Travelogue 447– May 31
Ants Twenty
May is quiet. May is hot. Harmless summer clouds pause over Addis Ababa, like a gentle pause in the calendar before the darkening mood of June. A smoky haze and occasional stiff breezes presage the rains of summer. But May is made for idyll.
Mark insists on a trip to Debre Zeit during the weekend that breaks up the faranjis' training trip. We oblige him. On a previous trip, Mark has found a 'lodge' by Lake Babogaya, where rows of mosquito-infested huts sit among pleasant gardens. The owner has captured some guinea fowl, and put them in a pen with dikdiks, There is a formidable old turkey that roams the grounds free, chasing guests who get too near. There is a tired nag that gives rides to the children. There are campfires and tasty grilled fish at night.
May hangs over Lake Babogaya like a smoked-glass mirror set over the bowl of surrounding hills, gathering the gold of the grasses and the blue of the lake. The waters lap against the concrete foundation of the lakeside terrace. I've stolen away from the huts to the new, mosquito-free Babogaya Resort, where I can sit next to the lake, watching the calming motion of the waters, listen to the stilted monologue of the member of the Ethiopian parliament next to me, where I can read my book in a desultory way until the rest of the party joins me. They have gone for a hike in the dry hills. I spend an hour battling with the internet connection inside, and finally give up to enjoy the terrace.
Yes, it's Gunboat. That's the Amharic name for May. Ethiopians don't particularly like this idyllic miniature summer, between the April showers and the deluges of rainy season. The heat oppresses them. I tell them I love Gunboat. I also love playing with their language -- since I have so little facility with it in seriousness. By some silly association, I called the big holiday of this month 'Gundan Haya'. It's supposed to be 'Gunboat Haya', or May 20, a rather prosaic name for a big holiday, the day the Derg regime was ousted by the present one. I find holidays like this faintly ridiculous, with the uniforms and the marching bands and all the police. So the accidental name 'Ants Twenty' makes comic sense. The Abashas laugh guiltily.
I am not so smooth on another day, when I have the honor to meet the grandson of Haile Selasse. His name is unfortunately close to a bad word, and I fall into the linguistic trap. So I am shaking his hand, and essentially I am saying, 'It's such a pleasure to meet you, Mister F**ker. How are you today, Mister F**ker?' His coterie of friends are horrified, but he takes it stride. He is a friendly and accessible man, with big, doe-like brown eyes. He is unaffected, and I would not have picked him out as a prince.
We meet a second time in the Wabe Shebelle Hotel down in what I call the Haile Selasse side of Addis, where the architecture of the grand period remains preserved in benign neglect. The Wabe Shebelle was the happening place in its day, they tell me. I've always liked the place because of its cool, 60s cosmopolitan look. In its heyday, all the legendary singers of Ethiopia's first pop period sang here. I can just see it, suits and ties and cigarettes, while outside the night closes in on the thousands and thousands of shacks in candlelight.
In any case, let's leave the young couples of the imperial era to dance the night away; let's give Prince F**ker some respite from clumsy faranjis; and let's return to Lake Babogaya, while the sun still shines. We sit in deck chairs beside the water, drinking beer, and we play Connect Four. Gelila always loses; Menna always wins. The sun is high in the sky. All is just.
Monday, May 21, 2012
Travelogue 446– May 15
The One Constant
I'm disoriented. It will take me a while to adjust. After more than eight years, I have changed blog sites, and I am overcome with melancholy thoughts about the transience of life. What forms our foundations, our touchstones, in a world where blogger sites can be shuffled like college residencies? I have to re-assess all that is jarvis, all that formed the bedrock of the jarvis world.
I stand outside Bole International, and I reflect: if a website can be so ephemeral, so vulnerable to the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, then are there any real anchors in life? Will the Ethiopian sun rise in the west? Will the aroma of Ethiopia fade or change? Does it give itself away a degree every year, while I don't even notice? The first joy in every arrival -- from the moment I pass through the door of the airliner -- is this very comfort, this balm among the hardships of travel, that earthy scent in the air of this place, made of charcoal and berbere, onion and red earth, coffee and eucalyptus. It is arrival.
One thing slavishly obedient to the principle of change is the dispensation of people and cars, baggage and taxis at the airport -- just about any thing or system moveable in the complex. The entries and exits change. The cafes change. Today, there is no entry at all into the terminal for visitors. And no cars are allowed to drive up to the terminal. Now one enters the empty terminal from baggage claim, and then makes one's way through the parking lot, full of milling crowds, to the far end of the asphalt, where police are allowing cars through in a narrow, choked stream. It's mayhem.
It takes me half an hour to find Shimeles. He has made a major change himself, having finally saved enough to buy his own car. Most drivers pay commissions for use of a regular car. Now he owns his own. This car looks much like the last, small, square, and taxi blue. He has a few more sporty lights now; he has a few more Christian bumper stickers in Amharic or Ge'ez inside and out. And he is proud.
My cozy little place is no longer my own, of course. The walls show new colors; The floor space has contracted. Menna has used my long absence to do some work, closing up with plaster the many portals from the insect universe into our own. There are frilly things on the bed and over the windows. The bathroom hosts rows of mysterious bottles. We have a television. I contentedly part the pretty new sheets, and I find the profound sleep of the pilgrim.
I have meetings immediately, first thing in the morning. They do not take place in our Spartan old office, where four people share two desks, and Yemisrach sits behind a child-sized writing table; where we meet in the center, sitting on plastic stools, sharing a knee-high table that allows only a few notebooks and coffee cups from the cafe downstairs; where closing the shades over our one window in the afternoon, when the sun glares in, involves climbing halfway onto our short book cases. No, today we meet in our spacious new digs, where either of our two new rooms could swallow the old office whole. Even adding in the new furniture to the old, the first room echoes with unused space. The second is still empty.
In the staff meeting, we review the year. Both the program year and school year are coming to a close. It has been a year of successes and growth. When we break, staff disperses to the far corners of our office. I stand in the center, arms akimbo, the lost captain of a well-appointed and well-directed ship.
The One Constant
I'm disoriented. It will take me a while to adjust. After more than eight years, I have changed blog sites, and I am overcome with melancholy thoughts about the transience of life. What forms our foundations, our touchstones, in a world where blogger sites can be shuffled like college residencies? I have to re-assess all that is jarvis, all that formed the bedrock of the jarvis world.
I stand outside Bole International, and I reflect: if a website can be so ephemeral, so vulnerable to the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, then are there any real anchors in life? Will the Ethiopian sun rise in the west? Will the aroma of Ethiopia fade or change? Does it give itself away a degree every year, while I don't even notice? The first joy in every arrival -- from the moment I pass through the door of the airliner -- is this very comfort, this balm among the hardships of travel, that earthy scent in the air of this place, made of charcoal and berbere, onion and red earth, coffee and eucalyptus. It is arrival.
One thing slavishly obedient to the principle of change is the dispensation of people and cars, baggage and taxis at the airport -- just about any thing or system moveable in the complex. The entries and exits change. The cafes change. Today, there is no entry at all into the terminal for visitors. And no cars are allowed to drive up to the terminal. Now one enters the empty terminal from baggage claim, and then makes one's way through the parking lot, full of milling crowds, to the far end of the asphalt, where police are allowing cars through in a narrow, choked stream. It's mayhem.
It takes me half an hour to find Shimeles. He has made a major change himself, having finally saved enough to buy his own car. Most drivers pay commissions for use of a regular car. Now he owns his own. This car looks much like the last, small, square, and taxi blue. He has a few more sporty lights now; he has a few more Christian bumper stickers in Amharic or Ge'ez inside and out. And he is proud.
My cozy little place is no longer my own, of course. The walls show new colors; The floor space has contracted. Menna has used my long absence to do some work, closing up with plaster the many portals from the insect universe into our own. There are frilly things on the bed and over the windows. The bathroom hosts rows of mysterious bottles. We have a television. I contentedly part the pretty new sheets, and I find the profound sleep of the pilgrim.
I have meetings immediately, first thing in the morning. They do not take place in our Spartan old office, where four people share two desks, and Yemisrach sits behind a child-sized writing table; where we meet in the center, sitting on plastic stools, sharing a knee-high table that allows only a few notebooks and coffee cups from the cafe downstairs; where closing the shades over our one window in the afternoon, when the sun glares in, involves climbing halfway onto our short book cases. No, today we meet in our spacious new digs, where either of our two new rooms could swallow the old office whole. Even adding in the new furniture to the old, the first room echoes with unused space. The second is still empty.
In the staff meeting, we review the year. Both the program year and school year are coming to a close. It has been a year of successes and growth. When we break, staff disperses to the far corners of our office. I stand in the center, arms akimbo, the lost captain of a well-appointed and well-directed ship.
Friday, May 11, 2012
Travelogue 445– May 11
Bless the Waters
Note: Dear Readers, as I face the prospect of blogger blackout in my once and future destination, I am forced to diversify in order to protect the continual and, indeed, survival of this vital account. Please, therefore, after this entry, visit my new site for further entries once I have crossed into Africa. Once I am back in America or Europe, I will update this site. Thank you for your indulgence.
My place of transition is green and flat. Everything about the land is sculpted by man, even the waters. Near my hotel is the Sloterplas, a lake on the site of a lake, a refashioning of water. The ancient lake was a messy affair, waxing and waning with the seasons, unpredictable. And ultimately, in the way. More land was needed for tilling. The magicians of the prosperous new Nederland drained the old lake, and for centuries it was peaceful farmland.
In the twentieth century, land for housing became more necessary than land for farming. But houses require foundations and terra firma. And so a lake was reborn, made in the likeness of nature, made from the pit left by excavation for sand to raise surrounding lands. Now, there are homes and streets and parks. And when I go for a jog, I run around this very pleasant, domesticated plot of water, There are lawns and trails and fine-looking geese. There is even a fountain some thirty meters off shore.
Amsterdam is nothing if not a pleasant city. Despite the international image of mayhem and licentiousness, I've always found this to be a preternaturally calm and orderly people and place. It would seem to be designed for greatest comfort. It is, after all, the first and most constant instance of European bourgeoisie.
This is the Osdorp district out here, on the other side of the Sloterplas. It might be considered something of an immigrant slum by some. Every race is represented, but all others are outnumbered by the Turks and Arabs. People are poor. The kids do their best to look menacing. But the tough teens have it hard here. How does project danger while loitering on green lawns beside scenic canals, feeding the water fowl? I feel for them. They do their best. They don shiny puff jackets, and shave parts of their heads; they slouch and drag their feet and smoke, and somehow it all just floats down the canal like a smile.
I share the walkways with them, the wide pavements through peaceful parks. We share those with veiled mothers pushing carriages. We gather at the tram stop. Public transport runs frequently and efficiently. We file into the car in an ordered manner. There are seats for everyone. We head toward the city center. One sits in an attitude of defiance, but it is hard to direct one's rebellion. Maybe it's the skies one resents, the source of scarcely relenting fog or drizzle. These are some of life's challenges around the North Sea.
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Travelogue 444– April 29
An Aside, an Homage
These are the dangers of food and of drink. I will speak first of the danger of ground salt. I am having a late breakfast at the dive down the street from the hotel. It's a tasty combination of eggs and ham. And that should be that; another breakfast in Puerto Rico. But I guess I tempt fate with my voluptuousness. I add salt, the kind you grind in the dispenser. You shake it out in large grains. It crunches when you chew. It crunches your tooth.
It's night. I've been drinking rum again. This time my motivation is escape, escape from pain. There a piece of my molar that slides back and forth, like the door to a secret chamber, one filled with nerve endings.
I'm browsing on You Tube, something I only do in emergencies. I am somehow, according to the whimsical logic of the internet, led to Ricky Gervais. He's a smart fellow. He's controversial. He thanks God he's an atheist. He has to answer for that in a serious TV interview. And he does.
Atheism leads me into options for Christopher Hitchens, who, for better or worse, positions himself among the front lines of the atheism debates. Is he an advocate? Apologist might be a better term. He's not playing recruiter. He says he wishes he could believe.
In defense of atheism, Hitchens says that at least there is no resort to wishful thinking. It's a point that I find pleasure in. It's true, and in my book, an honorable position. But it cannot stand as proof. Which is kind of my standing objection to atheism: lack of proof does not constitute proof in itself. That we cannot prove God's existence does not logically prove his non-existence Even Mr. Hitchens says so, preferring the term antitheist, which implies a dispute with the concept of deity.
Given the range of intellectual debates, I find the one about God's existence unengaging. On the one side, it's an examination of nothingness -- a favorite topic of the twentieth century, and one I find a little short on nutrition. The other side argues with passion for an abstraction. My passions tend to require more substance. If there were a polytheism club, I might join in. Seems like polytheism might have more logic to it, and certainly more fun.
Fortunately, there is much more to our friend, Mr. Hitchens, than his passion for nothingness. I followed him casually for years and years, greedily reading any essay and review I came across. I always had time for him, and I suppose this is as good a moment as any to say au revoir -- or not, I guess he would insist. He had intellect; he had courage. That some found him pompous doesn't surprise me and doesn't sway me. That some wrote him off because of his political convictions in later life does not surprise me, not does it sway me. I grew up with enough idiot political dogma, left and right, to discount politics as a measure of anything but one's intolerance and lack of humor.
Small minds latch on to conclusions rather than acknowledge the thought that leads to them. I didn't always agree with Hitchens, but I always enjoyed hearing him out. Intelligence is a pleasure, and such a scarce pleasure among the American Right these days, among a political movement that openly distrusts intellect. One can be forgiven for accepting that conservative positions are by definition anti-rational.
In fact, the human mind looks for and wants something to respect in one's opposition, and this is one of the sorest deprivations in the American political scene now. It bleeds us all of dignity and self-respect.
In one of the videos -- and I have to paraphrase because I don't log in to You Tube sober -- an interviewer tells him that so-and-so says he's just a loud-mouth, fat ass drunkard. Hitchens, who has already lost considerable weight and hair in his battle with cancer. 'Well, and what's wrong with that?' he replies, a wonderful, parting ambiguity. Indeed.
An Aside, an Homage
These are the dangers of food and of drink. I will speak first of the danger of ground salt. I am having a late breakfast at the dive down the street from the hotel. It's a tasty combination of eggs and ham. And that should be that; another breakfast in Puerto Rico. But I guess I tempt fate with my voluptuousness. I add salt, the kind you grind in the dispenser. You shake it out in large grains. It crunches when you chew. It crunches your tooth.
It's night. I've been drinking rum again. This time my motivation is escape, escape from pain. There a piece of my molar that slides back and forth, like the door to a secret chamber, one filled with nerve endings.
I'm browsing on You Tube, something I only do in emergencies. I am somehow, according to the whimsical logic of the internet, led to Ricky Gervais. He's a smart fellow. He's controversial. He thanks God he's an atheist. He has to answer for that in a serious TV interview. And he does.
Atheism leads me into options for Christopher Hitchens, who, for better or worse, positions himself among the front lines of the atheism debates. Is he an advocate? Apologist might be a better term. He's not playing recruiter. He says he wishes he could believe.
In defense of atheism, Hitchens says that at least there is no resort to wishful thinking. It's a point that I find pleasure in. It's true, and in my book, an honorable position. But it cannot stand as proof. Which is kind of my standing objection to atheism: lack of proof does not constitute proof in itself. That we cannot prove God's existence does not logically prove his non-existence Even Mr. Hitchens says so, preferring the term antitheist, which implies a dispute with the concept of deity.
Given the range of intellectual debates, I find the one about God's existence unengaging. On the one side, it's an examination of nothingness -- a favorite topic of the twentieth century, and one I find a little short on nutrition. The other side argues with passion for an abstraction. My passions tend to require more substance. If there were a polytheism club, I might join in. Seems like polytheism might have more logic to it, and certainly more fun.
Fortunately, there is much more to our friend, Mr. Hitchens, than his passion for nothingness. I followed him casually for years and years, greedily reading any essay and review I came across. I always had time for him, and I suppose this is as good a moment as any to say au revoir -- or not, I guess he would insist. He had intellect; he had courage. That some found him pompous doesn't surprise me and doesn't sway me. That some wrote him off because of his political convictions in later life does not surprise me, not does it sway me. I grew up with enough idiot political dogma, left and right, to discount politics as a measure of anything but one's intolerance and lack of humor.
Small minds latch on to conclusions rather than acknowledge the thought that leads to them. I didn't always agree with Hitchens, but I always enjoyed hearing him out. Intelligence is a pleasure, and such a scarce pleasure among the American Right these days, among a political movement that openly distrusts intellect. One can be forgiven for accepting that conservative positions are by definition anti-rational.
In fact, the human mind looks for and wants something to respect in one's opposition, and this is one of the sorest deprivations in the American political scene now. It bleeds us all of dignity and self-respect.
In one of the videos -- and I have to paraphrase because I don't log in to You Tube sober -- an interviewer tells him that so-and-so says he's just a loud-mouth, fat ass drunkard. Hitchens, who has already lost considerable weight and hair in his battle with cancer. 'Well, and what's wrong with that?' he replies, a wonderful, parting ambiguity. Indeed.
Friday, April 27, 2012
Travelogue 443– April 27
Encanto
Take a right at the Burger King.
I've had to stop in a panaderia to ask directions. It's too hot out to wander and discover. Take a right, she says, at the Burger King. The panaderia has an open tile floor and glass cases along two walls. Along the third are some barren shelves. Along the third is the dusty window. Inside the cases are Latin cookies and cakes.
I return to the dense midday air. I find the Burger King, just past Popeye Motors, where the owner is standing outside operating a sound system, shouting at passers-by and playing salsa. He has a big blow-up Homer Simpson swaying in the sea breezes.
The city of Ponce is named after the great grandson of Ponce de Leon. Young Ponce was the leader of those who settled the current site of the city in the seventeenth century. His illustrious ancestor -- member of Columbus's second expedition and explorer of the Sunshine State, which he named Florida -- old Castilian for refuge-for-those-with-bad-taste -- was the first Spanish governor of the island. It seems only fair that the island's second city should be named after his family. The first city was named for John the Baptist, and I'm sure he felt that that was fair, all things considered. Originally Columbus had named the entire island -- Boriquen to native peoples -- after old Saint John, but subsequent travelers became accustomed to calling it the Rich Port, and the moniker stuck, demoting the austere saint to capital city.
I've set aside a day to see more of the island. The conference has confined me to San Juan. I decide on Ponce as my destination because I happen to see an article about an exhibit from the Prado at the Museo de Arte in Ponce. It's on the southern, Caribbean coast of Puerto Rico, whereas San Juan is situated on the northern, Atlantic shore. I've rented a car for the drive.
There is a haze over the morning, a gentle threat of rain. I sit out the early traffic, inching forward along several highways across downtown while listening to salsa music and compulsively adjusting the air conditioning. Then I reach the incline leading out of the city. The traffic quickens. The buildings disperse, and I'm over the ridge.
The interior is shadowed by the clouds. It's mountainous. It's tropical, but not in any cinematic way -- no skyless, Avatar jungles where you must wield the machete. This jungle belongs to a low-lying, seascape category of tropical, serious in its verdant fertility, carpeting the rugged hills, but showing a certain amiability and lack of ambition.
The landscape of Puerto Rico seems to unfurl in fast forward. You've studied the maps; the names come too fast. This is a small island. I've left the oceanside bowl that San Juan occupies. Already I'm descending into Caguas, a town that appears on the maps to be almost midway across the isla. There's only one more major valley and its major town inland. Beyond the lip of that second bowl, I spy the blue Caribbean horizon.
Before I search for the Museo, I tour the town center. The sun has banished the threat of storms. I stop in the wonderfully named Plaza Las Delicias, ornamented by a fountain with goofy lions spitting water, with statues of civic leaders of old; with the cathedral; and with a red- and black-striped nineteenth-century firehouse -- the first built in Puerto Rico; with old-timers sitting on benches in their sweaty shirts and bantering.
I'm fortunate to park one block from the notably pleasant Cafe Cafe. Anyone visiting Ponce must stop in. The walls are covered in local art; the tables are local art, painted over by a local, tattooed boy who signs as 'ManWe'. In this festive atmosphere, taking respite from the heat under the slow ceiling fans, I have the best food and coffee of the trip. I'm reluctant to venture out again, but I must in the name of art.
Take a right at the Burger King. In this humidity, the street past the Burger King is torture, featuring the interminable facades and grounds of public buildings that in extreme climates can only be seen as instruments of torture. Why did I walk?
The exhibit from the Prado is dominated by El Greco and Goya, neither of whom are favorites -- a fact I can confirm after another viewing, the former weird in all the wrong ways, and the latter completely unremarkable in my eyes. Mois, reductionist?
I'm in a mood. I stroll the air-conditioned halls, and I dismiss pieces I would usually marvel over: I'm a sucker for Renaissance and Baroque classicism on any other day. Today, I'm drawn to the Museo's prized permanent collection of Pre-Raphaelite art. There I find the usual red-headed beauties dwelling in worlds of intense detail and glittering color. The sheen, the romanticism, the weeping symbolism is usually too much for me. Maybe the Latin milieu suits this art well. I'm drawn in and ready to shed a tear for beauty and truth -- though I don't, quite.
Inspired, I will now make my way back to the car, and I will drive to the sea. I set out, pushing through the thick air, past the blank-eyed civic halls and past Homer and back to the Cafe Cafe for a quick shot of caffeinated fortitude. The center of Ponce is fascinating, a kind of funny art installation of its own, fragile stands of plaster and brick set like game pieces in the glaring sun. So many buildings have become empty shells, some leaving only free-standing bricks facades with windows looking in on high grass and wild flowers. The blocks are short; the streets are alleys; one walks them much as one might the halls of the precious museo.
I stand at the edge of the Caribbean sea. It's a blustery day. The winds are kicking up whitecaps all the way out. As I look south toward South America, I have to hold my cap on. To the guy on the other side of the Caribbean, it must look like I'm saluting.
Encanto
Take a right at the Burger King.
I've had to stop in a panaderia to ask directions. It's too hot out to wander and discover. Take a right, she says, at the Burger King. The panaderia has an open tile floor and glass cases along two walls. Along the third are some barren shelves. Along the third is the dusty window. Inside the cases are Latin cookies and cakes.
I return to the dense midday air. I find the Burger King, just past Popeye Motors, where the owner is standing outside operating a sound system, shouting at passers-by and playing salsa. He has a big blow-up Homer Simpson swaying in the sea breezes.
The city of Ponce is named after the great grandson of Ponce de Leon. Young Ponce was the leader of those who settled the current site of the city in the seventeenth century. His illustrious ancestor -- member of Columbus's second expedition and explorer of the Sunshine State, which he named Florida -- old Castilian for refuge-for-those-with-bad-taste -- was the first Spanish governor of the island. It seems only fair that the island's second city should be named after his family. The first city was named for John the Baptist, and I'm sure he felt that that was fair, all things considered. Originally Columbus had named the entire island -- Boriquen to native peoples -- after old Saint John, but subsequent travelers became accustomed to calling it the Rich Port, and the moniker stuck, demoting the austere saint to capital city.
I've set aside a day to see more of the island. The conference has confined me to San Juan. I decide on Ponce as my destination because I happen to see an article about an exhibit from the Prado at the Museo de Arte in Ponce. It's on the southern, Caribbean coast of Puerto Rico, whereas San Juan is situated on the northern, Atlantic shore. I've rented a car for the drive.
There is a haze over the morning, a gentle threat of rain. I sit out the early traffic, inching forward along several highways across downtown while listening to salsa music and compulsively adjusting the air conditioning. Then I reach the incline leading out of the city. The traffic quickens. The buildings disperse, and I'm over the ridge.
The interior is shadowed by the clouds. It's mountainous. It's tropical, but not in any cinematic way -- no skyless, Avatar jungles where you must wield the machete. This jungle belongs to a low-lying, seascape category of tropical, serious in its verdant fertility, carpeting the rugged hills, but showing a certain amiability and lack of ambition.
The landscape of Puerto Rico seems to unfurl in fast forward. You've studied the maps; the names come too fast. This is a small island. I've left the oceanside bowl that San Juan occupies. Already I'm descending into Caguas, a town that appears on the maps to be almost midway across the isla. There's only one more major valley and its major town inland. Beyond the lip of that second bowl, I spy the blue Caribbean horizon.
Before I search for the Museo, I tour the town center. The sun has banished the threat of storms. I stop in the wonderfully named Plaza Las Delicias, ornamented by a fountain with goofy lions spitting water, with statues of civic leaders of old; with the cathedral; and with a red- and black-striped nineteenth-century firehouse -- the first built in Puerto Rico; with old-timers sitting on benches in their sweaty shirts and bantering.
I'm fortunate to park one block from the notably pleasant Cafe Cafe. Anyone visiting Ponce must stop in. The walls are covered in local art; the tables are local art, painted over by a local, tattooed boy who signs as 'ManWe'. In this festive atmosphere, taking respite from the heat under the slow ceiling fans, I have the best food and coffee of the trip. I'm reluctant to venture out again, but I must in the name of art.
Take a right at the Burger King. In this humidity, the street past the Burger King is torture, featuring the interminable facades and grounds of public buildings that in extreme climates can only be seen as instruments of torture. Why did I walk?
The exhibit from the Prado is dominated by El Greco and Goya, neither of whom are favorites -- a fact I can confirm after another viewing, the former weird in all the wrong ways, and the latter completely unremarkable in my eyes. Mois, reductionist?
I'm in a mood. I stroll the air-conditioned halls, and I dismiss pieces I would usually marvel over: I'm a sucker for Renaissance and Baroque classicism on any other day. Today, I'm drawn to the Museo's prized permanent collection of Pre-Raphaelite art. There I find the usual red-headed beauties dwelling in worlds of intense detail and glittering color. The sheen, the romanticism, the weeping symbolism is usually too much for me. Maybe the Latin milieu suits this art well. I'm drawn in and ready to shed a tear for beauty and truth -- though I don't, quite.
Inspired, I will now make my way back to the car, and I will drive to the sea. I set out, pushing through the thick air, past the blank-eyed civic halls and past Homer and back to the Cafe Cafe for a quick shot of caffeinated fortitude. The center of Ponce is fascinating, a kind of funny art installation of its own, fragile stands of plaster and brick set like game pieces in the glaring sun. So many buildings have become empty shells, some leaving only free-standing bricks facades with windows looking in on high grass and wild flowers. The blocks are short; the streets are alleys; one walks them much as one might the halls of the precious museo.
I stand at the edge of the Caribbean sea. It's a blustery day. The winds are kicking up whitecaps all the way out. As I look south toward South America, I have to hold my cap on. To the guy on the other side of the Caribbean, it must look like I'm saluting.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Travelogue 442– April 22
Rum Diaries
The crabs move gingerly across the sand. They are pink, and it's as though they are tender from sun burn, returning from the beach as the sun hangs low over the condos and hotels to the west, as the first tones of crab pink creep into the ocean air. They are heading for safety underneath the planks of the deck. They seem to see me, watching them from a god-like height. They hesitate; they scuttle to the side. They dig among the sand and leaves beneath the broad-leafed trees. My gaze returns to the horizon. It is a straight line. It is blue. Everything resounds with the rolling of gentle waves.
The Pakistani has delivered me safely into the hands of the next stewards of travel, to the diligent airline employees and vigilant mavens of airport security, and to the pilots who tell stories to each other in the cockpit to stay awake. And I have logged my hours above the earth, flying toward the west, aiding the sun in turning the day toward conclusion.
I didn't sleep well during the night, so as soon as I'm seated on the plane, as soon as we're on our way, I nod off. My head swings from side to side across my chest. I wake and see the cities. I wake and see valleys under benign clouds. And then I wake and there is only the ocean. And again it's ocean. I am not able to stay awake, though the view becomes miraculous, and I sense that the order of dreams and waking has been upset.
The ocean is glowing. There are patches that are a bright aquamarine, a color almost green, and glowing as though there are lights just below the surface. Small islands appear with curious shapes, boasting strands of white sand and lagoons of dull green, and surrounding them is that glowing aquamarine. There are clouds that are pure white and big as cities, layered and high and molded into all types of detail. There are faces in them, somber civil servants from centuries past. They leave shadows on the surface of the ocean, detached and lost as ghosts. And then we're approaching for landing, descending over windblown waves.
Now the crabs are abandoning the beach. So are the people. The day is done. The sun is leaving the sky to cool. Above, a sliver of moon brightens. Along the straight road of the horizon, purple clouds are forming in a line, like priests in robes, progressing silently forward on pilgrimage. The waitress arrives with my rum. She returns to the long patio bar, where ice is dished into plastic cups, echoing like the work of bulldozers miles away. On the beach, sharp lights from mobile phones bob like fireflies.
Rum Diaries
The crabs move gingerly across the sand. They are pink, and it's as though they are tender from sun burn, returning from the beach as the sun hangs low over the condos and hotels to the west, as the first tones of crab pink creep into the ocean air. They are heading for safety underneath the planks of the deck. They seem to see me, watching them from a god-like height. They hesitate; they scuttle to the side. They dig among the sand and leaves beneath the broad-leafed trees. My gaze returns to the horizon. It is a straight line. It is blue. Everything resounds with the rolling of gentle waves.
The Pakistani has delivered me safely into the hands of the next stewards of travel, to the diligent airline employees and vigilant mavens of airport security, and to the pilots who tell stories to each other in the cockpit to stay awake. And I have logged my hours above the earth, flying toward the west, aiding the sun in turning the day toward conclusion.
I didn't sleep well during the night, so as soon as I'm seated on the plane, as soon as we're on our way, I nod off. My head swings from side to side across my chest. I wake and see the cities. I wake and see valleys under benign clouds. And then I wake and there is only the ocean. And again it's ocean. I am not able to stay awake, though the view becomes miraculous, and I sense that the order of dreams and waking has been upset.
The ocean is glowing. There are patches that are a bright aquamarine, a color almost green, and glowing as though there are lights just below the surface. Small islands appear with curious shapes, boasting strands of white sand and lagoons of dull green, and surrounding them is that glowing aquamarine. There are clouds that are pure white and big as cities, layered and high and molded into all types of detail. There are faces in them, somber civil servants from centuries past. They leave shadows on the surface of the ocean, detached and lost as ghosts. And then we're approaching for landing, descending over windblown waves.
Now the crabs are abandoning the beach. So are the people. The day is done. The sun is leaving the sky to cool. Above, a sliver of moon brightens. Along the straight road of the horizon, purple clouds are forming in a line, like priests in robes, progressing silently forward on pilgrimage. The waitress arrives with my rum. She returns to the long patio bar, where ice is dished into plastic cups, echoing like the work of bulldozers miles away. On the beach, sharp lights from mobile phones bob like fireflies.
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Travelogue 441– April 21
Via Brevis
My appointment is at 6am.
I am waiting on Hoyne Avenue. Hoyne Avenue is not much of an avenue. Two cars could not pass between the parked ones. The buildings are humble. The avenue dead-ends just south, and Mary mentions there's a Target on the other side of the dead end. She repeats it several times, and suddenly Target is a landmark of some significance.
Right at 6am, the taxi arrives. The driver lets me in, and we set off. He asks about my home, my trip. He looks more closely at me over his shoulder, with the casual intensity of a pro. He's been driving for five years now.
I'm in Chicago, just for one night. Stephanie and Mark have driven me there from Michigan, and we all have stayed the night at Mary's on Hoyne Avenue. Past the Target and not too far away is the center of Lincoln Square. Mary says it's quaint. I haven't got my big city glasses on yet; I am able to discern only the slightest variation among the blocks of two- and three-story brick. There is a kind of main street happening. There is a string of small restaurants, which include our Mexican place. It's tiny, of course, packed carefully with tables and with suggestive decor, and there is a small crowd waiting to sit. We join them, standing awkwardly at the entrance, holding our bottles. It seems that very few restaurants in Chicago can manage a liquor license, and patrons are encouraged to bring their own. We've brought a bottle of wine and a plastic thermos of margaritas. Mary found a bottle of tequila and a bottle of mix that dated back to her housewarming party. We figure it's worth the chance.
I'm fascinated by the lives of big city taxi drivers and so I step right into this one's trap. I ask how the day or the night is going. Long, he says. He's been driving twenty-one hours. He says it's almost impossible to stay awake after twenty-one hours of driving. I nod compassionately, and glance at the road. He tells me it's good to have someone to talk to. 'After this many hours, nothing else works,' he says. 'Coffee.' He shakes his head. 'Food.' He shakes his head. "It takes a good, intense dialogue with someone. You know?' And so, for twenty minutes, my life depends on my conversation.
The time difference should work in my favor, but the margaritas and the late night, the futon bed and the anxieties of travel have worked on me. Last night I lay in bed thinking of next stops and next stops. This morning I'm dizzy with it all.
He asks about my work. I tell him about Ethiopia. He asks, 'Is it true that all NGOs are agents of American policy?' I cautiously say no, I don't think so. He says he gets a lot of mercenaries in his taxi, guys with military gear saying they work for NGOs, heading off to international locales. He sizes me up again in a long glance and a sly smile. 'Are you sure you're not military? I could see you with a sniper rifle.' I say, thank you, I'm flattered, but I've never even held a gun.
This is a suspicion that tails me like a spook. Short hair, long hair, grubby clothes or neat, it doesn't matter, people are always thinking I'm CIA. I'm sure it follows most international travelers in the choking modern atmosphere of conspiracy theory. I usually find humor in the idea of the CIA being super villains behind thousands of perfectly orchestrated mishaps around the globe every day, knowing how hard it is for most human beings simply to get out the door on time in the morning with matching socks. But there you go.
No, sorry, friend. I'm sadly trapped inside the very persona I present to you. His persona is far more interesting, He's half Pakistani. He sports the kind of long, frizzy beard that triggers odd muscle twitches in Middle America. He has a broad grin furnished with even, white teeth. He's big-boned and leans far back in his seat. His diction is educated.
'There's no freedom of press anywhere in the world like freedom of the press in Pakistan,' he declares. He paints a picture of innumerable factions writing continuous streams of abuse about generals and presidents alike. Karachi comes alive through his words, a sprawling megalopolis ready to skip to the head of the line. Did I know that before Bangladesh broke away, Pakistan was the third largest nation on Earth -- in population, of course?
We make it safely to O'Hare. He takes a last cunning look. 'And you're sure ...?' I'm sure. Are you going back, I ask him. 'Next summer, insh'Allah. That's why I'm pulling these crazy shifts.' Ah, well, may you find steady conversation. And the same for your pilot.
Via Brevis
My appointment is at 6am.
I am waiting on Hoyne Avenue. Hoyne Avenue is not much of an avenue. Two cars could not pass between the parked ones. The buildings are humble. The avenue dead-ends just south, and Mary mentions there's a Target on the other side of the dead end. She repeats it several times, and suddenly Target is a landmark of some significance.
Right at 6am, the taxi arrives. The driver lets me in, and we set off. He asks about my home, my trip. He looks more closely at me over his shoulder, with the casual intensity of a pro. He's been driving for five years now.
I'm in Chicago, just for one night. Stephanie and Mark have driven me there from Michigan, and we all have stayed the night at Mary's on Hoyne Avenue. Past the Target and not too far away is the center of Lincoln Square. Mary says it's quaint. I haven't got my big city glasses on yet; I am able to discern only the slightest variation among the blocks of two- and three-story brick. There is a kind of main street happening. There is a string of small restaurants, which include our Mexican place. It's tiny, of course, packed carefully with tables and with suggestive decor, and there is a small crowd waiting to sit. We join them, standing awkwardly at the entrance, holding our bottles. It seems that very few restaurants in Chicago can manage a liquor license, and patrons are encouraged to bring their own. We've brought a bottle of wine and a plastic thermos of margaritas. Mary found a bottle of tequila and a bottle of mix that dated back to her housewarming party. We figure it's worth the chance.
I'm fascinated by the lives of big city taxi drivers and so I step right into this one's trap. I ask how the day or the night is going. Long, he says. He's been driving twenty-one hours. He says it's almost impossible to stay awake after twenty-one hours of driving. I nod compassionately, and glance at the road. He tells me it's good to have someone to talk to. 'After this many hours, nothing else works,' he says. 'Coffee.' He shakes his head. 'Food.' He shakes his head. "It takes a good, intense dialogue with someone. You know?' And so, for twenty minutes, my life depends on my conversation.
The time difference should work in my favor, but the margaritas and the late night, the futon bed and the anxieties of travel have worked on me. Last night I lay in bed thinking of next stops and next stops. This morning I'm dizzy with it all.
He asks about my work. I tell him about Ethiopia. He asks, 'Is it true that all NGOs are agents of American policy?' I cautiously say no, I don't think so. He says he gets a lot of mercenaries in his taxi, guys with military gear saying they work for NGOs, heading off to international locales. He sizes me up again in a long glance and a sly smile. 'Are you sure you're not military? I could see you with a sniper rifle.' I say, thank you, I'm flattered, but I've never even held a gun.
This is a suspicion that tails me like a spook. Short hair, long hair, grubby clothes or neat, it doesn't matter, people are always thinking I'm CIA. I'm sure it follows most international travelers in the choking modern atmosphere of conspiracy theory. I usually find humor in the idea of the CIA being super villains behind thousands of perfectly orchestrated mishaps around the globe every day, knowing how hard it is for most human beings simply to get out the door on time in the morning with matching socks. But there you go.
No, sorry, friend. I'm sadly trapped inside the very persona I present to you. His persona is far more interesting, He's half Pakistani. He sports the kind of long, frizzy beard that triggers odd muscle twitches in Middle America. He has a broad grin furnished with even, white teeth. He's big-boned and leans far back in his seat. His diction is educated.
'There's no freedom of press anywhere in the world like freedom of the press in Pakistan,' he declares. He paints a picture of innumerable factions writing continuous streams of abuse about generals and presidents alike. Karachi comes alive through his words, a sprawling megalopolis ready to skip to the head of the line. Did I know that before Bangladesh broke away, Pakistan was the third largest nation on Earth -- in population, of course?
We make it safely to O'Hare. He takes a last cunning look. 'And you're sure ...?' I'm sure. Are you going back, I ask him. 'Next summer, insh'Allah. That's why I'm pulling these crazy shifts.' Ah, well, may you find steady conversation. And the same for your pilot.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
