Jaime found me! Thank goodness for technology! I found an internet café after not being able to get ahold of her by phone, and a couple emails and a few facebook messages later, we met up in her small little German town on the Bodensee. Uberlingen! How glorious to have an internet connection again! And eat doner kebabs. And enjoy walks by the lake and farmer's markets and lazy Saturdays and cocktail bars with good company. We also went to the train station to buy tickets for our travels, and didn't decide when (or even entirely where) we wanted to travel until we were waiting in line at the Deutsche Bahn office. I wanted to visit an organization in Hanover on the 7th to discuss the possibility of a fellowship, and we had to be in Vienna before our flights left the 14th. And why not stop at Prague to break up the trip in between the two? Here we go…
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Friday, September 4, 2009
The Story of the Stowaway Scorpion
First I mutilate a cow with an automobile. Then I fail to pay my Botswana speeding ticket. But my record as an international outlaw continues to grow. I am now a smuggler of agricultural products across international boundaries. The customs officials didn't look hard enough! The story goes something like this:
One day, a usually cheery yellow scorpion was tired. He was tired of being in the heat of the Namibian desert. He does not remember where exactly he was--it could have been the Trans-Kalahari border post; perhaps by a hostel in Windhoek or Swakopmund; or maybe near the Intercape bus. Where he was is not important; what you need to know is that he was hot. And he wanted relief in the form of shade. As he scuttled around at a rather slow pace, he wondered if he was feeling the effects of heat stroke. He didn't know how much longer he could go on if he didn't get out of the sun.
Then he found it! A medium-sized, olive green backpack, with just the smallest of openings of the zipper on one pocket. It looked like a very cool and inviting backpack, and the yellow scorpion began to cheer up again as he climbed down inside the pocket, and burrowed into the shade of toiletry bottles and a toothpaste tube. Yes, this was a good place to relax.
The scorpion stayed in his pocket a very long time--at least a week, if not more. Then, one Thursday evening, his little pocket started to jostle and shake more than he was used to. "This is not comfortable at all," he thought, as the bottles bumped him around. "I am leaving!" And he scuttled out into the light.
When he emerged from his pocket, he could not figure out what had been causing the bumping (my guess is that the cause had gone to fetch her clean laundry from the line while packing her bag to leave in the morning). The scorpion was a little hungry, but could see nothing in this strange environment that could offer any help for his empty stomach. There was fuzzy carpeting, a giant desk, and what looked like an oasis of solitude under the bed in the spare room in Oliver's apartment. He scuttled under the bed, and tried to hatch a plan for how to get back to the Namib Desert He did not know this world was far far away--in fact, over a 20 hour bus ride away!
After a day and a half, with no sign of any food coming his way under the bed, he decided to wander a little in search of sustenance. Climbing his way up some sheets and onto the softness of a pillow, in the early morning light he saw great potential just a pillow's length away: a human! The scorpion began his approach. But the human, Sean, must have a sixth sense for scorpions when crashing at friends' houses the night after travelers unknowingly leave predatory animals from Namibia in the spare room. Sean woke up eye to eye with our yellow friend and, with lightning-like reflexes, jumped out of bed, grabbed a glass, and captured the unwitting arachnid.
The yellow scorpion would never see the Namibian Desert again. After becoming the apartment's focus of attention for the day (Etienne researched where the little guy was from, and learned how much scorpions like cool dark places like backpacks), the scorpion moved to the Cape Town Waterfront offices of Maersk Shipping to keep Etienne company. But the scorpion was not happy being a pet, and the diet on the Cape did not suit his stomach. The yellow scorpion decided to depart for the desert in the sky, and Etienne honored him with a Naval funeral.
Author's Note: I am relieved that the scorpion did not pop out of my bag sooner (like when I was digging clothes out during the week in CT), and am glad he chose the night after I left to make his presence known. I did not learn of this rather amusing tale until after arriving in Germany. Oddly enough, I would soon be on my way to Hannover, home of the famous 80s band, Scorpions. Coincidence? Perhaps...for as Klaus Meine will tell you, scorpions are "Always Somewhere".
One day, a usually cheery yellow scorpion was tired. He was tired of being in the heat of the Namibian desert. He does not remember where exactly he was--it could have been the Trans-Kalahari border post; perhaps by a hostel in Windhoek or Swakopmund; or maybe near the Intercape bus. Where he was is not important; what you need to know is that he was hot. And he wanted relief in the form of shade. As he scuttled around at a rather slow pace, he wondered if he was feeling the effects of heat stroke. He didn't know how much longer he could go on if he didn't get out of the sun.
Then he found it! A medium-sized, olive green backpack, with just the smallest of openings of the zipper on one pocket. It looked like a very cool and inviting backpack, and the yellow scorpion began to cheer up again as he climbed down inside the pocket, and burrowed into the shade of toiletry bottles and a toothpaste tube. Yes, this was a good place to relax.
The scorpion stayed in his pocket a very long time--at least a week, if not more. Then, one Thursday evening, his little pocket started to jostle and shake more than he was used to. "This is not comfortable at all," he thought, as the bottles bumped him around. "I am leaving!" And he scuttled out into the light.
When he emerged from his pocket, he could not figure out what had been causing the bumping (my guess is that the cause had gone to fetch her clean laundry from the line while packing her bag to leave in the morning). The scorpion was a little hungry, but could see nothing in this strange environment that could offer any help for his empty stomach. There was fuzzy carpeting, a giant desk, and what looked like an oasis of solitude under the bed in the spare room in Oliver's apartment. He scuttled under the bed, and tried to hatch a plan for how to get back to the Namib Desert He did not know this world was far far away--in fact, over a 20 hour bus ride away!
After a day and a half, with no sign of any food coming his way under the bed, he decided to wander a little in search of sustenance. Climbing his way up some sheets and onto the softness of a pillow, in the early morning light he saw great potential just a pillow's length away: a human! The scorpion began his approach. But the human, Sean, must have a sixth sense for scorpions when crashing at friends' houses the night after travelers unknowingly leave predatory animals from Namibia in the spare room. Sean woke up eye to eye with our yellow friend and, with lightning-like reflexes, jumped out of bed, grabbed a glass, and captured the unwitting arachnid.
The yellow scorpion would never see the Namibian Desert again. After becoming the apartment's focus of attention for the day (Etienne researched where the little guy was from, and learned how much scorpions like cool dark places like backpacks), the scorpion moved to the Cape Town Waterfront offices of Maersk Shipping to keep Etienne company. But the scorpion was not happy being a pet, and the diet on the Cape did not suit his stomach. The yellow scorpion decided to depart for the desert in the sky, and Etienne honored him with a Naval funeral.
Author's Note: I am relieved that the scorpion did not pop out of my bag sooner (like when I was digging clothes out during the week in CT), and am glad he chose the night after I left to make his presence known. I did not learn of this rather amusing tale until after arriving in Germany. Oddly enough, I would soon be on my way to Hannover, home of the famous 80s band, Scorpions. Coincidence? Perhaps...for as Klaus Meine will tell you, scorpions are "Always Somewhere".
They don't speak English here...Türkçe biliyor musun? Döner var mı?
I was once told that these days, everyone in Germany speaks English. If you are lost, no problem--anyone can give you good directions. This is not true. In rural Germany, there are quite large pockets of people that speak no English whatsoever. I suppose this doesn't surprise me when I really think about it--people that have never left their little Baden-Wurttemburg home on the edge of the Bodensee really don't have any reason to know English--the tourists they cater to (if any) all speak Italian or German or French. Americans and Brits simply don't come here.
This is slightly problematic when you are trying to buy a train ticket without a Deutsche phrase book in hand, or need to know where the public telephone is so you can call your friend who is some place in this small town, but you have no idea where. Luckily, nice bank tellers let you use their phone to place international calls, and the tourist information center you eventually stumble upon points you in the direction of internet access. You survive. But if you were ever to be really truly stuck in this part of Germany, and could not find a soul speaking English, you should hope that you know Turkish. One day, two small towns, four people that speak Turkish. Almost guaranteed to find Turkish speakers if you walk into a kebab shop. Ne güzel bir şey!
Not only will speaking Turkish win you huge brownie points with the kebabçılar (they will put on as much cacik sauce as you want! You will drool over your döner as you walk around town!); it will also earn you free beer at the train station when Turkish guys assist you with your massive amounts of luggage and you say a nice "teşekkürler" in return. That's right, şerefe to free beer. At 10:30 am on a Friday. Even during Ramadan. Now if only I could find a Turk the next time I need to know where the public telephone is...
This is slightly problematic when you are trying to buy a train ticket without a Deutsche phrase book in hand, or need to know where the public telephone is so you can call your friend who is some place in this small town, but you have no idea where. Luckily, nice bank tellers let you use their phone to place international calls, and the tourist information center you eventually stumble upon points you in the direction of internet access. You survive. But if you were ever to be really truly stuck in this part of Germany, and could not find a soul speaking English, you should hope that you know Turkish. One day, two small towns, four people that speak Turkish. Almost guaranteed to find Turkish speakers if you walk into a kebab shop. Ne güzel bir şey!
Not only will speaking Turkish win you huge brownie points with the kebabçılar (they will put on as much cacik sauce as you want! You will drool over your döner as you walk around town!); it will also earn you free beer at the train station when Turkish guys assist you with your massive amounts of luggage and you say a nice "teşekkürler" in return. That's right, şerefe to free beer. At 10:30 am on a Friday. Even during Ramadan. Now if only I could find a Turk the next time I need to know where the public telephone is...
Don't Plan Your Travels
Not planning is a wonderful thing. When you arrive in Zurich at 9 pm, too late to get to your friend's small German town on the train, and without a hostel reservation, be grateful for lovely airport information ladies like Irene. Because if the least expensive room available in Zurich is 99 Euros (cyclists' convention taking all the cheap rooms), when you tell Irene you're going to Uberlingen, she will call her B&B-owning cousin in Romanshof (on the way, where the trains still run). When that's also full, she will find you a youth hostel in Kreuzlingen, just across the lake from Uberlingen (what does "lingen mean, anyway?), and print you the train schedule to get there. And happily, for my wallet, the hostel cost less Swiss francs than the taxi from the train station to get there at 11 pm. The hostel is in a park by the lake, but since no one is at the reception late, I camped out on a couch in the hostel lounge, after a much-needed shower (ugh, Dubai). In the morning, when I explained to the man at reception where I'd slept, I guess he took pity on me, and only charged me for the hostel breakfast I'd eaten. It is still possible to stay somewhere in Europe for $10 a night!
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Ramadan in Dubai...
is miserable. Probably any time of year, but especially in early September. Any city where the temperature reaches 89 degrees Farenheit by 8 in the morning with a gajillion percent humidity should not be inhabited by humans that are overly reliant on air conditioners. The picture above is the coolest thing (temperature-wise) I wore in the six wretched hours I actually attempted to explore the city. Allow me to rant some more:
Whomever invented the air conditioner was inspired by a merciful Allah, because Dubai in the summer gives new meaning to the word "hot." You will be drenched in your own sweat and fairly certain you have stepped into a sauna fully clothed, with no lake in sight to provide relief. African winter, in all its pleasantness, in no way prepared me for Arabian summer, especially not in the middle of Ramadan (I was obviously not paying attention to when the month of fasting fell when I decided a day wandering Dubai would be a fun stopover).
After arriving in Dubai's Emirates Air terminal, I started my excursion enthusiastically enough, armed with $60 worth of dirhams, Wikitravel suggestions on what to see and do, and no map. No map was a bad idea, because taxi drivers in Dubai generally do not know where anything is-- even the old stuff that has been of landmark quality for decades. However, taxis leaving the airport do offer women the convenient option of a "Ladies' Taxi". This little pink-highlighted number is metered (no arguing over price) and chauffeured by a headscarfed woman (no worries about getting hit on by your male cab driver from the Indian sub-continent--less than 30% of people in Dubai are UAE citizens).
As I learned throughout the day, irregardless of gender, your cab driver will probably not know where you want to go. I wanted to tour the Jumeirah Mosque (the only one in Dubai open to non-Muslims), but my driver not only had to call the mosque, but ask her friend for directions. Even then, she ended up driving past it and dropping me off a five-minute walk away. I made it in time for the 10 am tour, and donned a headscarf and long black robe, which smelled cleaner than I felt in the stifling humidity. Pretty enough from the outside, the 30-year old mosque inside was rather small and unimpressive, especially if you've seen the Blue Mosque or Hassan II, etc. But perhaps this is just me being snotty--a place of worship certainly doesn't have to be impressive to be functional. And it was much cooler inside than out!
Two British women, who had converted to Islam after marrying and lived in Dubai for many years, gave an hour-long talk on the mosque, the pillars of Islam, an explanation and demonstration of Muslim prayer, and UAE dress (those long black robes actually keep you cool!). It's rather amusing to hear a woman with a strong British accent describe Islam: "Now the first pillar of Islam, tha'd be the shahada: La ilaha illa Allah wa-Muhammad rasul Allah." At least every time they said Muhammed's name, they said "Peace Be Upon Him" in full, rather than abbreviating (PBUH) as in the information booklet they gave me.
Later in the day, I would recall one interesting comment the tour guide had made: that for women, the praying areas (which are quite small in mosques) are bigger than some mosques in the shopping malls. After cringing in materialistic disgust when the tour information lady at the airport suggested I visit Dubai's malls, I would soon realize why people opt not to be outside in the UAE.
After the tour, I shared a taxi to Kasara market with two German tourists, and proceeded to have every guy and his brother try to sell me knockoff handbags and watches. I would have bought ever-elusive good sunglasses from one guy, but the price was waaaay too high. I decided to leave the shopping mall and catch a cab to the old town of Dubai. Even though I was now armed with a map from the German tourists, the cab driver still didn't know where he was going and took me to the Gold Souq instead. This was (conveniently for him) farther away. If I didn't have flus for sunglasses, I certainly had no money for gold, but I wandered around anyway and found stamps for my postcards and (after several attempts) directions to the creek I had to cross to get to Old Dubai (which was apparently only a ten-minute walk away). Indeed, I could see the old fort across the construction and the creek, but not a boat to take me across in sight.
Sweating profusely, tired and miserable and thirsty, I decided to turn around and cave in on forgoing fluid intake. No restaurants in the entire city were open, but I had seen a grocery store! After enjoying the air conditioning and sticking my head in the freezer for a few minutes, I bought a bottle of water. The only issue now was deciding where to drink it...public consumption of food and beverage is forbidden during Ramadan, but I had nowhere private to go. I asked the store clerks if I could drink it in the back corner of their shop, but they assured me that I could drink it outside and it would be fine. However, when I stepped out on the street, bottle in hand but unopened, a man passing by snapped: "Don't drink that on the street. It is very hard for us."
I wanted to snap back: "No shit, and it's hard for me in your sauna of a city where no one can give me accurate directions to anything and I have to walk much further than necessary to get anywhere and by the way, I didn't get a sahoor, or have a big feast last night, nor have I had a good night's sleep in several days." But I restrained myself. Instead, I found an empty corridor behind some stores, and chugged as much water as I could until I saw some people coming. it was time to get out of Dubai.
I walked to the nearby bus station, which I then discovered was next to the pedestrian underpass for the creek that would have taken me to the old city. Why did no one I ask recommend this? Sigh. Too tired to care. I found a public toilet where I could finish my water in a stall, and the bathroom attendant let me sit in her chair and cool down by the fan, and gave me paper towels to wipe the dripping sweat off my brow...and arms...and neck. Then I tried to figure out which bus went to the airport, but those going to the Emirates terminal left from a different station--the stop for one of the buses though was 500 meters down the road, the information man told me. Well, he was wrong, and I was so miserable I caught a cab in all its air-conditoined glory in the end. What a resource-sucking superfluity of a city. It can't be good for residents to constantly go from extreme heat to extreme cold all the time, and I know it's not good to waste so much water and energy on A/C.
I changed into fresh clothes at the airport, had a juice and ice cream, and felt much better. Getting a whole row to myself on the plane felt even better. And as I gazed at the Bosphorus and the seven hills of Istanbul as the plane flew over the city, and watched "The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency" on the in-flight movies, I decided that next time I scheduled a layover, I should try and make it in Turkey or Botswana--two places I would much rather have been!
Some more Dubai shots:
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Out of Africa; Reunions Part IV
Some random thoughts and opinions as I prepare to leave Africa, after 99 glorious days and nights:
1. Adjusting to Speaking Setswan-glish
In nine weeks in Botswana, I have not learned much Setswana (the local language). But I've learned a few key phrases and picked up on very Botswana ways of speaking English that any visitor may find helpful:
Dumela mma/Dumela rra
Pronunciation: do-meh-la, emphasis on the "meeh"
Definition: Hello ma'am/Hello sir
Usage: Whenever you see someone you know. If you don't greet someone, you are a rude and worthless person.
Akr
Pronunciation: I may not be spelling this correctly, but "akr" is pronounced like you are opening your mouth at the dentist's office (aah), followed by a short "gr". Spoken quickly.
Definition: "Isn't it?"
Usage: Often used after a phrase that seeks concurrence from your conversation partner; makes something a rhetorical question, as in "It's very cold in Gaborone in July, akr?" or "This chicken peri peri is very tasty, akr?". When speaking English with a white person, Batswana and South Africans may commonly reply "Izzit?" (Is it?) after you say something they don't believe.
Kea leboga
Pronunciation: kay-a lay-bo-ha
Definition: Thank you
Usage: To thank someone--obviously. If you don't thank someone, much like not greeting someone, you are similarly a worthless person (but not greeting someone is worse).
That side
Definition: over there or far away; where you come from or live (if it's not close)
Usage: "You're from America? How are things on that side?"
Monna
Definition: man (slang)
Usage: In the bar, if you want a drink, you raise your hand and call "Ei, mona! Windhoek lager, please!"
Rolled r's and long vowels
--Whenever I ask for a combi to Riverwalk Mall, the driver never understands me. I eventually realized my pronunciation is what's throwing them off. You can't say "Riverwalk" American-style. You have to say "rrrreeeeveeerwok".
2. Botswana Food
--This is more than the peri-peri. I'm really going to miss:
* Bran muffins in every grocery store. So cheap and so good.
* Pumpkin! Squash makes everything better. Beets come in a close second in the veggie category.
* 100% Juice in cans. More than just apple and orange--there's mango orange, berry blast, tropical heaven...the list goes on.
* Pies. The spinach and cheese one makes me happy.
* Cadbury--it's so much easier to find here than in the U.S.
* $5 steaks. Even though I'm not eating beef right now.
* Ribs! Why did it take me until my final night in Botswana to actually eat these?
3. Flagging a Combi--If you can't see the number on the front of the vehicle, you hold up the number of fingers of the route you want--the driver will signal back with his route number. So easy!
4. Reunions: I've loved the chance to meet up with so many old friends in Southern Africa, as well as cherished the opportunity to make new acquaintances. Last night in Gabs, I met up with a Finnish friend for dinner at Linga Longa. Kaisa is studying for the term in Gaborone, and it worked out perfectly that I could see here before I left the continent.
While I've done a lot in my time here, I think coming back to see the new and old friends I'm leaving behind, and travel some more in this amazing region will definitely be in order. World Cup 2010, anyone? I'm serious. Contact me. Let's do it.
1. Adjusting to Speaking Setswan-glish
In nine weeks in Botswana, I have not learned much Setswana (the local language). But I've learned a few key phrases and picked up on very Botswana ways of speaking English that any visitor may find helpful:
Dumela mma/Dumela rra
Pronunciation: do-meh-la, emphasis on the "meeh"
Definition: Hello ma'am/Hello sir
Usage: Whenever you see someone you know. If you don't greet someone, you are a rude and worthless person.
Akr
Pronunciation: I may not be spelling this correctly, but "akr" is pronounced like you are opening your mouth at the dentist's office (aah), followed by a short "gr". Spoken quickly.
Definition: "Isn't it?"
Usage: Often used after a phrase that seeks concurrence from your conversation partner; makes something a rhetorical question, as in "It's very cold in Gaborone in July, akr?" or "This chicken peri peri is very tasty, akr?". When speaking English with a white person, Batswana and South Africans may commonly reply "Izzit?" (Is it?) after you say something they don't believe.
Kea leboga
Pronunciation: kay-a lay-bo-ha
Definition: Thank you
Usage: To thank someone--obviously. If you don't thank someone, much like not greeting someone, you are similarly a worthless person (but not greeting someone is worse).
That side
Definition: over there or far away; where you come from or live (if it's not close)
Usage: "You're from America? How are things on that side?"
Monna
Definition: man (slang)
Usage: In the bar, if you want a drink, you raise your hand and call "Ei, mona! Windhoek lager, please!"
Rolled r's and long vowels
--Whenever I ask for a combi to Riverwalk Mall, the driver never understands me. I eventually realized my pronunciation is what's throwing them off. You can't say "Riverwalk" American-style. You have to say "rrrreeeeveeerwok".
2. Botswana Food
--This is more than the peri-peri. I'm really going to miss:
* Bran muffins in every grocery store. So cheap and so good.
* Pumpkin! Squash makes everything better. Beets come in a close second in the veggie category.
* 100% Juice in cans. More than just apple and orange--there's mango orange, berry blast, tropical heaven...the list goes on.
* Pies. The spinach and cheese one makes me happy.
* Cadbury--it's so much easier to find here than in the U.S.
* $5 steaks. Even though I'm not eating beef right now.
* Ribs! Why did it take me until my final night in Botswana to actually eat these?
3. Flagging a Combi--If you can't see the number on the front of the vehicle, you hold up the number of fingers of the route you want--the driver will signal back with his route number. So easy!
4. Reunions: I've loved the chance to meet up with so many old friends in Southern Africa, as well as cherished the opportunity to make new acquaintances. Last night in Gabs, I met up with a Finnish friend for dinner at Linga Longa. Kaisa is studying for the term in Gaborone, and it worked out perfectly that I could see here before I left the continent.
While I've done a lot in my time here, I think coming back to see the new and old friends I'm leaving behind, and travel some more in this amazing region will definitely be in order. World Cup 2010, anyone? I'm serious. Contact me. Let's do it.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Maputo Marimba
After a lovely visit with Caitlin in Chidenguele, I made a quick trip to Maputo to meet Sokwe, who was in Mozambique for the weekend, but spoke no Portuguese (I am not sure how helpful my Span-iguese was, however...especially since no one expected the white girl to understand anything). Following my first bout of traveler's sickness this summer/winter, we made the trip back up the coast to meet Caitlin and Iraque in Quissico for the timbila (marimba) music festival. Even if you do not like timbila, you cannot help but love the lagoons and palm-covered hills that provide the backdrop to the drummers and dancers. And a walk through small villages to actually reach the lagoon and go swimming is unbeatable! Too bad this was the last of my summer/winter travels in Africa...more to come!
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