"Life isn’t divided into genres. It is a horrifying, romantic,
tragic, comical, science-fiction cowboy detective novel.”
ALAN MOORE

Egypt

The artwork that depicts the history of Ancient Egypt and the lives of its people and their beliefs has always drawn me to this country. So it stands to reason that while my friends were trotting around Europe, the usual destination for most people, Egypt was the only place I ever really wanted to visit. I even studied the hieroglyphics because I found them so fascinating to decipher! I've now been there eight (8) times, and each time that I look at those marvelous 4000+ year-old monuments, is just like the first.

I will always remember the first visit with my son, Phil, but there were other memorable times spent there as well. The rest of the visits I made solo, and the second time was with a carefully planned purpose of connecting with a group of volunteers so I could get involved directly with the culture, and "legally" touch some of those magnificent artifacts (maybe). I knew I wanted to be in Luxor, where the Temples of Karnak and Luxor were, which also was conveniently across the Nile from the Valley of the Kings and Queens. I went to the Cairo Museum to find the information I needed, and they were thrilled to direct me to the Chicago House in Luxor, and they even let them know I was coming!

The Chicago House is part of The Oriental Institute and the University of Chicago. The original intent of Chicago House was to to produce photographs and precise line drawings of the inscriptions and relief scenes on major temples and tombs at Luxor for publication. More commonly referred to as "Site Surveys,” they soon expanded in scope to include a much-needed conservation.

“17 CAMELS FOR YOUR SISTER; NO SADDLES!”

First camel I ever rode in the desert surrounding the Great Pyramid @Giza

Phil and I were in the Khan El Khalili Bazaar on our last day of the trip frantically searching for a nice leather camel saddle for him to take home as a souvenir. It had been a long trip for him, not to mention the unsuspected culture shock of being in such a different part of the world. I had tried to prepare him for the experience, as well as the history of it, but it was hot, dusty, and little kids were constantly bothering us for ‘baksheesh” and making comments about his green t-shirt which he insisted on wearing most of the trip after he saw that it was an issue. It was from a record shop back in Columbus which still exists today - ”Magnolia Thunderpussy!”

Lunch at the Mena House beneath the Great Pyramid, & Phil with the famous green t-shirt!

Spare me the comments, please, we heard enough of those as we walked through Egypt. It was surprising to me how many people understand the English language, especially the raunchy parts, and we, as Amercians, understand so little of those languages of most of the places that we visit.

Khan-El-Khalili Bazaar Entrance

Anyway, we were not making much headway, and it seemed my son was going to be stuck with bringing back a used water pipe as his only souvenir of the trip. It had been fetched away for him by our cab driver on our first night in Cairo from some poor man on the street as he was using it. (Our cabby was very accommodating!) It was still warm, but was emptied out on the side road leading up to the Great Pyramid, and then washed out in the bathtub in our hotel later.

A man, obviously a sheik, approached my son with his entourage, looked him straight in the eyes and said, “I will give you 17 camels for your sister!”

Whoa dude, could you possibly mean me? Of course, I was younger then and could probably get away with that, but wow!

My son failed to get it, and said he didn’t have a sister, but then realized that he was probably referring to his mom (oh yuk, puhleez) and a light went off in his head, and he asked “with saddles?”

And with no hesitation and much authority, the sheik said, “No saddles!”

Phil said, “Well, no then.”

The Sheik silently turned and walked away, with barely a glance back. I could have still been there doing who knows what in some harem all for the paltry price of 17 camels + saddles. I don’t think Phil realized the danger of that situation had he agreed on selling his mother to a sheik in a foreign country! We had a HUGE discussion about it on the way back to the hotel.

I am still wondering to this day, sister comment aside, what made me less worthy of the saddles being tacked onto the deal!

Woman on a Camel Saddle, By George C. Clark


A   STUPID ROCK,   BEIRUT,  and . . .

Yassar Arafat
8/24/1929 – 11/11/2004

Beirut is the capital of Lebanon. It had a bad reputation as a vacation spot in the 70’s and 80’s, and it certainly wasn’t on my list of places to visit, so when I found myself there, it was far from being the “Paris of the Middle East” like it was for a while in the 90’s.

I’ve met a lot of people in this lifetime, and most of the really interesting ones were met quite by accident. Imagine sitting in the Beirut airport waiting to get out, more scared than you have ever been in your life, and knowing that you had no control over anyone’s next whim, with gunfire, car bombs, body searches, passport checks every hour, threatening stares all around you, and all of the sudden this rather familiar-looking man approaches you with a very intimidating entourage of 8 men, and tells you that it isn’t safe to sit by the windows and that I should move. He then smiled at me, a huge, genuine smile, and all of the sudden, I wasn’t frightened anymore! I finally recognized who he was because it seems that in all of the pictures I had ever seen of him, he was wearing the same clothes which belied a style all his own so there was no doubt...it was Arafat.

Politics aside, and say what you will, this man saved my life! When I later recounted this story to some (pseudo) friends, they said “You actually got into a helicopter with that man…are you crazy?” To some he was considered a terrorist, but didn’t our country succeed because of the Patriots who followed the definition of ‘terrorists’ at that time, although we didn’t use that term? A lot of people hated Arafat, but it appeared that a lot of people loved him too. After all, you don’t get to where he did (Nobel Peace Prize in 1994), and not have some support.

There’s so much we don’t understand having lived in a country where war has not been seen on its shores for years. We don’t know the fear of living with gunfire and bombs going off all around us, and people with guns invading our homes at all hours (well, wait, maybe some of us do know). All I know is that what I saw frightened me and I wanted to go home; but to the people there, that was home and there was no going anywhere else. (We got a taste of it on 9/11.)

It was 1988, and unbeknownst to me at the time, it was my last of 8 trips total to Egypt following a series of unfortunate events. Egypt innocently became a place that I’d best be far away from, even though I was rather sheltered in Luxor.

Imagine working on putting together one of the ravaged stone walls of a temple, and a group of 5 Brits, who were constantly working on many research and restoration projects, come up to you and invite you to fly up with them to Alexandria to look for some important rock with writing that they needed to see and copy “right now!” I had never gone to Alexandria, so I couldn’t say no. Off we went in a prop plane that shook a little too much when it took off.

There were no real cell phones then, although they did exist. So communication was done the normal way only when necessary. And when you are working around all of those ruins and history, you are not aware of anything else that is going on in the world, and such was the unfortunate case for us, although the civil war in Beirut was not an international secret.

After we couldn’t locate the rock in any of the places in Alexandria, one of the Brits remembered that it might be with someone who is one of the curators of the Beirut Museum. The museum had closed in 1975, and was in the line of fire most of the time during the civil war there until renovations began around 1995. There were rumors of part of it still being functional around the time we were going to visit, but that was not the case. They should have called on a real phone to check, or at least been aware of the situation as archaeologists usually are. As for myself, I knew nothing because it wasn’t an area of the world that interested me; I was all Egypt.

The Beirut National Museum during renovations

So we got into our plane once again, and took off. When we were approaching the airport, I noticed several areas of the terrain that were full of smoke, explosions, and what I was to learn later, gunfire (which looks different from explosions). When we landed, soldiers appeared and we were searched along with the plane, and we then remained on the runway, a presumably safe but uncomfortable distance from some of the commotion, for 5 hours. Then, after much haggling, and an exchange of money, we were led into the airport and searched again. Two of the Brits went over and had a conversation with someone who appeared to have some sort of influence, and the man made a call, and the Brits got to speak as well.

One more thing - there were guns, lots of guns. I was used to it from being in Egypt, but I was even more aware of it in Beirut because you could hear that they were actually being used there, so it put an uneasy edge on the situation. I remember when Phil and I got off of the plane after landing in Cairo for the first time, and we looked around and saw the soldiers walking around toting their guns. He turned to me and said “what have you gotten us into?” What could I say but to reassure him that we were safe and this was to be expected in other countries.

After 2 more hours, 3 black Mercedes came around to the entrance and we got in for a very long drive. There were 4 roadblocks, 4 searches, passport checks, the usual drill, thru winding streets, some war-ravaged to be sure...

and finally, as if we had been magically lifted by a hurricane like Dorothy had been and plopped back down into Kansas, we entered a secluded neighborhood along a well-paved road with fruit trees in the front yards of well-kept homes. We pulled into a driveway, and were greeted by the owner who was one of the curators of the museum. As we entered his home, there were boxes and hallways full of precious artifacts. We could barely find a place to sit! The hospitality was the only welcoming part of this whole ordeal, and we were served tea, fruits, vegetables, and meats that were set out before us on a dining table that was quickly cleared. The whole family appeared to be happy to have company, and since it had been hours since any of us had anything to eat, we happily dug in, ignoring any of the usual dining protocols that many countries have...I’m not sure that there were any here.

The best part of this was that the purpose of the trip, the stupid rock with all of the writing, was right there on the floor in one of the hallways! One of the Brits was so excited I thought he was going to marry it. I took pictures, measured it, did a rubbing, recorded everything, and drew it out. Life was good for a few moments, but I was scared and just wanted out of there, because, in spite of the nice home and family, I could still hear the gunfire and bombings, but worse than that, the air had a pungent burning odor to it.

Stupid Rock

We all were shown places to sit comfortably, and since it was far into the night, some of us slept, but I didn’t; I was ready to run if I had to. Never mind that I didn’t know where to run, but running was the only thing I could think of!

NOTE TO MYSELF:
Place your clothes and weapons where you can find them in the dark.
LAZARUS LONG

I watched the sunrise, and the quiet home came alive again with everyone scrambling to give us tea and coffee, more fruits from the garden trees, and bread. Afterwards, we were on our way back thru the roadblocks and searches, then finally arrived at the airport. Of course, that was predictable as well as we sat there for most of the day waiting to get clearance to fly out. We had food that had been packed for us by the family, and that was a godsend as there were no food vendors at the airport. We waited on into the night, once again, and the Brits were not being nice about it which was making me feel very uneasy about this whole ordeal.

One thing I’ve learned is that it doesn’t hurt to be nice and smile, no matter where you are, and how unpleasant things around you happen to be. Being rude makes it worse, even if there is a gun pointed at your head, then you just break down and cry, but try not to be rude about it. (It’s that song in the King and I - ”Whistle a Happy Tune.”)

Now this is where Arafat came to my rescue! After he had approached me very early the following morning, he went and spoke privately with some of his entourage, came back and asked me who I was exactly, and wondered after my situation. I told him, and added that I just wanted to get back to Luxor, and that there were issues with my group getting out as quickly as we would like; I pointed to the Brits. They had continued to be rather insolent in general, but Arafat and some of his men, went over to inquire about their plans and any needed assistance. They didn’t disappoint as they were not very cordial, I could see it in their gestures, so back he came and said that they weren’t amenable to being helped. (No kidding!)

He then asked “what about you?”

I said that I wanted to leave and didn’t care if they were with me or not.

To which Arafat replied, “We go then. My helicopter is almost ready, and I am going to Cairo anyway. I will make sure you arrive safely.”

He asked if one of his men could check my passport, which he did after Arafat walked away with it for a few minutes, and then came back to return it to me. (I must add that my passport put on more miles than I did that trip.)

I was in a daze, but not so much that I didn’t know that this man was offering me a ride out, and I wasn’t afraid. I knew no fear of anyone at that point in my life (except possibly those Brits who had been giving me very bad vibes this whole trip, and briefly, one ex-husband). The fact that a civil war was all around us, and I was getting into (what looked like) a military helicopter with a man who could be shot out of the sky in a minute, didn’t enter my mind in that particular context. The helicopter was huge, and he asked if I had ever been in one as we were approaching it, (with the entourage walking so close to both of us that I had to watch not to trip on anyone), and I said that I hadn’t been in one like that! When I got in it smelled of cigars, cigarettes, and man-sweat (what can I say with all of those clothes they wear in the hot desert sun), but I didn’t care.

Did I mention that his entourage had many guns on them, and that the helicopter was “armed?” Strange that I felt safe, and to this day I have no idea where that came from, but I would like to have that sense of fearlessness back.

It didn’t seem like it took as long to get back to Egypt as it had going to Beirut. Of course, after a while of waiting, you tend to lose track of it. We landed in Cairo, and to my surprise, another plane was waiting to take me back to Luxor with one of Arafat’s pilots at the helm…wow. I thanked him, and as I was wondering if I should shake his hand (there are rules in the Arab world about touching women), I extended my hand out of habit anyway, and he gave it a good solid shake, and all was well. I told him to take care of himself, and that I would never forget him. There was that huge genuine smile again, just like in the picture above.

When I arrived back in Luxor there was hell to pay, but not right away. Somebody saw me get off the plane alone with the pilot, and when I was getting ready to enter a cab to get back to my apartment, I was stopped, and inquiries were made as to where everyone was. I told them they were probably still back at the Beirut airport because they didn’t want to go with me. When asked who brought me back, and not really thinking anything of it, I said, “Arafat.” Oops.

OUT WITH A BANG, OR WAS IT A “FANG?”

Tut’s Wall

The next day I went back to the wall I was assembling, and it appeared to be business as usual, but no sign of the Brits. I was outside the Temple of Karnak whisking away sand and dirt with my brush, and thought I saw a hieroglyphic slab that may be what I was looking for to complete another part of a rock I already had. I stretched over to have a better look, and OMG, a small snake jumped up and bit my arm, and just hung on like it had nothing else to do at that moment. My worst nightmare...I mean, who really likes snakes??? Luckily, the daily workers were prepared for this, and thank you very much for telling me that this sort of preparedness was the norm, and that they have venom kits on hand wherever you are working in Egypt! I must have missed hearing that part in the training lecture. One of the native workmen got me injected none-too-soon as it hurt like crazy and was starting to turn red and swell, in just a few seconds. This was a very small snake, but finally it let go of my arm and slithered away all the while the Arabs following it along and chasing it. “Shoo-Shoo” – shoo my ass, I couldn’t believe they let it go. I found out later that it was a BABY SPITTING COBRA, (Looking for a picture? Forget it.), and that even babies are born “loaded” and ready to go, and are able to inflict significant injury when they bite!

A little station wagon with an unusual siren came to cart me away to the Luxor Hospital. I was carried up in a chair to a small but clean room with a view of the Nile. It was all white, and the bed obviously had Egyptian cotton sheets. There was a ceiling fan above me. They quickly hooked me up to IV’s, sodium/potassium in one arm, and something else in the other. I think that they gave me more snake venom too, but I am not sure. It was obviously a public hospital with rooms upstairs for people of importance who might be visiting. Quite frankly I didn’t care where I was as long as the snake wasn’t around, and then there were those nice Egyptian cotton sheets. I felt a little woozy, but didn’t pass out.

My doctor was Sameh-el-Namaky, and he had been educated in England. He came back to Egypt to take care of the people in his country. He brought his whole family in to meet me, which caused some concern on my part; are they preparing to view the body? He told me that because of the efficiency of having the venom on hand at the sites, the bite was not as bad as it could have been, not as much swelling, and that I should be fine in a week. I was lucky because some, even though their life is saved, lose their arms/legs, whatever is bitten, or worse. He said it was a good thing the mama wasn’t around! All I could think of was, for the first time since I was very small, I wanted my own mama there, had she not have been horrified with this whole ordeal! (I never told her about this; but I never told her about all of the 7 trips I made alone either. No matter how old you are, there are just some things that you KNOW instinctively that you should never tell your parents.)

I had visitors. Some people of the village, (it is a city, but I call it a village because that is what it seemed like to me), would sneak up the back steps to my room to have a peak at me and throw flowers onto the floor! The nurses and doctors would then come in unaware and slip on them; it was quite a sight. I was a celebrity-of-sorts because the people were calling me “the snake lady.” It seems that every time someone told the story about an American being bit by a COBRA, the snake got bigger and bigger until it stretched from here to Cleveland! So it was quite a feat to survive that, and worthy of curious visitors, and of course, flowers. However, I still couldn’t help but feel that they were preparing for my death; at least I got to enjoy the flowers first before being shut inside a casket.

Another surprise was that Arafat came with his little group; it seems the pilot had told him about my entire ‘situation.’ It is 600 miles from Cairo to Luxor, 2 hours flying, and he was a busy man, but I was grateful nonetheless. (He didn’t bring flowers.)

When I started to feel better, I realized that the people in charge of the site surveys didn’t visit. They sent a messenger to my room the day I was leaving the hospital to tell me that they didn’t need my (volunteer) services any more. The family who owned the apartment I was staying in told me later that day that I had to start paying for it until I left as the funds for my budget had been “cut.” I didn’t mind as it was only $10 a day (USA). They also owned the jewelry store beneath the room and were very nice to me; and we often had dinner together. My time was up in a week, and I would be happy to be on my way home.

I later found out that the big reason for my dismissal was the manner in which my departure from Beirut played out. I had publicly embarrassed the Brits by ‘abandoning them,’ and, of course, my (presumed) association with Arafat. To this day, I have no idea why he had singled me out. Of course, how would I have ever asked him that?

The Badlands, South Dakota
“Oh, give me a home where the buffalo roam" OR ”Give me the tent where the buffalo went!"

I must include this travel adventure here! This was the first of many vacations that I made with a FrenchMan during our 11-year relationship. I called him MarcoPolo which in many ways seemed appropriate to his “travel style.” The Europeans have a very active lifestyle when it comes to vacations. France is a small country, comparatively to ours, so jaunting off to the Alps or Pyrenees for a hike of any length is the norm. The FrenchMan always mapped out very carefully where we would go, and what we would do, and how long...too much planning for me, but it worked, except for this time. To prepare for this trip, I bought a huge backpack, hiking shoes (which I wear to this day), a tent (see above), a SNAKE-BITE KIT (yep, don’t even comment on that one; allow me a temporary lapse in sanity), and the necessities for camping and cooking food. We had ‘rehearsals’ for this adventure; practiced hiking with a full backpack, and of course, my personal favorite, snake-bite drills.

South Dakota was in a draught alert, and it was a very hot and dusty July. We drove to the entrance of the Badlands in his Chevy which had no air conditioning, and if I had noticed that it didn’t have A/C before we left, we would have taken my Jeep Wrangler with the A/C, but it was smaller and we would have had trouble packing everything into it. We checked in at the welcome center, spoke to a ranger and told him where we were going, and headed out. It was actually beautiful in its own way, a very long road lined with rocks and boulders, and I could just imagine outlaws easily hiding in all of those rocks and crevices back in the day.

A portion of the road

We arrived at the campground entrance to the spot that MarcoPolo had pre-selected in his research. It was High Noon, and the temperature was close to 100° F, and we got our gear in order, signed the registry at the beginning of the hike, and off we went. The time spent hiking is probably not accurate, but suffice to say that about 2 hrs into it, we found a place near a wooded area, plopped down and took a rest. We couldn’t go any further because a buffalo was busy eating and blocked our path; smart to stay put.

The buffalo was the second that we had seen on the hike, but he eventually moved on, and so did we. We hiked around a wooded area and noticed what seemed like a great spot out of harm’s way (difficult for a buffalo to get to) up on top of a steep hill. We got up there and I must admit the view was beautiful, except for some signs that I noted, such as a fresh buffalo turd, and a very large indentation in the grass that appeared to be either Jabba the Hutt’s relaxation spot, or, you guessed it, a buffalo’s! There was also a ledge that jutted out in front of that area with hoof marks. MarcoPolo said those sorts of things were all over the place...interesting that he knew that since this was his first trip and our first “ledge-spotting,” but I figured that it must have been his “research.” We fixed our food over a little burner, ate, cleaned it all up, and then we pitched our tent near the only tree there. We had just finished cleaning up a bit, and spreading out our sleeping bags.

The View from our “Room!”

We were talking about moving around a bit so we could get a better view of the sunset when we heard a loud growling and snorting sound. If it wasn’t for the snorting, the growling more closely resembled the beginnings of MarcoPolo’s famous gas, so I wouldn’t have thought anything of it. I was positioned so I could easily look thru the mesh cover, and there was this buffalo looking toward the tent, stamping his hooves, and probably wondering what to do about this obvious intrusion on his space. Yep, we had plopped ourselves right in the middle of the indent in the grass...his indent. He turned sideways, marked the area he was in with a huge piss, and started stomping around the tent. The snorting I would expect, but I didn’t realize buffalo growled. MarcoPolo’s eyes were as big as they could get without flying out of their sockets, and he was motioning for me to be quiet (like I didn’t know to do that). I think we were both holding our breath. The buffalo was moving in a circle around the tent and was not about to go away, but I think this was a new situation for him; he had heard us but couldn’t see us moving, and the tent was probably not something he could figure out. (Stupid tourists.)

The buffalo carried on continuously for about 2 hours, and then calmed down, but was breathing loudly near the tent for another hour; then it was silent. We didn’t know what to do, but we knew we couldn’t pack up and hike back to our car because it would be totally dark in at least 1 hour, and we needed 2 hours to get back to the car. I peaked thru the mesh that I had (thankfully) zippered shut when we first got into the tent, and I could see a buffalo down below the ledge moving around trying to make himself comfortable among the trees, and he was far enough away across the gully, but was it our buffalo? We couldn’t hear him, so maybe it was, but we decided to stay put and settle in for the night as much as we could.

Badlands Sunset (but not this day)

The wind was blowing, and to top it all off, some wolves started howling, presumably the ones that we had seen earlier while hiking toward the wooded area, jumping in and out of the trees, almost as it they were flying. (Great, flying wolves.) They sounded closer than they probably were, but we barely slept. At least we had our sleeping bags all laid out so we didn’t have to make any unnecessary movements, just in case. Then, all at once, MarcoPolo was on top of me with his hand covering my mouth...”heee--izzz bach,” he whispered, and then a silent “shhh!” I didn’t hear a thing but the wind. I couldn’t breath because he was on top of me, and I gave him a gentler nudge than I wanted to just to get him off. Then not soon enough for both of us, the sun began to rise and all was silent. It took him a good 20 minutes to slowly unzip the mesh to the tent so he could have a look out, and the buffalo was nowhere in sight.

We decided that we didn’t have time to pack up the tent and risk taking a chance on a potential “buffalo surprise.” We just wanted to get out of there, so we packed our sleeping bags and other stuff easily while in the tent. We left it there and gingerly began the trek back to the car with a better understanding why there is a real campground at the beginning of this area. People just don’t normally go right into the middle of the Badlands to actually “camp.” Seems there wasn’t enough research on the territorial nature of the buffalo, and instead of bringing a snake bite kit, we should have gotten some buffalo repellent! Regardless, neither of us will ever forget this part of the trip.

Marked Map of the Badlands
(The tent is at the top of the “N”)
(The dotted lines indicate where we had hiked & the arrows are where we were going to hike.)

There have been 5 people with plans on being in that area, who upon hearing this story, attempted to go and find the tent using the above map, kind of like a “Where’s Waldo” game. Upon returning, all of them reported that a solitary buffalo had blocked the path no matter which direction was attempted; talk about holding a grudge!

Peru & the Amazon River

Vanilla Bean orchids grow all over this area

One of the places on my “Bucket List” was Peru, and since I am a ‘selective traveler,’ I wanted to see as much of what I actually wanted to see, without all of the extra stuff that is usually thrown in along the way. If it is your first trip to a foreign country, it’s best to go with a group tour, and NatGeo has the best...you pay more, but you get more as well. One of the NatGeo tours was accommodating to everything I wanted. A little of the culture of Peru, Hiram Bingham train and day hike on the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu, nice places to stay, good food and drink that doesn’t make you sick, throw in the Amazon River, and we’re good to go!

Of course, there are no direct flights to Peru from Columbus Ohio. (I am surprised there is even a direct flight from Columbus to Cincinnati, but that is a discussion best left for another time.) So the most sensible one to take was from Atlanta, GA; then from there to Lima and spend 1 1/2 days there to have a look around; then take one of those small planes to Cusco for 2 days to get acclimated to the oxygen situation which didn’t seem to bother me, and off to the Inca Trail and Machu Picchu. In Cusco, we stayed at the Hotel Monasterio, which was converted rather luxuriously from a monastery while retaining its old world charm, and what a pleasant way to begin the journey. They pumped oxygen into the entire hotel to help people adjust to the altitude. Another way to deal with the oxygen situation was to provide Coca Tea (Mate de Coca) which is made from the leaves of the coca plant. There are people who do all sorts of things to get high with those leaves (every culture has these sorts of plants), but it is legal to drink it there, and chew on them as well - YUK! I added a lot of sugar to mine and it was OK, an extra insurance just to be sure that I wasn’t going to have a breathing “surprise” in the middle of the trip.

Anthony Bourdain went to a local restaurant on his show “No Reservations” when he visited Peru. A few of us who had seen that decided that we wanted to go there to try the food as well. We were told by our guide in no uncertain terms not to go there! Whoa...dangerous part of town? Geesh, if Tony could go...? We decided they were only protecting us, so we didn’t even get near it, but it helped that we couldn’t find it anyway.

The food that we had, some from street vendors for lunch, and also some local restaurants for dinner, tended towards spicy, but was good. It appeared to be abundant and well cooked from the vendors, with lots of vegetables, fruits, and meats; but the desserts were really too sweet for most of us. They must have a million varieties of potatoes which is a staple for many people living there, and some are imported to our country.

For drinking, besides the required bottled water, I had to try their Inca Kola, which was purchased by CocaCola® a while ago. (We wondered if they felt threatened by its existence?) It is yellow, so it had no caramel coloring (bad for you) in it like our famous Coke®, and was really quite good, but one bottle of it was enough.

Cusqueña is the local brand of Peruvian Beer. I really liked it but you have to be careful when ordering as they give you double a normal serving in this huge container...sort of like one of those ‘big gulps’ at the gas stations, only larger. You also have to be careful when drinking any alcohol in high altitudes as you can quickly find yourself more than a little woozy from it. We were told that there is always some sort of festival going on in these towns, and that the beer is served in buckets. We saw those buckets, and only the brave in our group filled their ‘big gulp’ from one, but I don’t think their version of a “Peruvian keg” is too appealing.

Now for the BEST part; the Inca Trail! Some of us in our group opted for the day hike (24 hrs), and the rest took the train tour on the way up. It takes at least 10 days if not more, depending on the person (but you’d better be able to keep up), if you really want to hike the full Inca Trail. There are fees, many stamps of approval, as well as rules and regulations for keeping it clean, but you can’t go it alone...you MUST hire a guide! The best thing is that there are porters available to carry your travel bag and supplies and all of the rest of the things you need like food and shelter. This makes it easy for navigating the somewhat varied up and down terrain of the trail. This is NOT an easy hike, so you need to prepare yourself physically before you get on a plane to fly down to Peru to do this, even if it is for 24 hrs! Everyone had a small backpack supplied by NatGeo (when we signed up for the trip) to use as a sort of ‘purse’ for our valuables, cameras, basic essentials and water. The trail is scattered with ancient monuments and Incan sites and is definitely worth every huff and puff! Since we were taking the day trip, we took the Hiram Bingham train up to a point where it stopped to allow us to begin. What a great train, and there was much to see on the way.

Now, it seems that wherever I go, there is always more to the story than planned. There were reported to be Inca natives, I mean REAL ones, at certain points along the trail. They were described as being barely clothed carrying spears and knives, and sometimes had body paint. Now I must say that it sounded like it might be a little bit ‘staged’ for the tourist-types, but I will ever know that for sure because nobody in the industry talks about such things. We were told about this, and we were also told that we were never to make eye contact if we even think we see one of them, and of course, no pics.

As luck would have it, we were taking a lunch break along the trail, and I turned around after looking at the marvelous view, and there in the bush was this native looking straight at me. Apparently nobody told him no eye contact, but there I was, stuck; there wasn’t a chance to avoid it. He then turned and went away, just like that. He didn’t appear to be upset about it, so maybe it would be OK. I didn’t tell anyone for fear of being left behind on the trail as punishment for breaking the rule, after all, our guide sounded really serious when he said no eye contact. We finally came to the camping site that overlooked our goal, and what a site it was...it gave all of us chills to see it like that.

First view of Machu Picchu towards the end of the day with telephoto lens

The porters had gone ahead so our tents were already pitched, food being prepared, and the smell was incredible, mixed in with the fresh air in general. The “air” at that altitude has a different “air” about it! (Sorry, couldn’t resist that, but there’s no other way to describe it.) I couldn’t wait to get below, and begin exploring. BUT, as luck would have it, things weren’t that simple. We had finished eating, and it was getting dark. The day had been a bit overcast so the sunset wasn’t worth a photo, but that was OK just because of the view in general.

Then the visitors showed up; a group of about 15 of those natives with a few torches lit ‘marched’ right into our camp like they owned the place. (In a way they did; you have to pay someone who represents these people of the Andes for the privilege of visiting their land!) They had a representative who spoke to one of our guides, and they pointed at me. OMG, here we go; I am going to be sold into servitude or something, for looking at that native with the painted face directly in the eyes! I was called over and a bowl was presented and some sort of liquid (hopefully not any more of that coca stuff all mashed up which seemed to be everywhere) was poured into it from an odd-looking container. Our guide said that this was an offering of peace and that I should drink it so as not to offend them. This was not covered in our “Welcome to Peru” talk. I took our guide aside and asked quietly, why me, and if this was some sort of joke, and he said it wasn’t and has only happened one other time in the years he’s been doing this. I asked what the reaction from drinking it “that one other time” was, and he said that he had noted that there was none “that one other time.” I couldn’t make a scene, but this was really so very wrong, but again, I was thinking it was a joke, so I reluctantly took it, joke or not, held my breath because I didn’t want to know how it smelled and tasted, and gulped it down. That being done, the scary painted dudes turned and silently left, without even a thank-you nod. My mouth had the taste of that Peruvian local beer so I thought maybe it was OK, just maybe.

I began having a “Beirut-flashback” reminding me when I sat up all night while everyone slept waiting for the moment when I might have to run. I thought perhaps that I would begin to feel something and pass out, or start moving around like a zombie and disappear into the jungle, or worse, walk over to that ledge and throw myself over it like a sacrifice to the gods, but then I reminded myself, again, that this was probably a joke. I felt nothing, and I didn’t even get a good belch from that stuff. This was the worst time to go without sleep. I was staring down at a place that I’ve wanted to see for a long time, and I was going to be too tired to enjoy it. Everyone in the camp didn’t really know what to think except, like me, that it was probably a joke. Two people in the group kept checking on me, so if I had slept, it wouldn’t have been very well anyway with all of the interruptions. However, I lived for a great breakfast the next morning, and the hike down to the “staged-tourist spot.”

View the next day as we moved around to our left to go down;
Note the lower left area which is the tourist entrance

Amazing how some of the architectural remains in pictures appeared to resemble those structures of Egypt, which is why I wanted to see for myself. Machu Picchu, of course, was my other reason to visit. I mean why visit this amazing country and not go there? It seemed to have been such a sacred place hidden up high in the clouds, undetected by the conquering Spaniards, that I felt compelled to toss some of Phil’s ashes there as well.

The ruins of Machu Picchu are assumed to be the remains of an Incan royal estate. After careful study by many people who do that sort of thing for a living, it appears to have been abandoned by its people. I guess they can detect these things just thru observing the remains of the living areas, and the terrain. I do know that Hiram Bingham carted a lot of relics out of there, which seemed to be just left, when he found it, and there were many arguments over who those really belonged to. In the last few years, this area has been a popular travel destination. I know what it looked like when it was found originally by Hiram Bingham in 1911, because of some black and white photos of it on display in a museum before it was “cleaned up,” but I was disappointed in the way it looked now.

Bingham’s photo soon after he discovered Machu Picchu in 1911

I think some areas that show evidence of an ancient civilization in Peru are just as old as what you can see in Egypt, but Machu Picchu looked “compromised.” Egypt is a popular travel destination as well, but it hasn’t lost any of the “reality of its existence.” With Egypt, it is clear that this was a living, breathing part of history. The Aswan Dam has raised the water level and added a bit of humidity to the dry desert air, and the tourists tromping thru the ruins destroy bits of the remains just thru a kind of osmosis; the paint on the rocks is fading, the hieroglyphics are disappearing, but it still maintains its own reality. Some of the pyramids and surrounding structures that I saw in Peru stand as reminders that someone was there, but Machu Picchu seems like it is just sitting there for tourists, and always has. Unless you have traveled to these places, you may not understand what I mean. I tossed Phil’s ashes anyway off the highest point I dare go which had a scary view of how high I was (12,010’ or 3660 metres). Somehow, I didn’t feel good about throwing his ashes from there, it felt phony, and I didn’t expect this.

In all fairness to the people of Peru, and to this place in general, it was built very high on top of a mountain. How they managed this I will never know, but what else can the Peruvian’s do when they are trying to accommodate tourists who are the mainstay of their income? Perhaps they can’t help but have this sort of ambiance as a result.

The structures at Machu Picchu bear no resemblance to those in Egypt, mainly because of the way the rocks are placed. They are varied sizes and do not fit together so tight that you cannot get anything into the cracks, which is the opposite for what I was used to seeing in Egypt with the rocks being the exact same size fitting together perfectly. And the pyramids that I saw, while they did resemble a pyramid shape, did not have the mathematically-correct reference in their construction in relation to their surroundings, and the heavens. There were similarities to the placement of some of the structures to the stars above, but there didn’t seem to be a strict adherence to that as there was in Egypt. So I saw what I wanted to for comparison, and there was very little.

THE AMAZON RIVER IS NOT THE NILE!

Macaws along the river

When I was in Egypt I was amazed at how clean the Nile River was. Even in the crowded, dusty city of Cairo, the Nile that went thru it was clean; not a cigarette, paper wrapping, dead fish were visible, and its waters were clear. It was considered a sacred river to the ancient Egyptians, and somehow it must still be that to the people today as a symbol of life. When you cruise the Nile, many people are visible on its shores, whether swimming in it, watering their animals, or using it for just the basic living; and that is what you see, the people using it. The Amazon is the same, yet different as well, mainly because of where it is.

A few facts: The Nile is the longest river in the world at 3470 miles (6650 km), and the Amazon is the second longest at 3976 miles (6400 km). The Amazon seemed bigger to me because it is wider than the Nile, and so much more full of life with all of the visible fish and birds, and the many tributaries. There is no doubt that it is a body of water to be reckoned with, while the Nile was not as alive. I saw many living things on the shores, but not so many people, at least not where we went unless we stopped, found an easy spot to cross, and hiked inland. There’s no doubt it is an important source of survival, just like all bodies of water are; both are essential to their areas as living, breathing wonders of life.

Map showing the Amazon drainage basin with the Amazon River highlighted

We took a side trip down one of the tributaries and visited the Yanomami tribespeople. They look pretty much like our visitors to the camp at Machu Picchu, but no body paint. You have to ask permission to take photos of the people because some feel it is an intrusion on their souls, which is a common belief in many cultures. If they agree, you have to pay with food and/or drink, (they love their alcohol and ‘plants’), because money means nothing to them.

Yanomami

You already know how I feel about snakes, but I have to include this pic for those of you who think the Amazon harbors any of those monster-size Anacondas like in the movies. Maybe they exist in such proportions, maybe not, but they do grow to a significant size. I took this pic of a reported ‘baby’ all wrapped around a large branch in the water. It looked big enough for most of us not wanting the full-movie experience on the trip, but I have to say the guys on this cruise were really into trying to spot the ‘movie star.’

Amazon Anaconda

Karachi, Pakistan

In the late 70’s, I met a guy from Karachi, Pakistan. His family had a thriving carpet manufacturing business in, what would later appear to be, the center of that city. Mohammed had set up shop in Bexley, Ohio, and had approached me at one of the Decorator’s Show Houses to show me his rugs. We went out to dinner most of the time, and sometimes we were with his friends, sometimes not. I took him to my parent’s home because he wanted to see the land that surrounded it, and he enjoyed speaking with them. My mom fixed him several ‘American’ dinners, like fried chicken and prime rib roasts, all of which he enjoyed.

Then came the invitation to visit his country and meet his family. I was surprised because we were not seriously dating. It was rather casual, sometimes last minute, but he explained that he had taken some of his American male friends back with him, so it wasn’t unusual. I explained that I was a female and that I thought it might perhaps present some awkwardness, families being what they are in other countries. In the USA, we are a little more casual, but he told me not to worry about it.

At this point in time I had never been out of the country, so I got a passport, a visa, and off we flew to Karachi, arriving in a very crowded, dusty, hot and humid city appearing to sit more on than by the Indian Ocean. There was a car to meet us at the airport, a black Mercedes, dusty but the leather interior was clean, with the family chauffeur, who spoke no English, and seemed to have a smile carved permanently in his face. It took an hour to navigate through the traffic that consisted of more people walking and riding bikes, than actual cars.

We turned down a street that was void of the traffic, more expansive with flowers, and a few very well manicured lawns. It was like a breath of fresh air, but that was an illusion because when we pulled into a long driveway that led to a large white cement home and got out of the car, the humid air, and some of the stench from the previous streets, hit me in the face and I really had to work to learn how to breathe again.

Home Sweet Home

The family was waiting almost ceremoniously inside their front door in colorful silk clothing. I felt like a limp, unattractive piece of overcooked spaghetti. The house was clearly upper class with marble floors, beautiful rugs everywhere, fans in every room, and a faint buzz of air conditioning running at the side path of the house, except the doors and window were open. I was shown to my room that had a twin size bed covered with mosquito netting that hung from the ceiling. It was high, and the mattress was clearly a very fine feather bed, and I couldn’t wait to get in it and sleep.

There was little time for rest, and barely enough to clean up in the nice connected bath. Dinner was NOW, and the food had so much spice in it I could hardly swallow it for fear of dissolving my esophagus. The only thing to drink was hot mint tea, which didn’t help at all. I craved a huge glass of ice, but had been advised that drinking the water in this area of the world was not a very good idea.

The custom is to eat everything on your plate, let them give you more, and you take one bite, and no matter if you are hungry or not, no more bites; that means you are filled. Good thing for me because I struggled to eat the food on the first plate. I was wringing wet after the meal, and I thought my insides had been burned away from the spice. Then, as was the custom, we sat in the drawing room to chat a bit. There were 15 people there, all family, wanting to have a look at the visitor I presume, but mother sat quietly over in a corner with her 2 daughters and 2 sisters. I am usually able to keep up polite conversation, but it was awkward, and I didn’t want to move around too much because it felt like I was going to lose my insides. The father was charming, spoke English, but the rest of them didn’t.

Then finally, bed. I had a chaperone outside my door all night. I don’t know what made them think I was going to actually get up and wander around, or maybe they thought I would go to Mohammed’s room or something. There were 10 bedrooms, so that would have been an adventure in itself to find him. The doors to the veranda were wide open, the ceiling fan moving at full speed, and there were little crawly things all over that mosquito netting, not to mention those that were unidentifiable moving in and out of the room. I spent 4 nights sitting up in that bed, and barely nodded off for fear of those creepy crawly things getting inside the netting. You KNOW from reading all of my stories that I’ve been more uncomfortable, but I guess I am not meant to actually sleep on any of my trips.

CULTURAL DIFFERENCES?

I had my first breakfast the next day. I was hoping they would forget it, because all the food seemed to taste the same no matter what meal it was…spicy croissants anyone? There were plans to go visit the housing on the father’s ‘street.’

But before we did, I was left alone (what, no chaperone?) while the family was preparing for the trip, and had a chance to wander out into ‘her’ kitchen to see what it looked like. HUGE mistake. There was a big wood stove, copper pots hanging over a large wooden prep table in the middle, a big refrigerator, and 5 people working on the food. It was her kitchen, but the only time I think she stepped into it was to shoosh me out! What a commotion; it seems that it is an insult to look into a woman’s kitchen when you are a guest from another planet. That little trip caused a tirade that went on for 30 minutes at least. It was a different language, but I got the drift of it. I apologized, but that didn’t matter. Mother Dearest had to go to her room to recover, and she remained there, taking her meals in her bed, until I left.

This was my first trip to another country, and there are adjustments to make, mostly my own. I had to remind myself I was a guest, so I learned very quickly that I had to smile and be polite, regardless. Unless one is totally stupid and from another non-human planet in a galaxy far-far away, one cannot help but form opinions right off, silently; and there were a lot of things on this trip that gave me cause to pause. My hosts had no problem showing me 2 things that they seemed to be proud of; things that would make myself, and those who are reading this, cringe from the misery of it. But then, it is another country that I am speaking about, and what is normal for them may not be for us, except we have the same thing in the USA, but not always out in the open.

HOUSING by the rich for the poor

Mohammed’s father appeared to be a happy and proud man. When I thought about it later, I felt he was just full of himself. He was all puffed up with his own sense of importance about all of the things he was doing for “his city.” A big thing was that he provided housing for the poor people, and the city was so grateful that they named a street after him. He was anxious to show me his charity, so we got in one of the limos and off we went. It took about 40 minutes to get to ‘his’ street, and then we got out and walked. I couldn’t believe it…the housing that he was so proud of were clearly marked, in spite of paint “Hotpoint,” General Electric,” “Frigidaire,” and so on…they were appliance cartons and shipping containers!! And they were all painted with bright colored designs, and there were rugs on top, inside, outside (surely not those really expensive ones), and the people appeared happy. I later learned that the paint that decorated these homes waterproofed them ‘somewhat.’ I dared not to ask where they used a toilet or got their water…I already saw where they bathed…any body of water, including the ocean. I guess if you have nothing, anything will do. And nope, you guessed it, no pictures allowed.

THE RUG MERCHANTS
Children & all of those beautiful, expensive, handmade carpets
(CLICK: www.anti-slaverysociety.addr.com/carpets.htm)

The next day I was shown the rug manufacturing district of this family’s livelihood. Needless to say, traveling gives one a perspective that may not have hit you if you hadn’t seen it for yourself. I was sheltered and pampered, and didn’t realize how fortunate I was until I saw little children working the looms!!! I was not permitted to take pictures, and didn’t think much of it as I was already miserable with the heat, humidity, food, creepy-crawlies in my bedroom, disgruntled mother, and all of the rest of it. I snapped what I was permitted which was a carefully arranged picture of adults working on the rugs.

Wool prep before weaving
(Note the mom brought her child to work)

Rug weaving

Fringe knotting (carefully posed)

Carefully posed pic washing a completed rug

As I thought about it back in the comfort of my own home, I was a little disgusted with the entire matter and myself. I was ready to take up arms and fight it; after all, I was one of the ones who handcuffed myself to the ORIGINAL Franklin County Courthouse the day it was scheduled for the wrecking ball; surely I could stand up to an international disgrace! Can’t remember what happened with that, but I did nothing, and continued on with my ‘normal’ life. My father always said “sweep your own doorstep first” and then do the rest of what needs to be done elsewhere. I’ve spent a good part of my life doing just that, but the sad part is that you are never finished with your own doorstep, and truly I did have time to do ‘elsewhere,’ I just didn’t.

“ARRANGEMENTS”

After I had gotten back home and the dust had settled, (figuratively and literally), I noticed that I hadn’t heard from Mohammed. He had taken 2 extra days after I had left to stay with his family (probably picking up the pieces of the disgruntled mother), but it had been 2 1/2 weeks and surely he should have returned by then. This was pre-digital cameras, but I had a few pictures that I had developed and wanted to show him. I called and his phone had been disconnected, both at his store in Bexley and at home, but a forwarded number was provided so I called. It was in California!! There was a machine, so I left a message, and 30 minutes later he returned the call. I asked if he was OK, and also what was going on with California. He said that his family had changed the timetable for his marriage to someone from the Lahore area in Pakistan. He said it had been planned since they were 5 years old, and everyone thought it should be now (now being 1 ½ weeks ago). So he was alive and well and married and living in Santa Barbara.

WOW…I must say that I took it personally, how could I not? I’ve never had that sort of effect on a family before; that mother must have thought that he was in real danger with the ‘hotsy-totsy’ American woman; quite frankly I didn’t think she could move that fast! It is too bad that I didn’t have that sort of effect on all of my ‘future’ mother-in-laws; I could have saved a fortune in attorney fees.

I have come off angry and bitter with this trip. Karachi is one of the biggest cities in the world, with the majority of their population being very poor, and they do what they have to do to keep it together. The shock for me was the absence of a middle class: you are very rich or very poor. It is what it is, BUT don’t mess with the children...ANYWHERE!

N’Awlins
FAVORITE   PLACE   TO   LIVE   ~   THE   FRENCH   QUARTER

Courtyards are considered to be the front of the house, but appear to be in the back to visitors


Royal Street (street views of the houses are very misleading as to what lies beyond!)


Part of the kitchen area



TO BE CONTINUED!

Corkscrew Swamp Sanctuary, Naples FL
FAVORITE   NATURE   HIKE



It is a 2 1/2-3 hr walk thru nature!


Françoise DuBoûchet, The Guardian of the Fence

TO BE CONTINUED!