Friday, October 8, 2010
Nepal
After a grueling trip from Istanbul (I was incredibly ill with the worst migraine of my life), we arrived around ten o'clock in the morning, sans luggage. Our connection in Doha was too short and the baggage exchange unsuccessful. Nevertheless, we check into the Kantipur Temple House- a former temple turned hotel. I have always loved mogul architecture and chose this hotel for it's ornate work. Four stories high with a roof top balcony, it has many beautiful gardens to sit in. Little lamps with oil line the edges of the walls. In the entrance courtyard a large temple bell awaits clanging, perhaps for a call for dinner? A Buddha statue sits in a raised enclosed balcony. A variety of trees, all meticulously labeled grow despite the dust that falls daily in this grimy city. And the staff are very friendly.
We spend some days in the city adjusting to being in Asia. It is a big change from Europe. Dusty roads, chaotic traffic, and air pollution. Kathmandu reminds me of being in Mexico city. Both cities lie in low valleys, trapping the air. Strangely, all this chaos is refreshing for us after being in Europe. Our senses are heightened as we dodge traffic and walk the narrow streets. We wander around Durbur square where former kings and queens were crowned and legitimized. It is the heart of the old town and filled with temples, terraced platforms and statues. Sadus approach us asking for money. Vendors too numerous to count try to sell us whatever trinket they are flogging, including flutes, tiger balm and jewelery. We soon tire of the bombardment and head back to our hotel.
After a couple of days, we decide to make a three day trip to Pokhara. Excited to get out of smoggy Kathmandu, we start out eagerly at seven am to catch our bus. We have paid five hundred rupees each for a non-air conditioned bus. There are about ten foreigners on the bus while the others were locals who I'm sure did not pay the same price. We start out merrily and in great spirits. For the first two hours we chatted and watched never-ending traffic. Eventually we leave the city limits and head into the hills, dashing along at the high speed of twenty kilometers an hour. A caravan of trucks travel in both directions. One truck decides to turn around in the middle of the road, holding up traffic on both sides oft the mountain pass.
For hours, I stare out the window. Women wash clothes in the mountain streams, carry water on their heads. Others pound rocks into gravel for the road construction that was underway.
The only men that I see are playing cards under trees. How did this division of labour come to be, I wonder. Our bus weaves through valleys, one after the other, up and down, passing beautiful lush steep terraces growing corn, wheat and okra. Banana trees border the road. Pokhara is five hundred meters below Kathmandu so the river that we are following is traveling in the same direction as us. As the river widens, there are more and more suspension bridges. Most are walkable. Others are just a suspension line with a rickety wooden basket dangling precariously. I shiver at the thought of falling into the rushing river gorge below.
As the heat heightens, our spirits begin to wane. If we keep the windows open, the dust flies in our faces; if we close it, we cook. At eleven o'clock, the bus makes a pit stop and we have to pay five rupees to pee in a latrine. And that payment does not ensure a clean venue. Need I say more. Afterward, I buy some bananas and a cucumber for a snack. Twenty minutes later, back on the bus. The heat grows. Mom dozes off intermittently, her head lolling with every curve. I grow lethargic, the sweat pouring down my back. After six hours, Mom and I decide that we will fly back to Kathmandu instead of taking the bus back.
After seven hours, we arrive in Pokhara through the industrial section. A city of 171,000. Pokhara is renown for a lovely lake and incredible mountain views. We get down from the bus and look for our prearranged hotel pickup. We've found that doing this eliminates a lot of tasseling from taxi drivers wanting a fare. Our glee at arriving turns to misery when we check into our hotel that is extremely isolated and up a road that is barely passable. But we are so exhausted that we don't have the energy to do anything about it today. We make the best of it until the morning when we change hotels.
One of the highlights of Pokhara over the next two days will be visiting the Tibetan village of Tashi Palkhel. Young monks sit around their gompa studying while old women circle it doing their prayers. Our driver shows us where a landslide wiped out a number of the homes in the village. The locals are extremely friendly. We stop for chai and chat with them in Hindi. Mom sketches a blind old man, who is thrilled to be the center of attention.
After two days, we book our ticket out of Pokhara. The entire town is geared towards the last stop before trekking the Annapurna Circuit but other than that, there is not a lot to do. I would have like to hiked out to the World Peace Pagoda but due to recent attacks on women, it is not suggested that women trek to it alone. Anxious to see the mountains which have been hidden under cloud cover every day, on the morning that we are flying out, I rise at 4:45 and take a thirty minute taxi up to Sarangkot, one of the closest viewpoints. I stand waiting in the darkness with a hundred other visitors. The mood is jovial, almost party like. At 6:10, the first glimpse of light illuminates one of the mountain peaks. As the sun slowly rises, the mountain range lights up. At heights of 6997 to 8167 meters, the peaks are breath taking. Camera click away non-stop. I try to capture this moment in my mind forever. By six-thirty, the sun has fully risen and my taxi driver urges me to leave in order to catch my flight back to Kathmandu.
An hour later, Mom and I are sitting in the airport restaurant. When we came in our airlines booth, Guna Air was not open despite the fact that every other airline was open. We decided to sit upstairs in the restaurant and have a coke and a coffee. Twenty minutes later, worried, I ask my mother to go check when Guna will open. She is halfway down the stairs when the waiter comes running out after her, telling her “Not open for ten minutes, go back and sit down.” He is very persistent, waving her back to our table. She obediently sits down. I am amazed that my mother obeyed, knowing her character. Eventually, however, we check in when the waiter tells us the booth is open.
After getting our boarding passes, we go through security. We are only carrying two small backpacks and do not have to check any luggage. Passing through the metal detector, I don't think that it is even plugged in. We are sent to the women's cubicle to be patted down and they casually look through Mom's bag that contained liquids, which they did not bat an eye lash at. Once in the waiting room, Mom decides to go to the toilet. We could smell it before we found it. The first toilet booth, a wooden door only has an unplugged big round hole where the door knob should be and it does not lock. The next one had no paper and no water. The sinks as usual was outside the toilet area and had not been washed in six years. And this is an airport! The keeper of this famous toilet came in and Mom asked her for soap. She pointed to a sliver of soap stuck to the wall. I guess she was supposed to wet her hands then take the soap. She might had done that if there had been any water.
Now for the flight. An experience of a lifetime. We walk over the tarmac, around another airplane, up some rickety tin steps than only one can get on at a time, frantically look for number eight and nine seats, only to have someone say “Free seating, free seating.” Then there are our bags. Since we carried our small backpacks we assumed that we would put them in an overhead compartment. There is no overhead, in fact the ceiling is just inches over our heads. The plane is an eighteen seater, nine on each side. No wider than six feet at most. We can see the two pilots siting in the front, even though we are seating way at the back. This was supposedly, when we booked tickets, a brand new plane. It didn't take long to figure out that this was a very old plane. A gorgeous Nepali flight attendant in a suit no less, said sweetly, “Fasten your seatbelts, please.” We had no sooner done that when the engines came on with a huge roar. As the wheels left the runway, Mom comments that she feels like we are being “shot out of a canon.” We hang on for dear life. Once in the air, we are offered a candy and a newspaper. Who can read ? Mom and I are hysterical with laughter. Side by side each other with a ten inch space between us, we laugh and laugh at this incredible experience.
But it is all worth it for the view. Now we know why we went straight up. Pokhara is down in a valley and surrounded by mountain ranges. I click one photo after the next of the snow-covered mountains that I had seen earlier in the morning. No sooner had we leveled out, we start to nosedive into into Kathmandu. Surprisingly, the landing is smooth, without a hitch. In twenty minutes, we covered the same distance that we drove by bus in seven hours two days before.
After a day's rest, we take a car and a driver to the ancient city of Bhaktapur. Bhaktapur is an amazing city. Mom and I spent the day walking the old cobble streets that are traffic free. It is like stepping back in time to the 1700's. We avoid the central Durbar square where they want ten dollars entry fee, a fortune compared to others that we have visited previously. Instead we get lost in the city, passing women knitting in the shade of their doorways or chatting with their neighbors. Men work on repairing the roads or building furniture. We visit potters square where the men and women have been making clay pots for hundreds of years. Later, we enjoy a cold beer and momos for lunch on the roof top of a small hotel and exhausted, we head back to Kathmandu.
We change hotels to move over to the Bodhnath Stupa. I want spend time with the Tibetans who come to here every day to walk clockwise around the Stupa. It is a huge white circular temple with a white dome topped with a four sided golden peak that has the infamous Buddhist eyes on each side. Long lines of prayer flags flutter in the wind. Maroon-robed Tibetan monks walk around the stupa, fingering their prayer beads, their lips moving quietly in prayer. Stooped whizzened worshipers twirl the hundreds of prayer wheels sitting in niches in the walls. The words Om Mani Padme Hum drone from a loudspeaker. A sudden burst of drums announces a funeral procession. We refrain from clicking our cameras in respect, as the tears run down my face at the sight of such naked pain.
At the end of ten days, we fly out of Nepal, sorry to leave and promising to come back. The friendly Nepalis have impressed us so much with their kindness. I want to come back with my kids and go trekking. But for now, Mom and I head for Bangladesh where I have some work to complete. But that is another story.
We spend some days in the city adjusting to being in Asia. It is a big change from Europe. Dusty roads, chaotic traffic, and air pollution. Kathmandu reminds me of being in Mexico city. Both cities lie in low valleys, trapping the air. Strangely, all this chaos is refreshing for us after being in Europe. Our senses are heightened as we dodge traffic and walk the narrow streets. We wander around Durbur square where former kings and queens were crowned and legitimized. It is the heart of the old town and filled with temples, terraced platforms and statues. Sadus approach us asking for money. Vendors too numerous to count try to sell us whatever trinket they are flogging, including flutes, tiger balm and jewelery. We soon tire of the bombardment and head back to our hotel.
After a couple of days, we decide to make a three day trip to Pokhara. Excited to get out of smoggy Kathmandu, we start out eagerly at seven am to catch our bus. We have paid five hundred rupees each for a non-air conditioned bus. There are about ten foreigners on the bus while the others were locals who I'm sure did not pay the same price. We start out merrily and in great spirits. For the first two hours we chatted and watched never-ending traffic. Eventually we leave the city limits and head into the hills, dashing along at the high speed of twenty kilometers an hour. A caravan of trucks travel in both directions. One truck decides to turn around in the middle of the road, holding up traffic on both sides oft the mountain pass.
For hours, I stare out the window. Women wash clothes in the mountain streams, carry water on their heads. Others pound rocks into gravel for the road construction that was underway.
The only men that I see are playing cards under trees. How did this division of labour come to be, I wonder. Our bus weaves through valleys, one after the other, up and down, passing beautiful lush steep terraces growing corn, wheat and okra. Banana trees border the road. Pokhara is five hundred meters below Kathmandu so the river that we are following is traveling in the same direction as us. As the river widens, there are more and more suspension bridges. Most are walkable. Others are just a suspension line with a rickety wooden basket dangling precariously. I shiver at the thought of falling into the rushing river gorge below.
As the heat heightens, our spirits begin to wane. If we keep the windows open, the dust flies in our faces; if we close it, we cook. At eleven o'clock, the bus makes a pit stop and we have to pay five rupees to pee in a latrine. And that payment does not ensure a clean venue. Need I say more. Afterward, I buy some bananas and a cucumber for a snack. Twenty minutes later, back on the bus. The heat grows. Mom dozes off intermittently, her head lolling with every curve. I grow lethargic, the sweat pouring down my back. After six hours, Mom and I decide that we will fly back to Kathmandu instead of taking the bus back.
After seven hours, we arrive in Pokhara through the industrial section. A city of 171,000. Pokhara is renown for a lovely lake and incredible mountain views. We get down from the bus and look for our prearranged hotel pickup. We've found that doing this eliminates a lot of tasseling from taxi drivers wanting a fare. Our glee at arriving turns to misery when we check into our hotel that is extremely isolated and up a road that is barely passable. But we are so exhausted that we don't have the energy to do anything about it today. We make the best of it until the morning when we change hotels.
One of the highlights of Pokhara over the next two days will be visiting the Tibetan village of Tashi Palkhel. Young monks sit around their gompa studying while old women circle it doing their prayers. Our driver shows us where a landslide wiped out a number of the homes in the village. The locals are extremely friendly. We stop for chai and chat with them in Hindi. Mom sketches a blind old man, who is thrilled to be the center of attention.
After two days, we book our ticket out of Pokhara. The entire town is geared towards the last stop before trekking the Annapurna Circuit but other than that, there is not a lot to do. I would have like to hiked out to the World Peace Pagoda but due to recent attacks on women, it is not suggested that women trek to it alone. Anxious to see the mountains which have been hidden under cloud cover every day, on the morning that we are flying out, I rise at 4:45 and take a thirty minute taxi up to Sarangkot, one of the closest viewpoints. I stand waiting in the darkness with a hundred other visitors. The mood is jovial, almost party like. At 6:10, the first glimpse of light illuminates one of the mountain peaks. As the sun slowly rises, the mountain range lights up. At heights of 6997 to 8167 meters, the peaks are breath taking. Camera click away non-stop. I try to capture this moment in my mind forever. By six-thirty, the sun has fully risen and my taxi driver urges me to leave in order to catch my flight back to Kathmandu.
An hour later, Mom and I are sitting in the airport restaurant. When we came in our airlines booth, Guna Air was not open despite the fact that every other airline was open. We decided to sit upstairs in the restaurant and have a coke and a coffee. Twenty minutes later, worried, I ask my mother to go check when Guna will open. She is halfway down the stairs when the waiter comes running out after her, telling her “Not open for ten minutes, go back and sit down.” He is very persistent, waving her back to our table. She obediently sits down. I am amazed that my mother obeyed, knowing her character. Eventually, however, we check in when the waiter tells us the booth is open.
After getting our boarding passes, we go through security. We are only carrying two small backpacks and do not have to check any luggage. Passing through the metal detector, I don't think that it is even plugged in. We are sent to the women's cubicle to be patted down and they casually look through Mom's bag that contained liquids, which they did not bat an eye lash at. Once in the waiting room, Mom decides to go to the toilet. We could smell it before we found it. The first toilet booth, a wooden door only has an unplugged big round hole where the door knob should be and it does not lock. The next one had no paper and no water. The sinks as usual was outside the toilet area and had not been washed in six years. And this is an airport! The keeper of this famous toilet came in and Mom asked her for soap. She pointed to a sliver of soap stuck to the wall. I guess she was supposed to wet her hands then take the soap. She might had done that if there had been any water.
Now for the flight. An experience of a lifetime. We walk over the tarmac, around another airplane, up some rickety tin steps than only one can get on at a time, frantically look for number eight and nine seats, only to have someone say “Free seating, free seating.” Then there are our bags. Since we carried our small backpacks we assumed that we would put them in an overhead compartment. There is no overhead, in fact the ceiling is just inches over our heads. The plane is an eighteen seater, nine on each side. No wider than six feet at most. We can see the two pilots siting in the front, even though we are seating way at the back. This was supposedly, when we booked tickets, a brand new plane. It didn't take long to figure out that this was a very old plane. A gorgeous Nepali flight attendant in a suit no less, said sweetly, “Fasten your seatbelts, please.” We had no sooner done that when the engines came on with a huge roar. As the wheels left the runway, Mom comments that she feels like we are being “shot out of a canon.” We hang on for dear life. Once in the air, we are offered a candy and a newspaper. Who can read ? Mom and I are hysterical with laughter. Side by side each other with a ten inch space between us, we laugh and laugh at this incredible experience.
But it is all worth it for the view. Now we know why we went straight up. Pokhara is down in a valley and surrounded by mountain ranges. I click one photo after the next of the snow-covered mountains that I had seen earlier in the morning. No sooner had we leveled out, we start to nosedive into into Kathmandu. Surprisingly, the landing is smooth, without a hitch. In twenty minutes, we covered the same distance that we drove by bus in seven hours two days before.
After a day's rest, we take a car and a driver to the ancient city of Bhaktapur. Bhaktapur is an amazing city. Mom and I spent the day walking the old cobble streets that are traffic free. It is like stepping back in time to the 1700's. We avoid the central Durbar square where they want ten dollars entry fee, a fortune compared to others that we have visited previously. Instead we get lost in the city, passing women knitting in the shade of their doorways or chatting with their neighbors. Men work on repairing the roads or building furniture. We visit potters square where the men and women have been making clay pots for hundreds of years. Later, we enjoy a cold beer and momos for lunch on the roof top of a small hotel and exhausted, we head back to Kathmandu.
We change hotels to move over to the Bodhnath Stupa. I want spend time with the Tibetans who come to here every day to walk clockwise around the Stupa. It is a huge white circular temple with a white dome topped with a four sided golden peak that has the infamous Buddhist eyes on each side. Long lines of prayer flags flutter in the wind. Maroon-robed Tibetan monks walk around the stupa, fingering their prayer beads, their lips moving quietly in prayer. Stooped whizzened worshipers twirl the hundreds of prayer wheels sitting in niches in the walls. The words Om Mani Padme Hum drone from a loudspeaker. A sudden burst of drums announces a funeral procession. We refrain from clicking our cameras in respect, as the tears run down my face at the sight of such naked pain.
At the end of ten days, we fly out of Nepal, sorry to leave and promising to come back. The friendly Nepalis have impressed us so much with their kindness. I want to come back with my kids and go trekking. But for now, Mom and I head for Bangladesh where I have some work to complete. But that is another story.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
The good, the bad and the ugly: Turkey
One of the countries on our European leg that I was looking forward to the most was Turkey. I anticipated that Turkey was going to be different from the other countries that we had visited in Europe and I wondered if it would be closer to my Asian experiences. But this was not to be the case.
Turkey is the only country that spans two continents, Europe and Asia and thus, the city of Istanbul is half European, half Asian. Apparently it used to be a very corrupt country but then the government cracked down, bringing about huge changes. Now it is very modern, with an excellent infrastructure. (India could take some lessons here on the eve of the Commonwealth Games.) The roads and highways are in excellent condition and there is evidence of planning and wealth everywhere. It helps that Turkey is enjoying a surge in tourism which was very evident during our stay.
Turkey is a Muslim country and I found that the Turkish people rarely made eye contact nor smile. Part of me wonders if they are sick to death of tourists. I can't imagine what it is like to have a gazillion tourists three hundred and sixty five days a year. There is never a lull or down season. Brand new state of the art buses were everywhere. Cruise ships arrived daily. We even had to time our museum visits to avoid the crowds.
The first part of our stay was in the lovely Sebnem Hotel, a small hotel owned by a young man who is eeking out a living in a very hotel laden city. Every morning we were greeted with an unbelievable breakfast of homemade pastries, made fresh daily. He was extremely helpful and one of the rare ones with a smile for us.
We spent many days touring the incredible sights: the Blue Mosque, Santa Sophia, Dolmabahce Palace, the Grand Bazaar and the Spice Market. My Mom was particularly moved by our visit to Santa Sophia. It is a former Christian church, dating 500 DC. Absolutely enormous in size with beautiful frescoed ceilings and mosaics. Unfortunately the frescoes were peeling and any symbol of Christianity that was removable was removed. Sadly, unlike our visit to the palace where people were yelled at for putting a finger on a wall, tourists in Santa Sophia are allowed to tramp through in great hoards without any care or thought for its protection.
One of the highlights of the week was a quick two day trip to Assos. John and I went by bus, over seven hours. The bus was state of the art, even with wireless internet and incredible free food service on board. I felt like I was on a plane. A young man in a crisp white shirt, complete with a bow-tie and black pants pushed his little trolley up and down the aisle every couple of hours. When we arrived in the closest town to Assos, we had to take a dolmus (a little mini-bus) the rest of the way and I made friends with an old man who was thrilled to explain his village heritage to a Canadian. Assos is a primitive stone village, which is also the site of ancient ruins. John and I trekked the hills and even hitch-hiked our way back to the village. Sadly, we wished that we had had one more day there.
Each country seems to bring out different feelings in me. One night an incident brought this to a head. John and I were walking up a hill to go out for dinner. We were walking about 1 ½ feet apart, when all of a sudden, a young man came running down the hill towards me. In the blink of an eye, with his hand flat, he whacked my upper chest, just below my throat. The stinging slap resounded in the night as he continued running down the hill. I was deeply shaken and to this day wonder why he did this. Was he trying to snatch my travel purse, which was over my head and shoulder? Was he making a statement about non-Islamic women, even though I was very conservatively dressed? Or was he simply deranged? I guess I'll never know.
The day before we left, in celebration of John's birthday, we decided to splurge and go for a Turkish bath. The Cagaloglu Hamam was constructed in 1741 and is still running today. After paying our forty Euros each (remember that I said splurge), John and I parted to go to our respective sections, men's and women's. It was an amazing hour long experience for me as I underwent a total exfoliating, massage and scrub, all while lying on huge marble platform with steam rising up to the beautiful mosaic domed ceiling. Other women lay around me in various stages of their bath, which is administered by women dressed in the old style full body, one piece bathing suits. Eucalyptus wafted through the air. As I lay there, condensation from the ceiling dripped on my face. After each step, my woman poured bowl fulls of warm water over my head. Finishing up in the sauna, I emerged from the Hamam, feeling very relaxed, much like a wet noodle.
One resonating sight that still remains with me is seeing women dressed in full burkhas: black from head to toe, with only a slit to see through. Not that every women was dressed like this, far from it. But there were enough to make it was a common sight. I often saw two or three women, with one husband, walking around or sitting in parks, totally covered. On our flight out of Istanbul, a woman in full burkha, further covered the slit for her eyes with yet another black cover when she went to the toilet. I have no idea how she ever saw how to get to the toilet at the back of the plane. And when we arrived in Doha, she and her family were all whisked away in a Mercedes taxi, directly from the plane. They did not board the crowded shuttle bus that took us into the airport terminal. I know that some women do chose to cover themselves up willingly but there are many others who have no choice. I often wonder how they see the world through a wall of black and what they are feeling underneath.
But what I missed most of all was being able to look into their eyes and connect, as women do all over the world.
Turkey is the only country that spans two continents, Europe and Asia and thus, the city of Istanbul is half European, half Asian. Apparently it used to be a very corrupt country but then the government cracked down, bringing about huge changes. Now it is very modern, with an excellent infrastructure. (India could take some lessons here on the eve of the Commonwealth Games.) The roads and highways are in excellent condition and there is evidence of planning and wealth everywhere. It helps that Turkey is enjoying a surge in tourism which was very evident during our stay.
Turkey is a Muslim country and I found that the Turkish people rarely made eye contact nor smile. Part of me wonders if they are sick to death of tourists. I can't imagine what it is like to have a gazillion tourists three hundred and sixty five days a year. There is never a lull or down season. Brand new state of the art buses were everywhere. Cruise ships arrived daily. We even had to time our museum visits to avoid the crowds.
The first part of our stay was in the lovely Sebnem Hotel, a small hotel owned by a young man who is eeking out a living in a very hotel laden city. Every morning we were greeted with an unbelievable breakfast of homemade pastries, made fresh daily. He was extremely helpful and one of the rare ones with a smile for us.
We spent many days touring the incredible sights: the Blue Mosque, Santa Sophia, Dolmabahce Palace, the Grand Bazaar and the Spice Market. My Mom was particularly moved by our visit to Santa Sophia. It is a former Christian church, dating 500 DC. Absolutely enormous in size with beautiful frescoed ceilings and mosaics. Unfortunately the frescoes were peeling and any symbol of Christianity that was removable was removed. Sadly, unlike our visit to the palace where people were yelled at for putting a finger on a wall, tourists in Santa Sophia are allowed to tramp through in great hoards without any care or thought for its protection.
One of the highlights of the week was a quick two day trip to Assos. John and I went by bus, over seven hours. The bus was state of the art, even with wireless internet and incredible free food service on board. I felt like I was on a plane. A young man in a crisp white shirt, complete with a bow-tie and black pants pushed his little trolley up and down the aisle every couple of hours. When we arrived in the closest town to Assos, we had to take a dolmus (a little mini-bus) the rest of the way and I made friends with an old man who was thrilled to explain his village heritage to a Canadian. Assos is a primitive stone village, which is also the site of ancient ruins. John and I trekked the hills and even hitch-hiked our way back to the village. Sadly, we wished that we had had one more day there.
Each country seems to bring out different feelings in me. One night an incident brought this to a head. John and I were walking up a hill to go out for dinner. We were walking about 1 ½ feet apart, when all of a sudden, a young man came running down the hill towards me. In the blink of an eye, with his hand flat, he whacked my upper chest, just below my throat. The stinging slap resounded in the night as he continued running down the hill. I was deeply shaken and to this day wonder why he did this. Was he trying to snatch my travel purse, which was over my head and shoulder? Was he making a statement about non-Islamic women, even though I was very conservatively dressed? Or was he simply deranged? I guess I'll never know.
The day before we left, in celebration of John's birthday, we decided to splurge and go for a Turkish bath. The Cagaloglu Hamam was constructed in 1741 and is still running today. After paying our forty Euros each (remember that I said splurge), John and I parted to go to our respective sections, men's and women's. It was an amazing hour long experience for me as I underwent a total exfoliating, massage and scrub, all while lying on huge marble platform with steam rising up to the beautiful mosaic domed ceiling. Other women lay around me in various stages of their bath, which is administered by women dressed in the old style full body, one piece bathing suits. Eucalyptus wafted through the air. As I lay there, condensation from the ceiling dripped on my face. After each step, my woman poured bowl fulls of warm water over my head. Finishing up in the sauna, I emerged from the Hamam, feeling very relaxed, much like a wet noodle.
One resonating sight that still remains with me is seeing women dressed in full burkhas: black from head to toe, with only a slit to see through. Not that every women was dressed like this, far from it. But there were enough to make it was a common sight. I often saw two or three women, with one husband, walking around or sitting in parks, totally covered. On our flight out of Istanbul, a woman in full burkha, further covered the slit for her eyes with yet another black cover when she went to the toilet. I have no idea how she ever saw how to get to the toilet at the back of the plane. And when we arrived in Doha, she and her family were all whisked away in a Mercedes taxi, directly from the plane. They did not board the crowded shuttle bus that took us into the airport terminal. I know that some women do chose to cover themselves up willingly but there are many others who have no choice. I often wonder how they see the world through a wall of black and what they are feeling underneath.
But what I missed most of all was being able to look into their eyes and connect, as women do all over the world.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Greece
Wow, the weeks are flying by. Three weeks ago, I was in Greece and although it had a some rough patches, my fellow travelers and I all really enjoyed it. The week was a busy one with travel by air, ferry, car, taxi, and metro. Ah yes, the metro. I've decided that the most dangerous way to travel is not by air, nor by car but by metro. This is because on our way into Athens, after our flight from Rome, John was pick pocketed in the metro. And for anyone keeping track, I was pick pocketed last March in the Paris metro. Lesson here: beware of all metros. And believe me, these guys are professionals. They pick the most congested areas, for example where there are a lot of people getting on and off to change trains. They pick the battle weary travelers, the ones with fatigue written all over their faces. The ones with the suitcases and backpacks that they are concentrating so hard on not forgetting. And voila, you have the perfect situation. You stand behind the a fore said traveler, and as he bends down to pick up his luggage to get off, you slip your hand into his pocket and lighten his load. Never pausing to think how incredibly awful it makes the traveler feel, how vulnerable, how stricken. However, as I know from experience, one eventually after a couple of days gets past it and lucky for John, he has a wife with him who has her credit cards.
After waiting one day in Athens for my mother and Moisha to arrive from Toronto, we flew to San Torini Island. This was definitely the highlight of Greece for me. San Torini is now an island in the shape of a half-moon. Way back before 1650 BC, it used to be a round island until the volcano in the middle of it erupted and blew the island into pieces. My guide book tells me that it was one of the largest explosions in the history of the planet, setting off a spew of ash 35 kilometres in the air.
Our villa, Kokkinnos Villas, was perched on the inner rim of the volcano on one end of the island and had a spectacular view of the caldera. Cruise ships came and went daily to bring tourists to the town of Fira. We had a lovely balcony and a rugged beach about 100 steps down. We have not been anywhere yet on this trip that we did not have to climb up or down to go somewhere. But I love it. We immediately opened a bottle of wine and had a picnic of local bread and cheese.
My favorite day on the island was our trip to Oia, pronounced Eya. Located at the extreme other end of the island, it is constantly bathed in sunlight and has the best sunsets. The architecture is stunning. White washed cement houses with blue domed roofs line the cliff. Many have been turned into little hotels and have small jacuzzi size pools looking out over the ocean. We wandered for hours through tiny lane ways and up and down hundreds of steps. The sun beat down on us relentlessly. I bought some delicious fresh figs that were in season.
The next day we took the ferry to Crete and then drove to Chania (pronouned Hania). A lovely city with a very Venetian port. We stayed in one of the nicest hotels on our trip, a boutique hotel that was lovingly finished and had antiques in every nook and cranny. A bottle of wine and bread and cheese in the garden refreshed us all after an afternoon of walking. There is a beach very close by and John and I ran down for a swim. It is the only sandy beach that we encountered on this trip. On of the highlights of this city was dinner in Tamam restaurant. A former Turkish bath, the restaurant is bathed in amber walls; tables were around the top periphery and in the sunken area. The place was packed as it is a favorite even with the locals. We were served by a very nice bohemian looking young man and enjoyed a delicious Greek meal with wine. Free ouzo was offered at the end, of which we partook of course!
Greece was amazing, quite different from the rest of Europe. Our days flew by and soon we were on our way to Turkey. But that is another story.
After waiting one day in Athens for my mother and Moisha to arrive from Toronto, we flew to San Torini Island. This was definitely the highlight of Greece for me. San Torini is now an island in the shape of a half-moon. Way back before 1650 BC, it used to be a round island until the volcano in the middle of it erupted and blew the island into pieces. My guide book tells me that it was one of the largest explosions in the history of the planet, setting off a spew of ash 35 kilometres in the air.
Our villa, Kokkinnos Villas, was perched on the inner rim of the volcano on one end of the island and had a spectacular view of the caldera. Cruise ships came and went daily to bring tourists to the town of Fira. We had a lovely balcony and a rugged beach about 100 steps down. We have not been anywhere yet on this trip that we did not have to climb up or down to go somewhere. But I love it. We immediately opened a bottle of wine and had a picnic of local bread and cheese.
My favorite day on the island was our trip to Oia, pronounced Eya. Located at the extreme other end of the island, it is constantly bathed in sunlight and has the best sunsets. The architecture is stunning. White washed cement houses with blue domed roofs line the cliff. Many have been turned into little hotels and have small jacuzzi size pools looking out over the ocean. We wandered for hours through tiny lane ways and up and down hundreds of steps. The sun beat down on us relentlessly. I bought some delicious fresh figs that were in season.
The next day we took the ferry to Crete and then drove to Chania (pronouned Hania). A lovely city with a very Venetian port. We stayed in one of the nicest hotels on our trip, a boutique hotel that was lovingly finished and had antiques in every nook and cranny. A bottle of wine and bread and cheese in the garden refreshed us all after an afternoon of walking. There is a beach very close by and John and I ran down for a swim. It is the only sandy beach that we encountered on this trip. On of the highlights of this city was dinner in Tamam restaurant. A former Turkish bath, the restaurant is bathed in amber walls; tables were around the top periphery and in the sunken area. The place was packed as it is a favorite even with the locals. We were served by a very nice bohemian looking young man and enjoyed a delicious Greek meal with wine. Free ouzo was offered at the end, of which we partook of course!
Greece was amazing, quite different from the rest of Europe. Our days flew by and soon we were on our way to Turkey. But that is another story.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Italy
A few months ago, I was reading an article in a travel magazines on Cinque Terre, in Northern Italy. I was immediately enticed to go there and so after France, John and I found ourselves on a train from Nice to La Spezia. It was a complicated train trip with three transfers but finally we arrived in the late afternoon. After a bit of a struggle with a broken suitcase (the handle and the wheels were not longer working on John's bag), we checked into the old but nicely renovated Hotel Fierneze. Then we headed out to find our car rental.
Of course, Italy being Italy, the office was closed in the late afternoon (meaning past siesta time) even though opening hours posted on the door stated that they would be open. We ducked into a rustic wine bar with a surly waiter who waved us to one of the rare pay phones in Europe. I took a guess and called one of the three numbers that had been posted on the door, the one written by hand. A guy answered and explained that I had said I was coming in at noon. “Well”, I answered, “plans change and the train arrived later than I had anticipated.” In due time, he came, and soon we were outfitted with a Fiat Panda, not a car that I would recommend.
The next day we took the local train to the last village of Cinque Terre, Monterosso al Mare, which means mountain by the sea, with the emphasis on mountain. The old adage, you must go up to come down, is multiplied ten-fold. After a quick look around the village, we struck out, excited to do a nine kilometre hike from one village to the next, thus seeing all five villages. Cinque Terre is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Purchasing a park ticket, we hit the trail. This first section was extremely challenging, very steep, at times very narrow, up and over hills, through vineyards and olive groves. Being from the over-cautious North America, we were amazed to see how little warning there was about the degree of difficulty of this hike. And also the lack of guard rails or anything to stop a fall into the sea below. We passed people in flip flops, high heels, even one guy in his bare feet. The heat was extreme and going up, everyone was breathing hard. We heard a multitude of languages. As we passed each other going in opposite directions on the path, I sometimes got the sense by their expressions that they knew what was in store for us. The trail went on and on. Up and over, down again. Hundreds of steps. Back up again.
But it was all worth it. From the great heights, the vistas were stunning. An hour and a half later, we arrived in Vernazza, the second village. Hungry from our exertion, we bought two beers ( Heineken) and three different kinds of foccacia and proceeded to sit on a sea wall by the beach. Our lunch was followed by a lovely swim in the crystal-clear harbour waters. All around us, colourful village houses clung to the rocks, rising in a multi-layered fashion, one above the other up the cliff.
But we could not linger. Finding the trail, we struck out again on yet another challenging section, to arrive over an hour later in Corniglia, the only village of the five that is not situated down by the sea but rests high on the mountain. We paused for a fresh granati made from local lemons and passed a store playing Dr. John music, reminding us both of how little music we'd heard lately.
Off to Manarola, a moderate hike compared to what we had just done, with surprisingly flat terrain and nice wide trails. Just outside of this village, we stopped at a local swimming hole for another very refreshing swim. The Italians sure love their sun and again, there were only bikinis, not to mention a few topless women. John and I sat for a bit to rest and then headed into the fishing village for an expresso. Each of these towns is a major tourist destination but there are still signs of the working man. White aprons and fishing clothes flutter on the many balconies, interspersed with houses offering 'kamare'- rooms- for rent. Cars are not allowed in any of the five villages, making them a walkers paradise.
The walk to the last village, Riomaggiore was tame by comparison, a stroll with wide, flat, cement walkways. Dinner at la Grotta restaurant was delicious, with lots of local Italian specialties. Tired but happy, we jumped on the train and headed back to our hotel. Cinque Terre was definitely the highlight of Italy for both of us.
The remainder of our time in Italy was spent in the Almafi coast, south of Napoli. The drive there was long and a bit stressful, but rewarding. We stayed in a former olive mill, Villa Il Frantorio, now a Bed and Breakfast, in Praiano. A stunning view but lots of climbing. Two hundred steps down to the village and another two hundred further down to the beach. That meant four hundred steps back up after a swim.
Daily we took the local buses to the towns of Positano and to Almafi, but found them way too touristy. The fun was more in riding the buses with their crazy drivers who are experts at careening around the hair pin turns with a steep drop off into the sea beside us. The highlight of this part of the trip, however, was the food. Each night, we returned to La Strada, to see Lorenzo, the best waiter in Europe. At his suggestions we sampled some of the amazing local dishes and wines. I loved the Caprese salad, ripe tomatoes with buffalo cheese, the 'courgettes'- stuffed zucchini flowers and also the fresh marinated anchovies. And the wine was excellent and moderately priced.
The days flew by and soon we found ourselves back on the highway, headed for the airport in Rome. We were excited to venture into a new country for us, Greece. But that is another story.
Of course, Italy being Italy, the office was closed in the late afternoon (meaning past siesta time) even though opening hours posted on the door stated that they would be open. We ducked into a rustic wine bar with a surly waiter who waved us to one of the rare pay phones in Europe. I took a guess and called one of the three numbers that had been posted on the door, the one written by hand. A guy answered and explained that I had said I was coming in at noon. “Well”, I answered, “plans change and the train arrived later than I had anticipated.” In due time, he came, and soon we were outfitted with a Fiat Panda, not a car that I would recommend.
The next day we took the local train to the last village of Cinque Terre, Monterosso al Mare, which means mountain by the sea, with the emphasis on mountain. The old adage, you must go up to come down, is multiplied ten-fold. After a quick look around the village, we struck out, excited to do a nine kilometre hike from one village to the next, thus seeing all five villages. Cinque Terre is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Purchasing a park ticket, we hit the trail. This first section was extremely challenging, very steep, at times very narrow, up and over hills, through vineyards and olive groves. Being from the over-cautious North America, we were amazed to see how little warning there was about the degree of difficulty of this hike. And also the lack of guard rails or anything to stop a fall into the sea below. We passed people in flip flops, high heels, even one guy in his bare feet. The heat was extreme and going up, everyone was breathing hard. We heard a multitude of languages. As we passed each other going in opposite directions on the path, I sometimes got the sense by their expressions that they knew what was in store for us. The trail went on and on. Up and over, down again. Hundreds of steps. Back up again.
But it was all worth it. From the great heights, the vistas were stunning. An hour and a half later, we arrived in Vernazza, the second village. Hungry from our exertion, we bought two beers ( Heineken) and three different kinds of foccacia and proceeded to sit on a sea wall by the beach. Our lunch was followed by a lovely swim in the crystal-clear harbour waters. All around us, colourful village houses clung to the rocks, rising in a multi-layered fashion, one above the other up the cliff.
But we could not linger. Finding the trail, we struck out again on yet another challenging section, to arrive over an hour later in Corniglia, the only village of the five that is not situated down by the sea but rests high on the mountain. We paused for a fresh granati made from local lemons and passed a store playing Dr. John music, reminding us both of how little music we'd heard lately.
Off to Manarola, a moderate hike compared to what we had just done, with surprisingly flat terrain and nice wide trails. Just outside of this village, we stopped at a local swimming hole for another very refreshing swim. The Italians sure love their sun and again, there were only bikinis, not to mention a few topless women. John and I sat for a bit to rest and then headed into the fishing village for an expresso. Each of these towns is a major tourist destination but there are still signs of the working man. White aprons and fishing clothes flutter on the many balconies, interspersed with houses offering 'kamare'- rooms- for rent. Cars are not allowed in any of the five villages, making them a walkers paradise.
The walk to the last village, Riomaggiore was tame by comparison, a stroll with wide, flat, cement walkways. Dinner at la Grotta restaurant was delicious, with lots of local Italian specialties. Tired but happy, we jumped on the train and headed back to our hotel. Cinque Terre was definitely the highlight of Italy for both of us.
The remainder of our time in Italy was spent in the Almafi coast, south of Napoli. The drive there was long and a bit stressful, but rewarding. We stayed in a former olive mill, Villa Il Frantorio, now a Bed and Breakfast, in Praiano. A stunning view but lots of climbing. Two hundred steps down to the village and another two hundred further down to the beach. That meant four hundred steps back up after a swim.
Daily we took the local buses to the towns of Positano and to Almafi, but found them way too touristy. The fun was more in riding the buses with their crazy drivers who are experts at careening around the hair pin turns with a steep drop off into the sea beside us. The highlight of this part of the trip, however, was the food. Each night, we returned to La Strada, to see Lorenzo, the best waiter in Europe. At his suggestions we sampled some of the amazing local dishes and wines. I loved the Caprese salad, ripe tomatoes with buffalo cheese, the 'courgettes'- stuffed zucchini flowers and also the fresh marinated anchovies. And the wine was excellent and moderately priced.
The days flew by and soon we found ourselves back on the highway, headed for the airport in Rome. We were excited to venture into a new country for us, Greece. But that is another story.
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