same time they are continually pushing to find the discreet knowledge buried within the English curriculum and bring in out in workshop format.

In history class, which followed yesterday at 10:20, we began with Tess’ (student led) discussion on the Indian and J&K state constitutions in order to better understand the special provisions of autonomy originally set out for the state of J&K.. We are currently reading a brilliant analytical account of the now 60-plus year conflict surrounding the Kashmir Valley and the Indian state of Jammu and Kashmir, of which Ladakh is the unspoken third part. When I first came across this book, written by an Indian born, Oxford educated, Harvard published author named Sumantra Bose, I was completely taken aback by how effective it was in both its educational-informative approach and the objective analysis. But by no means is it a dryly written scholarly text that could only be read by a select population. From my personal reading of this book, I was convinced that not only was it entirely appropriate for high school students but that there was an overwhelming reason to read it during our place based semester on Ladakh. Indeed the 60-year dispute over the sovereignty of the Kashmir Valley and the legitimacy of India’s claim on the entire state’s allegiance is extremely convincing in and of itself. In addition to the chronological facts leading up to and following independence, Bose provides an unavoidably compelling (emotional) window into the outrage created by India’s near complete denial of democratic rights to the citizens of J&K and its violent repression of political activity in the Valley for past 60 years. One cannot help but feel some understanding if not compassion for the reluctant secessionists of the Valley who took nearly 40 years and two generations of hope to finally be transformed into the armed rebels that have become commonly known today as simply militants. The author also clearly identifies the Jacobin tendencies of the original Kashmiri political leadership led by Sheik Abdullah in its formative years as major factor leading toward the corrupt authoritarian style of government that followed and later became its trademark. And similarly, the reader comes away with an unbiased and extraordinarily accurate perspective (if such a thing is possible) on the nature of Pakistan’s thorn-in-the-side, provocateur role in initiating each of the three successive wars with its goliath neighbor as well as supporting and sustaining the armed separatist groups of the Valley. Though Pakistan and the Kashmiri groups themselves have not exactly been role models of democratic freedom, it is overwhelmingly clear that with India lies the root causes of the conflict as well as the main responsibility and capacities for finding its resolution. As the model of secular democracy in the region, there was hope all along and continues to be to this day, that India might successfully bring J&K separatists of the Hurriyat Conference along with Pakistani leadership and paramilitary groups to the table for a lasting dialogue and reconciliation process that will once and for all address the grievances and borders that have remained unsettled since October 1947. The class dialogue created around this book has thus been difficult and passionate with no shortage of questions both factual and conceptual. Next week we move into a comparative study with several other contemporary ethno-regional conflicts – Bosnia, Israel Palestine, Cyprus, Sri Lanka, and Northern Ireland - with the goal of bringing about a clearer understanding of how these strains are fundamentally not limited to one religion or another, but that they are universal and the solutions themselves are present and attainable through sustained and systematic efforts at cooperation and mutual understanding…

After History, it’s tea (sweet with milk as opposed to salty with butter) time from 11:15-11:30, though lately most of us have opted out due to the unpleasant taste and smell of the cow’s milk which most theorize is due to the cows being fed copious quantities of semi rotten onions. Sweet teatime, with or without actually consuming, provides a casual transition before work hour starts at 11:00. Work hour yesterday was particularly varied, with at least seven different groups of students (always intercultural), consisting of 5-7 members each. One of the main ongoing work hour projects of the past week, and one that I have chosen to be diligently involved in, is the shoveling out of two (of the six) composting toilets and transporting the mostly well-composted humanure out to the fields in front of the kitchen. The traditional Ladakhi compositing toilets have been improved upon here at SECMOl in that each toilet here has two lower (catchment) chambers so that one can be filled while the other is full and decomposing for up to one year. Each chamber is approximately 5 by 10 feet long and nearly 15 feet high. Needless to say, the process of chopping down one of these fecal mountains and shoveling out the subsequent “tailings” takes a little bit of getting used to. Though I am generally open to new experiences and adventurous, I still find myself protesting quite vocally when the pick ax strikes an uncomposted and downright moist area of this supposedly two year old pile. For the most part thought, the system works. Each new delivery is mixed from above with a shovel of dirt, straw, and/or cow manure, thereby making for a balanced carbon-nitrogen product, which, as it exits the lower chamber via our shovels and axes, shows barely a trace of its original form. There is however a distinct humanure scent, that lingers and at times wells up to the point of making me question the sanity and sanitation of the whole process. But again this is Ladakh and the reality is our food intake is generally quite simple, healthy, chemical-free, and whatever bacteriological/viral content that exists in the manure would have a much better chance of contaminating the kitchen than the garden, the wheel barrow or the shovel handles. Point is that we accept it and acknowledge that this really is a solution that so many western environmentalists like to advocate, but that we are actually practicing it and learning its pros and cons and hopefully improving upon the age old technique so as to make it safer, more effective, and even competitive in the modern context.

Most other work hour projects are currently revolving around the preparation of our next major science project, the new solar hot water heater. The biggest component of the prep stage will be the mud brick production. One group of students has been filtering fine clay from a streambed on the far eastern side of the campus and hauling sacks of this raw material over to the framing and drying area near to the water heater construction site. Some students have just now begun mixing the clay with 5% cement, which is not the traditional method, but in this case will ensure that the super structure of the water heater will be solid and completely impermeable. Next phase is to mix in the water and begin pouring the batter into 3 by 5 inch molds and laying them in the sun to dry for one week. When we return from our trek next week, we’ll have about 200 bricks with which to begin the layered construction of the heater. The walls will consist of bricks, surrounded by copious amounts of waste plastic insulation, followed by an exterior surface of mortar to trap the heat and block the effects moisture. On the inside of the brick structure, we’ll lay down the black ceramic tiles we so faithfully hauled (as carry on luggage) from Delhi back at the beginning of the semester. Once the interior is sealed and the plumbing has been installed, we’ll design and construct the plastic frame and over-house to provide the necessary extra insulation needed throughout the winter months. All of this should be completed during the two weeks after we return from our next trek and before the final exhibitions begin.

Up above the bathroom complex, another group of students are installing new plastic water storage tanks to replace the old array which we’re located inside the bathhouse directly above the interior row of sinks. Wangchuk and the original designers of the school had felt strongly that old steel (oil) barrels should be used whenever possible as they would otherwise become waste. Unfortunately over the years, the amount of labor and time required to repair leaks sprung at rusty seams and welded joints has far outweighed the original goal of conservation and waste reduction. With the new insulated array of plastic tanks, the system will be much simplified and hopefully require far less energy in maintenance.

Beyond these infrastructure projects, work hour is also the time to knock off major group cleaning operations, such as hand-washing all the curtains in the school, of which there are many many used to regulate the solar heating systems’ windows and doors. Mostly though, the rest of the daily maintenance, cleaning of bathrooms, animal related chores, managing of stocks and supplies is all conducted during the half hour responsibility period that immediately precedes breakfast lunch or dinner depending on the nature of one’s responsibility. These responsibilities also include the more paperwork-based duties of running the hostel’s accounts, shopping for food and supplies, running the school canteen, and managing the whole of the operations between SECMOL students VIS students and staff. All in all the campus is indeed student run. We teachers find ourselves in slightly more flexible rolls as we make suggestions and offer input, but in the end are completely integrated into the equitable work sharing systems that have been developed here over the past 15 years. In terms of work sharing and responsibility, there really is no separation here based on status or authority of any of the members, and in that way it is indeed one of the most democratic and participatory communities I have ever witnessed.

First Lesson

noreply@blogger.com (Samuel) — Thu, 14 Feb 2008 15:48:00 +0000

For science class this morning, the whole bunch of us American students and teachers - 15 in total – were led through a detailed walking tour of the SECMOL Campus’s solar technologies. The purpose was to begin to understand and appreciate the energy and design principles that have been successfully implemented on the Campus over the past 15 years, so that perhaps during the course of our semester we (Americans) might be able to contribute to the massive ingenuity that already exists here. Our guide for the morning was Acho Norgay, the 25-year old former SECMOL student who now coordinates, engineers, and teaches the science and technology program on the campus. Norgay is one of those all around spontaneous, ingenious souls who intimately understands problems on the ground from a local perspective, yet can and does tackle them with new and innovative ideas and practices. He comes across as a careful contemplator of whole systems, and definitely not as one who is inclined to be wooed by foreigners and their dreams of progress. He understands the underlying dynamic of any development scheme whether it be indigenous or externally mandated; namely that building cooperative human relationships is the crucial foundation, the alpha and omega of any successful project.

Before setting out on the tour this morning, Norgay informed us quite succinctly that no matter what we attempt to do here – from the everyday chores and maintenance responsibiltities to the semester projects including the installation of a new solar water heater and insulated greenhouse – we must first develop our own capacity to relate. We must first put ourselves on common ground with the Ladakhis who have successfully invented and managed this place from scratch. To find that equal footing should not be difficult per se, but potentially it will require of some of us a fairly radical shift in style and approach. The main lesson I got out of Norgay’s introductory talk – clearly supported by my actual experience of the past week - was that essentially anything is possible here if we begin with the effort to understand and communicate our desire to help, and of course that the assertive, self-assured (American) approach should be dispensed with immediately. This all may sound quite obvious to someone who is not intensely personally and physically involved in the life of Ladakh, but for me it has indeed been the most fundamental of learnings thus far. And finally, I am starting to get it. First observe and then get involved on their terms and offer new ideas and innovation when possible. This could be summarized as active cooperation. The systems here are already highly developed, complex, and extraordinarily successful considering the extremes of life in Ladakh. The physical parameters of climate, resource availability, general remoteness, and exposure are enough to make me question at times why people decided to settle up here in the first place. Tenuous is the word. And with that thin thread of physical subsistence, people here are of course - as it has been said many times over - some of the most vibrant and happy in the world. It is an obvious irony and one that needs to be personally reconciled over time with an understanding of Ladakhis’ attitudes and philosophy toward life. Regardless of my own process of coming to terms with the culture I find myself in, our group's overall ability to blend and settle in with SECMOL students is uncanny. Right now, they’re all downstairs having a big Valentine’s Day dance party and there’s no way I can go on writing this and ignoring all the laughter and music. Plus the cake is coming out soon and I haven’t had a proper dessert in a month… so Happy Valentine’s day from Shangri La.

Ladakh -- January 25th

noreply@blogger.com (Samuel) — Sun, 27 Jan 2008 06:46:00 +0000

--SECMOL, Phey Village, 18KM south of Ley--
I arrived only five days ago, but it feels longer and deeper than any such period I have ever known. Speaking in superlatives does not help to dispel the fear that it’ll disappear, but that type of language seems to flow forth easily. Anyhow, this is Ladakh in January. It’s minus 20 almost all day long, there’s been only two sunny days in the past week, and now it’s snowing again. The snow puts a reassuringly familiar – and beautiful mask – on the otherwise harsh and foreign craggy landscape. The Ladakh physical environment is usually characterized as either moonscape or high mountain desert. Many people would say it’s a barren, dusty, wasteland as well. Others might more generously say the landscape is austere. For me at the moment it is nothing but the most serene beauty I have ever laid eyes on. There I go again with the essentializing. Speaking this way feels doubly silly because so many others have tended to say the same thing. But fortunately, those many other (tourists) are not here in January. In the warmer months, Ley is literally swarming with them, now there are about 8 westerners in town, and from my contact with them, I would say almost all are here for some other purpose then touring – be it photography, volunteering, business, or whatever, it certainly does not feel like a tourist town. This makes it easier for me to focus on what I need to be doing. And indeed I am very happily focused. My time here, prior to the arrival of my students next Friday, is a combination of simple experience, exploration, and prep work. For the first three nights I stayed at SECMOL and experienced the daily happenings of the school, with its 35 foundations students (high school age kids who are studying for there 10th standard exams) and 60 additional elementary age kids who are at SECMOL for a 15-day enrichment course. Ladakhi schools have their three-month “summer vacation” during these the coldest months of the year. This means many students are basically stuck at home doing nothing, as there is no major farm or family work during this time. And NO tourists, hence most businesses are closed and as we said before, it’s damn cold. So what better thing to do, then come out to SECMOL for 15 days of combined ice hockey, academic enrichment and all the good old fashioned camp fun like group singing, talent shows, big communal meals, chores, but no greased watermelon…or other pool games. When I’m not working on sorting through books or typing up lesson plans for the Vermont students, I’m caught up with the program. The foundation students are up at 6AM to do a few exercises, chores, and drink tea. I’ve tried unsuccessfully to join them for the exercise period, but I could only manage to pull myself out of my warm sleeping bag once the sun had risen around 7. Soon enough, the sunrise will coincide with the exercise period and hopefully there might actually be some sun to heat the soar powered campus. Then I’ll definitely be up to lead them in some yoga which they’ve been asking for ever since it came it up in conversation class that I’ve been known to do a few asanas. After breakfast, midmorning brings a double rotation of alternating chores and ice hockey practice. I lucked out and was given the only big (size 11) pair of skates on the campus and a brand new stick freshly imported by two volunteers from Alaska. I wobbled out onto the ice for the first time in ten years and promptly remembered that I never actually played learned much how to maneuver a stick puck and skates at the same time. And the Ladakhis are highly skilled and intense about the game, so naturally I was benched for the first period. Eventually I subbed in and got me hustle (wobble) on up and down the rink, mostly not in control of my feet but managing to coordinate the movement of the skates with the stick and the puck for long enough to pass, shoot, and even score once. It’ll definitely take some practice but for the time being it’s all I got to get the blood flowing and stay warm until my skis arrive. After and hour and half of serious skating, I self-assigned my responsibility as library clean up and organization, which requires a heavy dose of dust inhalation. Then lunch which is the traditional Ladakhi fare. In fact so is breakfast and so is dinner. Basically we’re talking about rotating combinations of rice, lentils, barley, fliur, wheat flour, turnips, carrots, onions, potatoes, occasional smatterings of soy protein nuggets, and tea, lots of tea. Butter tea, sweet tea, and hot water tea sans tea. It’s good, neither here nor there, just flavorful enough to be edible, but not to get you excited about eating, enormous vegetarian portions of fairly balanced nutrition, by no means rich, but sufficiently satisfying. Especially with the help of some homemade spicy pickle. After lunch around 2PM the foundation students come find me and kindly ask that I lead the English conversation class – this is usually more of an English lecture class with me improvising long spontaneous responses to short questions from the students. The other day a student asked what New York city was like and specifically if we had many factories. I said no most of the factories left a long time ago, but that we do have some very crucial infrastructure industries that remain, such as waste management. After that, I spoke for an hour about New York’s sewage processing system, in which all waste flows into one pipe, including rain water. The students found it hard to believe that the whole purpose of the factories was to remove the water and dry the solids. We had a big laugh when one student asked if the final product could be called “poop biscuits.”

I’ve been staying now in Ley for a couple of days and today am preparing to return to SECMOL campus (18KM from Ley) for the final four days before heading down to Delhi. Today is India’s Republic Day and there are parades all over the country demonstrating the strength of the Indian nation. This morning I sat around the kitchen with my Ladakhi (guest house) family watching the Delhi parade and being astounded by the spectacle of it all. Being astounded by how convincing the concept of secular democracy and nationhood is for the Indian people, and for the foreign observer (myself and Nick Sarkozy). Nobody can deny their overwhelming enthusiasm for the idea and practice of it, the communalism of a billion people and at least six thousand distinct ethnicities. In this collective pride the nation actually seems to manifest itself as COMMUNITY. It’s all a bit hard to swallow if you’re not accustomed to it, but admittedly somehow kind of uplifiting and hopeful.

Then there is the main event, literally a parade of India’s most expensive portable military technology; tanks, missile launchers, helicopters, armed personnel carriers, and even the GI Joe style bridge layer, all followed by hundreds of military marching bands representing the countless regiments and divisions of the massive Indian armed forces. And the same thing on a much smaller scale is happening today in almost every state and regional capital of the vast country, including right here in my very own Ley, Ladakh. So I think I’ll wander around town some more and gaze at the spectacle, wondering to myself what exactly are these people thinking. And how much faith can these illustrious ideas really hold? When does the looking glass crack and the projection stop? If it’s not nationalism, then it’s globalism or cosmopolitanism, or some other novel concept for enabling our inherent ignorance. This is a terribly difficult predicament to try and articulate, and it feels horrible. I do not want to feel separate from it and will not. In fact, I really (hate) this EFING computer right now. Wrting actually makes me depressed and I don’t enjoy the real world as much afterwards. I (hate) being inside trying to express abstractions to people I cannot see. I am sorry but that’s it. So much anger is not the goal, but at this moment that’s all that comes out. To speak about overcoming ignorance in an entirely positive and not accusatory way, I’d have to be the Dalai Lama or some other similar being. For the time being, I do recognize how fortunate I am to be in such close proximity to the teachings, and with that in mind, there is really nothing else to do but take them up whole heartedly.

January 10, 2008

noreply@blogger.com (Samuel) — Sun, 27 Jan 2008 06:29:00 +0000

--Delhi--
Sitting in my hotel room in Majnukatila, the Tibetan refuge colony of Delhi, watching the Guns N Roses’ classic Welcome to the Jungle on VH1. This is India, land of contrasts and this is urban contemporary pop culture on the planet Earth; a big beautiful mess and it really doesn’t matter where on the planet you are. That is not to say Indian contemporary pop doesn’t embody its own vastly complex traditional identity, because like every other striving-to-be-modern society on the planet, there is no escaping the past. I read today in the Times of India newspaper that one language of the world becomes extinct every 14 days. This to say that tradition is being devoured, being driven to oblivion by an ever encroaching modern consumer. The Consumer of consumers, with its pervasive dream quest is perhaps nothing more than the ancient desire itself, that which gave life to growth, that which animated the human spirit to go beyond itself and to give birth to the ego. Now it is that this primordial child had grown up and is eating its parents alive. But this is a good thing in the paradoxical world of human development; we must constantly destroy that which feeds us and kill the Buddha when we see him on the road. So here in India, the Buddha is slain every day, and tradition is feeding innovation and the planet is welcoming everyone. There is no shortage. The dogs are getting fat in the streets. The cows are gods and the elephants roam freely. On the news, people are promoting automobile ownership as a basic human right.
But: sexuality is so conflicted in the swamped version of modern India, that men are compelled to desperately grope (and worse) unsuspecting women on a crowded street. “Eve teasing” they call it. Some how that name provides legitimacy and also serves to isolate the act from the broader environment that spawns such behavior. And depraved sexuality is only the beginning. How about last week’s fun story of a Tamil Nadu village mob that had gauged the eyeballs out of one its teenage sons for attempting to elope with an upper caste girl. Or the two inch box in yesterday’s Times of India that casually mentioned a wedding party’s tour bus that had plummeted into a ravine killing all 38 members aboard. A billion people all living and dying together in close quarters; add cultural fundamentalism and a uniquely vicious form of populist democracy and there you’ve got the not so cheery side of 21st century India.

But then: Economists report a three fold increase in the size of the middle class in the past 15 years, from 4% of the population to 14. Some say it’ll be 50% by 2030 but that may be a lusty projection of the mood, or perhaps not. Nobody really knows what the beast has in store. In fact nobody really cares, because like everywhere, it’s everybody for itself. Women support selfish men, even if India and now the US can have one as a president. Top dog is the goal, but for men it’s easier to hold the illusion as reality. In Buddhism the illusion is the proof of reality. But this must be recognized in order to move forward in development. And who really believes in spiritual development anyways? How do you measure someone’s commitment to the path? How genuine is the desire? How present is the path? Religion is convenient, devotion occasional when needed… Suffering, the first noble truth. When do you move on to the second, identification of the cause, let alone the third identification of the solution and finally an impulse to act, the fourth and final noble truth. The temperature has increased over the last few days in Delhi – from the dog days of 2 Celsius - and now it smells like the sewer in my hotel, instead of just on the street.

Now, in the mountains of Kashmir: I’ve found a little cabin where I can settle – for a week. Life is very comfortable. It has just snowed four feet and I am getting ready to ride 14,000 foot Himalayan powder tomorrow. But right now, I seem to have been caught watching the boob tube – ain't no running water or heating but there’s satellite TV with 1300 channels. And what do I find but the worst best horror flick ever created, The Grudge 2. How long will I sit through it and its rapid fire commercials. I should really turn it off but my TV karma is very strong indeed.
Yes I know what it is now. “Reliance Mobile Blog, I share the my diary with the whole world, because in my world there are no strangers. What’s your world?” Commercial interrupted my thought stream. Literally, it coincided with my exact thought. The blog. The diary. In my world there are also no strangers only gadgets. Things that make me closer to everybody and farther from myself. Myself. The first noble truth indicates that suffering is the result of ignorance. Ignorance means believing that the self exists; that the self can be indulged by the satisfying of its cravings and desires. The self that craves is the ego. The ego is the purveyor of this ignorance. The fear of being alone. The fear of being all one. The Buddhist way of seeing requires me to make a major leap. Perhaps this is why I’ve come here to Ladakh and Kashmir, not to sit in this cabin and watch TV.

Later, everything is resolved. The mountains take care of everything. After five days of continuous activity skiing eating and sleeping, I'm headed down to Srinagar, the Kashmir Valley, Clinton dubbed most dangerous place on earth for writing, relaxation, and meeting people. That also turned out well.

noreply@blogger.com (Samuel) — Tue, 01 Jan 2008 10:17:00 +0000

Off I go, no longer getting there, but arriving and in a matter of a few hours, BEING there!

Happy Happy and Hopeful New Year to all!!

Stay tuned and perhaps I might someday soon write something of substance once again. Until then, may all beings be happy and free, especially when they go back to work from the long holiday.

Namaste from Beirut...

noreply@blogger.com (Samuel) — Mon, 31 Dec 2007 15:38:00 +0000

No way to express, how sweet it is, but to know what it is real, that you can feel!

Give Thanks ;-))

Finally

noreply@blogger.com (Samuel) — Tue, 25 Dec 2007 16:01:00 +0000

What can I say, I've been here for nine days and taken four pictures. There is just too much to do, eat, drink, watch, listen, and celebrate. I feel too much at home to be a tourist. It's like California, Italy and Pakistan all wrapped in one bizarre geo-cultural cobb salad and I really don't what to make of it quite yet. I can say one thing for sure though; never ever in my short little life have I met or even considered the possibility of an entire country composed of such outrageously generous fun loving people. Who knows where it'll go from here, but I'll let you know as soon as I find out God. Thanks, Sam

Power of Petra (not a registered trademark)

noreply@blogger.com (Samuel) — Tue, 25 Dec 2007 14:25:00 +0000

A major rewind shall be difficult at this point, but if I didn’t briefly mention my experience in the ancient sandstone city of Petra, I would certainly be opening up a great void in my travelogue universe.

After spending those five intensely “influential” days in Rum, it was difficult to fathom leaving for a similar desert environment that I knew would be swarming with tourists. During that last evening in Rum at Mohammed’s camp, as we sat around digesting, discussing, and drinking good Israeli vino, I expressed my reluctance about dealing with the hassles of yet another major tourist site. Eighth wonder of the world or puddle of mud, it really didn’t seem to matter, mainly because I was quite content where I was. But upon hearing these hesitations, without so much as a moment’s consideration of my dilemma, the Israelis, all of whom had visited Petra at least once, scoffed and said quite clearly that I should and must go. As fellow climbers, I was certain that their advice could not be the result of blasé impressions or contrived, guidebook type agendas. No, these were very discerning dudes who would not so strongly suggest a destination based simply on its reputation.

My biggest qualm with this sort of international travel tourism that I’ve been doing is that we’re all basically told to go the same places because (for obvious reasons) the places have some great historical or cultural distinction. In the end unfortunately, nobody is really making their own decisions. It’s the educated sheep mentality. This of course is the totally natural approach for us sheep-like humans when walking about in a new and mysterious country. Nobody disputes that all the major sites are indeed spectacular, for why else would they be designated as such, but for me the catch is not so much the destination itself but the surrounding the experience. My appreciation does not so much depend on the grandeur of the site but more so on the experience of being there, walking about, contemplating, and taking in. This is by necessity a slow and personalized process. The difficulty is that some places, for example the Pyramids at Giza, seem to have absolutely no room for a surrounding (slow) experience of any sort, at least not for a casual traveler who doesn’t know any better. Now that I think about it, my day at the Pyramids was perhaps one of the most dull experiences of the whole trip, and so when I was first considering going to Petra without really knowing how unique the place was, I was quite concerned it might be a similarly frustrating, and ultimately a waste of time. Hordes of tourists and convoys of coaches, constant haggling over camel rides and Pepsis, hot sun, zero shade, nothing but sand underfoot, and a few enormous crumbling edifices to gawk at; this was not my idea of fun and would be sure to avoid it in the future.

But low and behold! I could not have been any more mistaken in regards to these Egypt-based preconceptions of Petra. For one thing, Petra is by no means a tour bus accessible site. To even begin to enter the ancient city, one is required to walk, or at the very least be carried by donkey or camel, a full 3km through the main entrance canyon. And from there, there is at least another 20kms of promenades to the main edifices and ceremonial sites, to say nothing of the hundreds of minor pathways and trails that lead throughout the smaller ruins of the old city. All of this is to say that Petra is not a quick, off-the-bus-on-the-bus type destination. It is recommended to spend at least two days meandering through the landscape, slowly absorbing the remains of a culture that was developed over three thousand years in complete harmony with its surroundings.

The atmosphere today on the main promenades of the city is an extraordinary mixture of tourists and locals mingling in a totally relaxed yet active mode of being. Bedouin guides and shop keepers, beckoning but not insisting, tourists walking but not hurrying, local children playing more than working; this is the Petra that I experienced, a place where the old facades and archeological ruins blend and blur seamlessly with the modern adaptations for tourism and trade. In its own way, Petra has not died; though it may have been lost and unseen by anyone but a Bedouin for five hundred years, the city today is most certainly alive and evolving.

What is referred to as the ancient Petra is a massive layered conglomeration of three thousand years of Nabatean, Roman, and Crusader construction and cultural development. Carved out of the sandstone by successive waves of enterprising kingships, the amphitheaters, churches, tombs, and other such royal dwellings, though partially eroded in many places, still protrude distinctively from the canyon walls and tickle the imagination. Interspersed throughout the major buildings, are countless smaller homes and shelters, so tightly packed in some areas that it gives the feel of modern apartment complexes existing in a paradoxically urban, manmade, manipulated yet completely natural environment. Alas, it’s the ideal eco-village, complete with complex flood-control systems, water wheels, irrigation, agriculture and energy. Nowadays, generators have replaced the indigenous technologies, but nonetheless, the Bedouin are out there carving out a seemingly decent livelihood from a mix of crop production, goat herding, and tourism.

Over the two days I was lucky enough to spend discovering Petra, I walked about, scrambled and stemmed my way up and down, canyons, valleys, animal trails, and gentle desert ridgelines. The landscape was at points completely overwhelming, especially at sunset, when the fleeting orange hues would linger endlessly on the rolling bulges of white sandstone that lined the eastern canyons. At the end of both days, I chose fortuitously to exit Petra through these surreal white gateways to the setting sun, walking up and into what felt like a magical bath of angelic light, brushing away hunger and sadness with every upward breath. On both days it was exactly the same; just as I reached the pinnacle of these luminous white ridges and the blazing red orb had dipped below the horizon, I was completely swallowed up by an energizing tidal wave of love for the earth and complete awe for its (her?) beauty. This feeling more than anything else is why Petra is pure, and why the human beings there are still to this day able to blend with the nature, and why even with the whir of generators and the intrusion of modern restaurants and port-o-potties, the place has an undeniable resonance of power that must in some way affect every person who visits. Clear and simple, it is a sacred place available to all, no matter what path one chooses to trod. Me personally, I can’t wait to go back!

Wadi Rum

noreply@blogger.com (Samuel) — Thu, 20 Dec 2007 09:03:00 +0000

The difficulty with this medium is its limitlessness. It is in fact not one medium at all, but a great messy collage of many overlapping possibilities. As such, the medium of the blog and the medium of life are quite similar. When one suffers, the other projects. It seems no one wants to read about this aspect of (my) experience but of course it’s there and must be levied against the inspiration.

I arrived in the Bedouin village of Wadi Rum happy as a clam. It had been two days since I left Cairo, traveling overnight across the Sinai to reach the port of Nuweiba and then climbing aboard the ferry for the four hour trip to Aqaba, Jordan. From Aqaba, it was just a matter of one night’s fitful sleep in a cramped hotel room with a snoring Spaniard and some light provisioning in the morning, then I was off.

Undeniably, in all ways and at all moments, Wadi Rum was very, very good to me. First of all, as you might infer from the picture below, it is one of the most astoundingly gorgeous desert landscapes in the world.

The village itself (sprawled out on the valley floor between the massifs of Jebel Rum and Jebel Khalazi) is a pleasant place to stay. The Bedouin people are relaxed and living quite comfortably, many of them banking heartily off the growing tourist flow. Almost every adult male of Wadi Rum owns a Landcruiser, and when they’re not using it to transport goats or building materials, or whatever, there is no shortage of tourists wishing to pay 50 bucks for a ride around the desert. Fortunately for me, the tourists don’t seem to get out of the vehicles to walk around much, so in five days of climbing and hiking I did not meet a single one except in the parking lot of the village’s only restaurant.

The climbing and hiking was delicious sweet surrender. On the afternoon of my arrival, I hiked out into the desert and took this picture from atop an outlying tower in front of the main massif of Jebel Rum. These two hours of twilight strolling and scrambling through the winding canyons were all that was needed to convince me that I had come to the right place. The desert sunk its claws into my soul on that first afternoon and from sunset onwards, all other details slipped into place as water in the sand. The most definitive aspect of my good fortune was meeting Elad and his friends that night in the restaurant. Longtime Rum climbers, they told me everything I wanted to know about the valley and suggested that I migrate over to the other campsite in town where there was a free kitchen for use as well as many other conveniences and comforts. The following day after climbing with Mohammed, a local Bedouin kid who knows all the classic routes, I headed over to the climbers camp and just as I was walking in, Elad’s friends were walking out with their backpacks on. Turns out they had been unexpectedly required to drive back to their home town of Haifa that evening, thereby leaving Elad to wait until the end of the week for his other partners to arrive. This turn of fate naturally offered me the opportunity to climb three days with Elad, who of course was not just any climber dude, but one of the strongest and most experienced in the Valley, and certainly one of the most conscientious, respectful, and focused persons I have ever met. Needless to say, I thanked my lucky stars many times throughout the rest of the week (even as I struggled hard to follow the 5.12 cracks that Elad led effortlessly) and tried as much as possible to express my gratitude to him whenever possible.

The four days of climbing was intense; full of manifest suffering at times from a mix of hot sun and cold shade, sharp sandstone whose integrity that I never fully learned to trust, painful shoes that for some reason seem to have shrunk two sizes since I wore them in Alaska, and most of all my frantic head and deflated body out of shape from two months of malnutrition and sitting on my ass. At the end of the week, when Elad’s friends arrived and it was time for me to move on to Petra, I was left with the uncomfortable sensation of wanting more but knowing that I couldn’t handle it physically. My hands were torn up and toes blistered, physically I was quite a mess and emotionally I had an overwhelming sense of deficiency, which lingered heavily for some days and never fully subsided. But as with any difficult endeavor, the rewards I suppose are inevitably worth the hardships, even if the eventuality is uncertain and hard to ascertain in the moment.

(More climbing pics coming soon!)

Oddities

noreply@blogger.com (Samuel) — Thu, 20 Dec 2007 07:51:00 +0000

This is a message posted throughout the decks of the Nuweiba-Aqaba ferry boat -- see below for a picture of the oddly designed boat. I think there must have been something missed in the translation of the word "opinions," but nonetheless it is an accurate reflection of the paradox of Islamic politics.

Pyramids and Pudding

noreply@blogger.com (Samuel) — Thu, 06 Dec 2007 08:50:00 +0000

I'm kind of at the end of a line here. I took the night train down from Luxor three days ago and ever since I stepped off into that morning haze of Cairo's chaotic rush hour with no direction and no connection, life has been good; I certainly can't complain even though at times I really try.

It is quite a special experience to get off the train sleepy-eyed and slowly in a brand new city of 20 million people and have no idea where to go and no need to go anywhere. First step I took was to exit the station and go in search of a morning beverage. This ended me at an adjacent orange juice stand, where during the course of drinking, I was befriended by an Egyptian man who had just returned from living for 14 years in Namibia. For god knows what reasons exactly, this man Mahmoud was entirely devoted to helping me get to where i needed to go -- namely downtown, where the LP recommended budget hotels are located-- without any need for personal gain whatsoever. I say this with a bit of incredulity because it was a first for me in Egypt. Not that people are any less helpful and good natured here, it’s just that in relation to other places I’ve been on this trip, the level of street swindlers, scammers and sellers is astronomically higher. I have had to build up a hardy shell of skepticism in my encounters with people on the street, only to avoid being the constant victim of thickly embellished sales schemes.

After finishing our juice, Mahmoud and I took a taxi together to downtown Cairo and he dropped me off right where I needed to be. I got out the taxi and wandered several blocks down from the enormous traffic rotary of death at Mahab Tahrir and started looking for the budget hotels. Of course before I had a chance to find the one I was looking for, some dude with a striking resemblance to Tiger Woods asked me what I was looking for and if he could help. To be sure this was by no means going to be a selfless act. But in the end, Tiger Woods, as he preferred to be called, was genuinely helpful and pretty hilarious. First I asked if he could help me find the Syrian embassy, after which he insisted on showing me a hotel which he thought would be more suitable for me and my budget. He brought me up to the Dahab Hotel on the seventh and top floor of a building in the heart of downtown Cairo. This place turned out to be a real oasis of rooftop calm, potted plants, and a very diverse array of international backpacker types, from the classic Euros to the quirky Christian surfers from Hawaii, to a really sweet couple from Washington Avenue in FT Greene BROOKLYN! But what convinced me to follow Tiger’s advice was not so much the sweet setting of the place which didn’t really become apparent until later, but it was more the fact than when I arrived at the reception desk, the people checking in before me were none other than the two travelers sitting next to me on the train, whom I had noticed but not spoken with. As usual, nothing is as it seems and it’s always better to follow a whim than a reason.

Back to Tiger. After I checked in contentedly, he naturally insisted I come downstairs to his perfume shop and have a look around. I chuckled lightly thinking there was no way he would sucker me after I told him countless times that I was not in the market. But low and behold, after two cups of tea and his long monologue about the energetic chakra healing properties of his uniquely high quality essential oils (and me realistically considering the fact that I have been without any deodorant or added body scent for two months), I gave in. I left the shop happily and indeed energetically awakened from my overnight train stupor. On my way back upstairs to the Dahab, I bumped into the the two from the train who happened to be Canadian -- Sarah and John -- who were on their way out to visit the markets and mosques of Old Cairo. At first I thought I needed to shower and relax, but after some good cajoling and conversation with them, I was convinced to head right out and dive into the sights of the city.

From that point forward, I’ve been blessed with a continual barrage of Cairo sight seeing, walking, driving, talking, and taking in. I could have spent hours inside the Cairo museum but of course I was a bit distracted and disgruntled by the package tour hordes. I did leave the museum however fully satisfied by the experience of seeing the mummified body of Ramses II and about 20 other major pharonic personalities under glass and wrapped in the original formaldehyde soaked bandages of three thousand years ago. Something about the shriveled bodies and frazzled orange hair still clinging to their softball sized skulls really gave me a sense of what everyone is after here... We love the dead because it reminds us of how nice life is now?

After the museum, I strolled across one of the many Nile bridges into the upscale (island) neighborhood of Zamelek with a plan to meet a friend of a friend for dinner. Dear sweet Rima from NYC had mentioned to me several months back that she had a friend Suzanne who owned a restaurant in Cairo. Of course at the time I had no idea that Suzanne owned the best restarurant in the whole damn city and her and her husband and their 3-year old boy are amazing people and quite a blessing to know. The restaurant, La Bodega is set up in amazing colonial era mansion, with goegroeus murals, a decked out comfy lounge bar, and an extensively mouth watering menu that was on par with the best of the best in that other little upscale island neighborhood we all know so well. We sat and dined and chatted for three hours about their lives, my trip, and the frenetic nature of cairo. I left feeling for the first time completely recharged and ecstatic to be in Cairo. More than anything, I was humbled once again by the enormous generousity of what would otherwise be strangers and also again by an overwhelming appreciation for the unfolding plan, of which I seem to have no ultimate control but complete trust in.

And now it only gets better. I spent yesterday bouncing around in a mini bus to the three major Cairo pyramid sites (my own little package tour). It all began at one in the morning the night before when I mentioned to the manager of the Dahab that I might like to travel down to Giza for the day and in a matter of five minutes he had returned to me with news that a German couple was looking to do the same and it could be arranged for only 12 dollars a person. So off we went, me and the middle aged german couple, Joseph and Monica, to check off perhaps the single most acclaimed tourist experience in the world. In full style, we circumnavigated the Giza pyramids atop horses, gazing at the dessert monoliths and the Disney like clamor of 100,ooo others streaming about. This experience could be nothing more than slightly anticlimactic, alas we quickly moved on to the next site. The highlight of the day was indeed at the Saqara Red Pyramid, into which we were allowed to descend without paying the usual additional 10 or 20 dollar ticket charge. The inside of the three thousand year old building smelled strongly of ammonia or perhaps stale pee pee. Either way it was quite a memorable space for a minute. But actually the most memorable part of the day was the rush hour traffic through Cairo on the way back north. I believe the city planners must simply have forgotten to consider the modern predicament of cars and drivers. In fact, there is no city planning at all in Cairo! The city is ancient and completely broken when it comes to driving. The subway system ain’t half bad though, but the roads are a mess! Trying to cross the street on foot is a bit like Russian roulette though I’ve heard Delhi and Bangkok might be worse.

Anyhow, I don’t really to have to worry about traffic anymore because last night after returning to the hotel with the Germans, (who by the way it turns out are professional waste oil collectors, biodiesel manufacturers and diesel engineers back home in Munich) I packed my bag and took the metro down to the wealthy Cairo suburb of El Maadi. Yet another example of the unfolding goodness of the plan and people along the way, back in Luxor, I met a group of American school teachers – they happen to be Canadian but what’s the difference, eh – and one of them named Laura was sweet enough to offer me her guest bedroom in the house (see above) she shares with her boyfriend Hanni and their two cats. It was really pretty extraordinary to make this offer after knowing me for all of an hour and a half and to be honest I wasn’t really sure if it was right of me to take advantage of such openness. But I guess the point is nothing is to be taken advantage of out here, only appreciated and reciprocated. Though it may sound smug cliché or contrived, I realize this is the only approach to life when you have no home, only the world as nesting material. I’ll even go so far as to say, the proof is in the pudding.

Last night we ate at the Korean restaurant RIGHT around the corner from their house, then came back “home” and baked cupcakes for Laura’s seventh grade class bake sale. We chatted about the demands of teaching and the love/hate intensity of the city. Hanni and I spoke about the fruit and vegetable distribution business that he owns with his brother and Egyptian agriculture. By the end of the night, I felt more comfortable and ‘familiar’ than I have in a month, at least since I left Daniela in Nanyuki. I woke up this morning completely refreshed from the first real night’s sleep in weeks, took a beautiful shower, ate cereal and drank tea. Now it’s time to part ways with the slumbering cats of this lovely abode and go a wandering and book shopping on these new jersey-esque streets.

Valley of the Kings

noreply@blogger.com (Samuel) — Sun, 02 Dec 2007 19:07:00 +0000

Today I rode a bicycle 40 kilometers up and around the ancient cemetery of Thebes. It was perhaps the most overwhelming tourist experience I've ever had, with literally 70,000 of us stumbling around the tombs and monuments to the dead. I felt a bit awkward paying 20-30$ to gawk at the walls and stare dumbfounded at the colorful hieroglyphics and graphic adornment. The whole experience felt like a bit of a trespass, with an air of voyerism and necrophilia. In an hour, I'm off to Cairo on the night train. I think this'll be a good move for deepening my perspective and appreciation for the country. Tune out the tourism and hopefully begin to blend in a bit.

Down the Tube to Egypt

noreply@blogger.com (Samuel) — Sat, 01 Dec 2007 21:17:00 +0000

(slow train through northern Sudan)

(Lake Nasser Ferry at sunrise)

(Karnak Temple entrance)

I've been watching many bad American movies on Arabic television in the lobby of this pleasant backpacker hotel in Luxor. Right now, I find it difficult to concentrate on writing anything of substance with the TV blaring. But with free high speed Internet and tea, I must take advantage of my circumstances and write what ever comes out.

Since arriving by boat three days ago from Lake Nasser in Sudan, this journey -- and my corresponding state of mind which is the real driver of everything out here -- has drastically shifted. For a month and half I was fully immersed in Africa. For a month and half the experience was genuinely mine. Even in Ethiopia or Zanzibar where there were many tourists, I never once felt like I was being pegged and pinned by the locals for being one. I travelled with the sense that I was actually discovering something new and genuine for myself and using this blog to report about it. The Africa of Sudan, Ethiopia, Tanzania, Kenya was indeed brand new for me and relatively untrammeled by others like me. In Egypt, it's not only that there are hordes and hordes of tourists, but that the entire country (for me only the cities of Aswan and Luxor) seem to be almost completely designed to cater to the tourist desire. There are rows upon rows of markets with stalls selling an almost identical selection of spices, carved trinkets, clothes, jewelry, water pipes, and the like. Through the rows wander countless package-tour groups that have sailed up the Nile in luxurious cruise ships or sped up the high way in plush air

conditioned buses. Most appear to be Europeans (and Japanese, see above) on holiday. I say more power to them. Come to Egypt and appreciate the heritage. Come to Egypt and give your money to Egyptians. Thus far, it appears I have stumbled upon the true tourist mecca, but of course this not all there is to it and most definitely not the experience I desire.

(Aswan mosque)

I am in fact completely uninterested in visiting the archaeological sites, though yesterday and today I happily ride a rented a bicycle from one ancient Thebian site to the next. When in Luxor, there is really no choice but to do as the tourists do. This is fine, but what I'm really after is Egypt of the present. What is Egypt, who are the Egyptians, how do they see themselves? These questions began to occur as soon as I stepped out of the tube and into the culture. There is a very strange air of confusion about this place. Neither Africa nor the middle east, neither black nor white, but according to one educated Egyptian man I spoke with last night, the culture can best be described as pharonic. I laughed, but this is actually quite true. Egyptian identity is distinct and as a whole, the country can rightfully claim a direct lineage to pharoahs. I'm not sure if this distinction actually has any positive influence over culture and politics in Egypt today. The country is indeed a political force to be reckoned with in the region, and it is definitely the world capital of moderate Islam's mainstream media and education. But all this is in Cairo, and I am not there yet. Hopefully, with the few connections I have in Cairo, I'll gain those genuine windows into the Egyptian reality that I seek more than pyramids.

In Sudan, the windows were sublime and almost entirely inaccessible in a mere five days. Here it's the reverse but ultimately the same. Culture is blatantly lathered on the tourist but in such a way that the authenticity becomes questionable. From the Egyptian men I met in Sudan right through my three days in Egypt, I have run head on into bigotry and ignorance many times. In three or four different instances, Egyptian men have articulated to me the view that black Africans are lazy and Egypt is a cut above not only all of Africa, but the middle east as well. Having this kind of racist small talk so casually thrown out makes me want to dismiss the whole country outright. But then I remember that this is only an obstacle on the path to finding the windows. It'd be like going to Texas and concluding that all of the United States advocates concealed weapons and the death penalty. Unfortunately there are large sections of the population in any country, no matter how open minded and progressive the whole, that convey narrow provincial opinions. Sometimes, these people are even tools of the state, such as the current situation in Khartoum with the 600 "protesters" yesterday demanding death for the British teacher who's students named a teddy bear Muhammad. It is absolutely astounding to me that everywhere in the world, but especially in the Arabic speaking countries, blind allegiance and faith in authority figures overrides all human instincts of compassion. Bigotry and arrogance often wins the majority. People label themselves with this or that religion, nationality, or ethnicity, but so often the labels only serve to confuse.

What makes me happy more than anything out here is when I meet someone who is willing to grapple with these ideas, to engage, not to agree. Of course language can be a major limitation, but somehow, maybe not everyday, but always just at the right times, these folks cross my path and bestow their perspectives and knowledge in such a way that I am enlightened not defensive. Sometimes there is a fine line, such as the case last night in a conversation I had with the American owner of the Oasis Cafe...

(Feluccas on the Nile)

Khartoum

noreply@blogger.com (Samuel) — Sun, 25 Nov 2007 18:04:00 +0000

my multimedia mess:

(The above video clips were recorded this past Friday evening, during the weekly Sufi celebration here in Khartoum. In the course of one day, how completely one's reality of a place can shift. From sick in stinky overpriced hotel to breathing fresh air and eating wild arugula on the banks of the Blue Nile, Friday was an epic in itself which ended with these two hours of ectsatic music and dance in a Sufi cemetrary.)

Friday Saturday and Sunday

Where to begin eludes me (also where to end and where to go in between). It seems like I have been here in Sudan for years, but only three days have elapsed. How quick I was to judge! And how ironic that I would choose the word groovy in my previous post, sarcastically describing and nearly dismissing the whole of the country in one FOUL mood! Understandably, entry into a new atmosphere is always a bit rough with no guidance systems whatsoever. I came here blindly and what's more is that I was quite fixated on how pleasant and pleasurable the previous atmosphere was. Let me stand completely corrected. The experience of being in Khartoum for three days has evolved beyond me and my puny ideas of how it should and shouldn't be. This is the most basic realization there is for me. That when traveling to a new place, there is no choice but to let go of all preconceptions and believe nothing until it is presented as true by the experience itself.

The tendency for me is to enter a place looking to confirm or refute some simplified preconception, usually an association that has been generated over the years by a mix of media and government messages. In Ethiopia, it was famine. In Sudan, it's war, genocide, Islamism, or whatever's the latest NPR buzz word. But after being here for THREE days, I'm finished with that approach. Regrettably I am of course catching the train tomorrow to Egypt, so there is no more time to try any approach. This has been my typical pattern. The minute I arrive, my mind and body start to settle and tune in. And Like a tree sapling which is planted in fertile soil, I resist being uprooted. Just as the first tendrils take hold, it happens again. In Sudan, the medium is very rich indeed but tapping in and actually absorbing something of value is slow and restrained. this is the nature of the Muslim culture. The opening up and ability to relate is all the more valuable.

Camping at the Blue Nile Sailing Club has been the ultimate boon to my existence here. Through the club, I've been blessed with the most beautiful scenery in the entire city, cool temps, gentle evening breezes, and most importantly a steady stream of interesting english speaking Sudanese and tourist people with whom to chat and pass the time

This is a view of the Blue Nile Sailing Club from the water. The church in the background is catholic which is an oddity in Sudan. this morning sunday the church rang its bell on the hour every hour from 12 am to 9am and i did not sleep because the bell was in my head in my tent. i think the church must feel a little competitive edge with the constant public address coming from the countless mosques that surround it. who can blame the for a little aggressive bell ringing.

Now it's way past midnight and I'm supposed to be a the train station at six am. i'm losing it. this bog (blog) is consuming my brain. sudan is indescribable. so much experience, so little time. i;m smoking benson and hedges with the high rolling chinese engineers. last night they took us out for a 200 dollar meal at Khartoum's only Korean restaurant. endless gernousity. tonight we sit around at their hotel using the free internet. the hotel sells beer which is illegal in this country. nothing makes sense, i'm losing it. must stop uploading video. takes hours. tomorrow I travel on the 48 hour slow train with two backpacker friends from hong kong. we have to sit in separate rooms on the train because they are female. whatever comes my way here is a miracle. the whole trip is miraculous. traveling is a metaphor for life. journey to nowhere. new places everyday. it's all illusion. allah is the only god. they say in the the Koran it's written that jesus is not the son of god, but only a prophet like Muhammad. i believe what they tell me. i am adaptable, why not?

ok, so this is not my intention to ramble endlessly but nothing is permenent in the realm of the autosave.

ps.-- this last picture i dub the Libyan Egg Mall. Contrary to what the shape of the building embodies, I imagine the Libyans who financed this project in downtown Khartoum never intended to sell any poultry products in any scale. It dominates the skyline and is set to open its shopping plaza, hotel and offices sometime in the next month. for all those who think sudan is a war torn poverty stricken african country run by islamic fundamentalists, well it's all that and then some. one thing is clear, the sudanese government is not getting any poorer and neither are the NGO's who come here to save the people from themselves. that said i'm going to camp on the river. hasta las pyramides...

Back Live Again

noreply@blogger.com (Samuel) — Fri, 23 Nov 2007 08:43:00 +0000

I'm sitting up in the second floor lobby of one of the many high end, super gaudy hotels in downtown Khartoum, SUDAN. Indeed it was easy and safe to cross the south eastern dessert. My German travelling buddy and I sailed smoothly from Gonder up to Gederif Sudan in one long day. We parted ways in Gedarif where he went off to the Eritrean border crossing at Kassala, and me seven hours in air conditioned coach up to Khartoum. Three separate border security checks, and seven on route. Yes seven times on the road to Khartoum, I had to exit the coach and present my passport, travel permit, and registration in a hot dusty shack to some mildly suspicious, sleepy eyed immigration officer. I told them surely that Sudan takes more precautions against foreigners than the USA. In the end, there was only hassle, not harassment. Once when I took a picture of the sunset in front of one of the shacks, I was sternly reminded that pictures are not allowed in Sudan without a permit. Otherwise they simply wrote my name, passport number, profession, and nationality in some dusty log book and sent us on our way.

At Sudan-Ethiopia border of Metema-Galabat

Arrived in the city center yesterday afternoon around 4PM and set about finding a groovy place to sleep. Then I realized quickly that Khartoum isn't really the grooviest city on the planet. First off, to get similar quality accommodations to what I payed seven dollars for in Ethiopia, here in Khartoum the base would be $50. Food along with transport and all the other necessities are equally as out of proportion. The Sudanese pound was recently adjusted for inflation and now 2SP=1USD. This simply does not jive with the apparent poverty and quality of life I see all around me, so I can only assume I'm often paying foreigner prices. This is the classic double standard which I accept to a certain degree, but here it's a bit over the top. No worries though, I was well taken care of last night.

I checked in to the Khalil hotel which is actually more of a males only boarding house. These are called lokendas and they are the standard low budget option at 4.50 USD for a bed in a shared room. Last night, I was put in a room with three Egyptian dudes (Khalil, Hassan, and Sharif) who were in Sudan on some kind of construction based business endeavor. They were extremely friendly and took a keen interest in taking care of me. After I dropped my bag they suggested going out to their favorite Egyptian run cafe around the corner from the hotel. We ate the

classic Sudanese/Egyptian dish called ful, which is basically a bowl of brown beans with a bunch of condiments and fillers thrown on top such as egg, cheese, tomato, and really oily bland falafel balls. Sop it all up with a round of bread that is placed on the surface of the dirty plastic table. Follow bean gorge with super sugary juice drink and mysterious custard in a bowl, and yes you guessed it, wake up in agony around 3am and spend the next four hours running frantically from the the hot dingy room down the hall to the pungent hole in the floor. The porcelain squatting setups are actually physicologically beneficial, but not when it's a continual emergency situation. At last around seven, I went through the final oral trajectory and I was cured. A little low energy this morning, but extremely happy to have survived the ordeal in such a quick progression.

This morning, it also helped that I spent the morning strolling serenely down Nile Street. This street is a haven of trees and gentle breeze blowing south across the 1/2 mile wide Blue Nile before it joins the white one flowing north from Uganda. After taking a required detour around the enormous republican palace, I made it to the Blue Nile Sailing Club, the true haven where I'll pitch my tent later today and hopefully spend the rest of the weekend sailing around Khartoum. Incidentally, there is no way I would have thought to find a sailing club in Khartoum if I hadn't been gifted the Sudan Bradt guide by the french man at Belegez. In fact, this whole experience would probably be an enormous struggle without it, as only maybe 1 in 20 people in find speak a lick of English. Don't get me wrong, people are generally helpful and friendly. I'm learning Arabic by necessity and I'm certainly making my way smoothly northwards, but I gotta say it ain't nothing like the promised land I left behind.

My only need at this point is to get the train ferry connection so I can move northward to Egypt on Monday. The overland option on rubber wheels and fine sand roads through the northern dessert is not at all enticing. I tried to buy the train ticket today but of course Friday is Muslim rest day and after a 50 minute walk across the river through the industrial section of Khartoum North I was told to come back tomorrow.

Hopefully I'll take some better pictures tomorrow (without getting arrested) and update this Sudan posting with a little more optimism and appreciation for the details.

The North

noreply@blogger.com (Samuel) — Tue, 20 Nov 2007 22:13:00 +0000

The North

Most tourists who come to Ethiopia are set on some kind of historical circuit, bouncing from one cultural, historical or geographical wonder to the next. There are eight UNESCO cultural and environmental heritage sites in this country and beyond those, there are more layers than one could explore in a lifetime. Funny thing is, for most westerners who have never visited or learned about the country, the immediate association is still -- from the mid-80’s -- famine, starving people, Hands Across America, and possibly a vague sense of historical significance? I wonder how many people giggle ironically when they hear that Ethiopian food is by far one of the best and most abundant in the world, and that the place itself is considered the true Zion by followers of various religions.

The food is only a superficial misconception. The real truth of this place is something much deeper and more difficult to discover on a two and half week vacation. Unlike the rest of the tourists and backpacker types, I have intentionally foregone with the historical circuit. I figured if I didn’t have time to see it all – Lalibela’s rock-hewn churches, Aksum’s 30 meter obelisks, Lake Tana’s ancient island monestaries, and the thriving Lower Omo Valley indigenous culture just to name a few – than I would just relax and do what called to me most. So I took off from Addis and headed straight for the northern city of Gonder, conveniently located directly on the route to Sudan and only a three hour bus ride from the Simien Mountains, highest range in Africa and oddly popular trekking destination for foreigners of all ages and fitness levels.

I literally frolicked around Gonder for the two days prior, meeting new folks, seeing the sites, sharing good food and inspiring conversation. My 7 dollar a night hotel, the Belegez Pension was by far the most luxurious and friendly home base I’ve had yet. Guests included almost every European nationality but not a single American. This is a good thing for me, as Ethiopians seem to generally LOVE Americans, more so as they are rare in the country and especially the jovial ones. I notice that I enjoy this place the most when I am at my most sociable and outgoing, therefore this is what I try to be everyday, and it works, especially today my last full day in the country.

But back to Gonder. Capital of Ethiopia from the early 1600’s until the late 1800’s, the city is built mostly on top but to an amazing degree around its pre-modern edifices. The most famous (one of the eight Ethiopian UNESCO sites) is the Palace of Fasilades, commonly referred to as the African Camelot. I will leave it up to folks unfamiliar to do your own digging, only to say that the place lives up to and possibly exceeds its European namesake. The palace is actually an 8-hectare grouping of stone walled castles built by seven successive Ethiopian kings, and one Queen. Throughout its two hundred and fifty year history, some infighting occurred, but for the most part there was smooth transfer of power and stability until the 1883 Somali invasion. After that, Ethiopia was sucked into the modernizing vortex created by European colonization and expanding global communication and trade networks. In the end, it was Emperor Haile Sellassie who moved the capital to Addis in 1921, but the palace buildings remained until the close of World War II when the British aerial bombardment of the Italian occupiers severely damaged or destroyed much of what we see today. The place is nonetheless a souring testament to an original Kingdom which claims its direct lineage from King Solomon.

Gonder is only the most recent of the pre-modern capitals, and for me it will have to remain at least temporarily as my only glimpse into the living history of this country. For now more than ever, I realize my time on the continent is short. This is of course by personal choice that I decided to try to squeeze 8 or 9 countries into a two and half month overland SPRINT. My heart was set on trekking in the Simiens, so I nixed the idea of catching a short flight to Lalibela or one of the other northern historic sites. The thought of meandering around with herds of fellow tourists for two days and spending more money that I had was in the end quite unappealing. I actually went to the airport on Saturday morning with a reservation for the flight, but while sitting at breakfast amongst the herds I made up my mind. So I stroll out the airport doors intending to catch a taxi back to Gonder and the first person I meet is none other than the manager of the Simien Lodge (www.simiens.com) who is at the airport to pick up the owner off a flight from Addis.

Sure enough, this extraordinary man named Fantu who is the lodge’s Ethiopian co-owner with a Brit is happy to give me a lift (four hours of smooth cruising on dirt road in a new Toyota Hilux, a diesel pick up not sold in the US!) I figure this is a resoundingly auspicious turn of fate, and what choice do I have but to pack my trekking bag, quickly purchase four days of food and jump in. By late afternoon we arrive at the high altitude (and high luxury) lodge located 10KMs inside the national park boundary. Fantu hooked me up with the $20 per night dorm room (empty but me and facing the setting sun), showed me to the giant circular fireplace in the middle of the lodge, and left me with the best damn hospitality of any hotel I have ever experienced, in the world.

Next morning, I saddled up my pack and we set out down the dirt road leading to the main hiking trail. When I say we, I do not mean that I buddied up with some fellow backpackers, though there were many many to be encountered at the three main camps along the way. No, I’m talking about Jambor, the armed scout with whom I was required to travel (closely) for the duration of my stay inside the Simien National Park. It’s kind of a silly disorganized system, but every single person who enters the park – both Ethiopians and foreigners, though there is separate fee schedules – is required to have one of these guys. I was very lucky in that Jambor spoke and understood a fair amount of English. Most scouts do not and for this reason, most tourists also have to pay for a guide, and then of course most are not interested in carrying a heavy pack so they also pick up a mule and a mule driver. Needless to say this ain’t your average pack and go type of backcountry excursion. What was most unique was the fact that the Simien Mountains aren’t wilderness at all, at least in the normal sense of a place with little or no human impact. The terrain is in fact all high altitude grazing land with the steepest and wettest slopes devoted to barley cultivation. I kept thinking about possible similarities to what I might encounter in LADAKH.

My expectations had to adjust a bit with the sight of so much human activity, unfortunately including serious overgrazing and litter. Theoretically speaking, the highland people could be relatively prosperous growing frost resistant crops and raising sheep, goats, and cattle on the rich pasture. But this is most certainly not the case. Conflict number one stems from the fact that the government, park administration, and indeed many NGO’s are working to get the people out of the park and returned to the lowlands. All sorts of novel concepts for sustainable relocation have been proposed but to date the highland people persist. The other issue is that there is nearly zero additional infrastructure to provide for the peoples’ basic needs beyond what they build and prepare themselves. With only thatch-roofed mud hut villages and the nearest town a 2-5 hour bus ride down the treacherous slopes, the pursuit of health and education becomes an arduous journey for those that are lucky enough to have the idea in the first place. I met several children with infected soars, malnourished and eager to make a little cash by selling a handmade hat or basket. Some told me there was primary school in the villages, but judging from the fact that most were out herding animals in the middle of the day, this was not a regular fixture. I did meet a couple secondary school students who took the bus down to Debark town to spend the week studying and return to their families on the weekends. All in all though, the situation was not so optimistic for the majority.

Of course, this is the general predicament that many of us westerners expect to see especially in the rural areas of the so-called developing world. And my expectations were not much different, except that here in Ethiopia the relative situation is different. Physical manifestations of poverty are everywhere but this a developing country poised on the verge of actually developing. They’re about to join the WTO and up to this point the formerly socialist, now quasi democratic government has maintained staunch protectionist measures. Meles Zenawi the current PM was an original member of the Peoples Liberation movement of the late 80’s, and in some ways has accomplished what the Sadinista movement might have if it were not for the Reagan administration. I’ve talked to many Ethiopians who have equal parts disdain and appreciation for Zenawi’s undemocratic measures against oppostition parties and bolstering economic growth and stability, respectively. The base of real development has been set in the form of solid country wide telecommunications, transport, and energy systems. Up to now, a certain degree of efficiency has been lacking due to the absence of foreign capital and subsequent competition. But this is the necessary and crucial thing that Ethiopia has done which sets it apartfrom so many other postcolonial so called developing nations. Of course the reality here is not post colonial. It may be because the country has NEVER been colonized that it has so strongly maintained a protectionist stance, or perhaps it’s a simple result of its natural endowment of almost all resources but petroleum. I’ll have to save the historical investigation for the next trip, when hopefully I could set up a full semester long program for myself and perhaps others.

For now, it’s enough to say I am in awe and respect. Interestingly enough, tomorrow I set out for another country with its own uniquely undervalued and misperceived potentials for development. From what I hear, Sudan -- at least in the regions I will travel -- is not the war torn, crime laden dessert of state deparmtnet nightmares that most would have you think, but in fact something all together different and inviting. Tonight I happened to encounter a German traveler staying at the Belegez who is also heading to Sudan tomorrow. Then a French couple overheard us talking and offered to donate their used copy of the Bradt Guide to Sudan. Now I have a fellow (Caucasian) traveling partner and a guide book, both of which I assume will make the experience better, safer, or perhaps neither.

The plan is to arrive in Khartoum by Thursday and “kick it” in and around the city until Monday when I catch the sweltering dessert express train to Wadi Halfa. The train is supposedly meant to connect with the departing Nile River ferry for Aswan on Wednesday afternoon. The other temptation would be to go via rubber wheeled vehicle through all of Northern Sudan and take in the many historical sites, though for my frame of time and mind, I do not think this would be feasible. As of now, I am stripping away destinations from the original itinerary, even as I have pushed back my flight to India from December 15^th to the 30^th. The first country to fall on my chopping block is unfortunately Israel. Yes, I am choosing to eliminate the holy land and for no other reason than it is too complex and personally relevant for me to speed through in any sort of contrived fashion. For this trip, the remnants of the Felasha Jews here in northern Ethiopia will have to suffice for personal root finding. This decision will also hopefully ensure my smooth passage and hassle free visas throughout the Arab world. That said, I’m open to all the possibilities and being open is quite simply the whole point in this kind of experience.

One Week in Addis

noreply@blogger.com (Samuel) — Tue, 13 Nov 2007 22:17:00 +0000

One Week in Addis

One week in Addis Ababa Ethiopia and I could easily stay another, and another, and perhaps several more. Life for me here is very very comfortable, and it’s not only because of the perfect climate, delicious food, and shockingly beautiful women everywhere I turn. Ok so the latter has a lot to do with it but what I’m really blown away by on a daily basis is the ease with which people relate to each other, including me! Never have I witnessed a culture with such frequent displays of affection and generosity. From the warm greetings, hugs, handshakes, and holding hands between and within all the demographics, rich, poor, male, female, to the continual invitations of food and drink, I have never for more than a few moments felt distant from anyone.

After my life in New York, this is the most refreshing place I’ve ever been. Whereas in New York it was a rare and beautiful occasion to have the time and wherewithal to stop and talk with people on the street including in my own neighborhood, here in Addis, I spend my days walking down a single street and unavoidably meeting more people than I know what to do with. My little address book is literally filling up too fast. For example, today I headed down to the Sudan Embassy for the fourth and last time to quickly pick up my passport with freshly affixed visa. I arrived at 2:30 and was told lunch hour wasn’t over until 3, so I meandered down around the corner into a somewhat out of the way neighborhood primarily dedicated to auto parts stores. I checked out the few cafes interspersed between until I found what looked like a nice enough restaurant that would serve injira and vegetables. I walked in through the outdoor patio and straight up to the women sitting behind the cash register who greeted me with unmistakably clear American English. Turns out this Ethiopian woman had recently moved back to her home country from the illustrious state of Missouri where she still has four teenage children and a husband. We spent the lunch hour talking about her experience as an African immigrant in the Midwest and her perspectives on walking two worlds. After lunch, she introduced me to a group of her friends seated out front drinking macchiatos, and of course they proceeded to invite me to sit down and join them. Without my small touristy plans of each day and the ongoing hassle of waiting at the Sudanese Embassy, I could quite easily spend all my days in this manner, spontaneously stopping to talk and then following the conversation wherever it leads me.

Other highlights of my time here included my visit to the Ethiopian Ethnological Museum which is located in Haile Selassie’s former palace. In addition to the many cultural exhibits that fill the main rooms of the palace, the emperor’s bedroom and royal bathroom are preserved in their original state minus a few bullet holes in the mirror from the abortive 1960 Coup attempt. It wasn’t so much the content of the museum however that grabbed my attention as much as its setting and historical significance. After being occupied by the Italians for four years, the palace and grounds hosted Selassie’s royal family and most government functionaries until it was taken over by the student led revolution of 1974 and became what it is today as one of several academic buildings of the Addis Ababa University Campus.

The ethnological museum and library are maintained and curated by the university’s Ethiopian Studies Department. I knew this beforehand because on my way over to the museum, I happened to ask directions from a group of three Ethiopian Studies grad students who were on their way to their afternoon class in the adjacent building. Then of course when I walked out of the museum 2 hours later, who did I see but the three grad students studying in the former palace’s sunny courtyard. I was extremely fortunate because not only did they all speak perfect English but they more than willing to spend their afternoon answering all my questions about Ethiopian history. We spoke of the Selassie’s forty year emperorship and the subsequent forces leading up to the 1974 revolution. After they’d provided a book’s worth of perspective and nuance, we launched into an entraordinary conversation on contemporary politics, the relationship between the Bush administration and the current prime minister of Ethiopia, Meles Zenawi. Incidentally, this happens to be a classic example of Bush’s with-us-or-against-us policy, in which no matter how poor a country’s record of human rights and democratic participation, US military aid and DFI will continue to flow in so long as that country’s head of state proclaims an offensive stance against Islamist fundamentalism and war against the evildoers.

The political discussion wasn’t however nearly as fascinating as what they told me regarding the content of their classes and the mission of the graduate program. The Ethiopian Studies Program offers a unique interdisciplinary approach that seeks to categorize and comprehend the ultra diverse traditional ethnology of Ethiopia and at the same time define the new face of the country. What was so fascinating and uplifting for me was to hear these women speak so passionately about the complexities and inherent challenges involved in actually creating the modern Ethiopia. That the concept of nationhood is ever evolving, and in a country as richly endowed with indigenous culture as Ethiopia, it is really quite radical to consider the ways in which the traditional structures of governance and conflict resolution become assimilated into the framework of a quasi-democratic republic.

One of the women spoke of such an example from her own family and home town, in which a neighbor of hers had killed another in a dispute over land ownership and farming rights. The murdered man’s family decided to resolve the situation using the arbitration of the local council of elders. Without the legitimacy of courts or the threat of prison, it was mutually decided that the killer’s family would pay a fine of 4000 birr (about $45) and the killer would himself be obligated to sufficient agricultural labor to replace the familial contributions of the murdered son. In the end, the families were satisfied, but the grad student’s brother in-law become so enraged at what he saw as illegitimate justice (mainly that the life of the murdered man, his friend and neighbor, was being sold for a few dollars and some farm labor) that he developed a heart condition and died a month later.

Perhaps this is not the clearest example, but what I came away from this discussion with was an overwhelming appreciation for the country and its future. These women spoke with the nuance and vision that comes from seeing oneself and one’s background in the full context of the modern world. They had come from middle class backgrounds, learned English the hard way, and had somehow managed to reach the stratosphere of global perspective, a realm in which all illusions of escapism fall away and one realizes the interdependence and downright sameness of all places called home.

Maybe I’m romanticizing, but this is exactly what Ethiopia has said to me. There is only one world. We can feel at home anywhere, but in the end we must live up to the obligations of our birth. I feel very fortunate to have been invited into the lives and homes of so many brilliant and thoughtful people in this country. I am appreciative of every person I met here in Addis that actually took the time to listen and share unconditionally. From my grad student friends, to the neighborhood kids I played soccer with, to my multinational community of internet café regulars, to my sixteen year old student/friend who calls himself Abraham the hero because he has his sights set firmly on going to college in the US to study political science so that he may one day return to Ethiopia (heroically) to save the government from corruption and totalitarianism. There are many many more and really I’d like to use this blog to personally shout out to all of them, but alas, the journey itself calls and so does my 3AM wake up call to catch the minibus shuttle to Gonder. So as they say here, ciao – literally, your humble servant until we meet again.