Tuesday, February 14, 2017

GUEST POST: CUBA - Getting Around with Pens, Caps, Glasses and Maps







           It is a hot afternoon in Santa Clara, Cuba, and perhaps that is why we are the only ones standing at the Tren Blindado park, listening to an engaging gentleman share his adoration of beloved rebel, Che Guevara. We are trying to picture the bold Guevara using a bulldozer to derail the train that ignited the Cuban Revolution.

            More vivid, however, is my memory of trying to give this older gentleman, a veteran who experienced the Revolution fifty years ago, a few coins. He waves off the tip and instead derails us with his simple request:

            “Algunas plumas, por favor?

            We are a bit stunned. He wants a couple of ink pens? Between the three of us, I could only pull up two Bics from my backpack, but he seems delighted! 

            Such an odd solicitation should not have befuddled us, for we teachers have been traversing Cuba for nearly three weeks. Such ordinary requests remind us that items of great worth to some are ordinary to others. 

            After researching Cuba for months, we decide to go without a tour group in March, 2015. We could reduce costs and avoid limitations that can hamper a large group. Typically, whole groups get off the bus together, walk and eat together; yet they probably learn more from guides —and never get lost. That’s not our current style of travel.
           
            We are curious to see Cuba before it could all change. The two countries are wading in a new political pool: President Obama began testing the waters by “normalizing relations” with Raul Castro’s communist government a year ago.  According to official websites, as long as we have “educational motives,” it is legal to travel as singletons. 

            Reading travel blogs and listening to friends who have traveled to Cuba help to fortify our confidence. Truly, it is astonishing to complete an online booking from the U.S. for rooms in a Cuban home —without payment, simply trust, and the rooms would be there upon arrival! We would pay in Cuban currency, as there are limited ATMs in Havana.

            We learn from previous travelers that there are key items that are simply in short supply in this country. Why not share our “take for granted” products, in hopes they would be conduits to conversations? Laden with this extra weight, we fly to Cancun, Mexico and then to Havana. Cuba is only 90 miles off the coast of Florida - and now, in 2016, direct flights finally operate out of Miami. This is a big deal.

            What is our first thrill upon leaving the little airport?  An impressive array of shiny 1950’s Fords, Chevys, and Buicks slowly parading along the warm Malecon boulevard, often filled with men, their arms resting out the windows, cigars in hand. Oh, the pride of owning such a vehicle, where owners can not rely on American car parts since the Cuban Embargo of 1960. Much ingenuity and creative substitution keep these cars a rollin’.






            Less than an hour out of the airport, I am already dispersing from my bag of baseball caps that friends gave me back in Seattle. In my first hat-sharing, a friendly Havana cab driver took us to a cambio with a good exchange rate. While my friends pick up local currency, CUCs, I stay with him and our luggage. Our ensuing conversation leads to his two children.
           
            “Les gustan béisbol?  I ask.

            He turns around with a wide grin, sharing that he and his son both play for local teams. When I ask him to reopen the trunk, he looks warily at me from the rearview mirror. But when I produce two baseball caps from my backpack - a Mariners and a Tampa Buccaneers - he is taken aback. He begins a little grateful dance, showing other taxi drivers his new delights.

            He drives us to our lodging, close to an old plaza in the Habana Vieja, where UNESCO is refurbishing Spanish colonial buildings. Children are kicking soccer balls in the shady, narrow streets; and nearby restaurants and bands under the balconies beckon us to stroll over. But first, our taxi driver happily hefts our bags up the two flights to our new casa. To our surprise, the place exudes an old-world elegance: tall, chandelier-filled rooms of antiques. And for only $35 US dollars a night for three of us, how could we not spend five days here?

            Each day we safely walk the curvy, often torn-up streets, ready to play quasi -ambassadors. Learning that older Cubans need reading glasses, it turns out to be a fun way to interact with a Havana street-sweeper or the women sitting on stoops. I ask if they know someone else who could use reading glasses. Lo and behold…they need the glasses. This leads to photo ops and fresh laughter, as they admire the new views.




             One morning we negotiate a taxi ride to the friendly town of Vinales near tobacco hills of western Cuba. Lucky for us, our host at this “casa particulare”, a home stay, was a former teacher. It is there where we connect with two principals to set free the bag of school supplies. They are overwhelmed with our primers, pencils, rulers, markers, maps, and flash drives.

            “Tienes Usted papel?” one asks. “Do you have paper?”

            They explain that the government only provides paper only once a year, so all items must be carefully utilized. Students write on both sides, in the margins, then erase and reuse. Despite lack of paper, the communist government provides free education through college. Literacy rates are high, ever since the government had a highly successful literary campaign in 1961 to educate the country folk.
            We arrange visits to walk to two schools on the hill. Small chalkboards rest on  old wooden tables, three students to a bench in the clean, bare rooms. Dressed in uniforms, in rows, the children are polite, if not a bit stunned.

            I think I hear young students snicker behind me while I attempt to draw the United States map on the board, explaining Washington state vs. Washington D.C.  More riveting are the boxes of Kind bars we pull out —prompting an awkward, self-serving moment.  Hmm, perhaps I may want more credit than I deserve?  After all, what are these children thinking?  Within seconds, the teacher promptly cuts the Kind bars into thirds to reach other students as well. Not a peep was heard.

            We take a tourist bus to remote Cien Fuegos, where the clippity clop of horse-drawn buggies are the main travel mode. We gravitate to the nightly dancing. One of my companions previously took salsa lessons and it pays off! Gentlemen politely take our arms, especially hers, and lead us to dance to the intoxicating music, sometimes on the sidewalk outside the bar. They are curious, polite, and handsome dancers. Pinch us. 

            The Afro-Cuban percussion pulls us in wherever we are. In the city of Trinidad, a historic colony of sugar plantations, we see throngs waiting on plaza steps for the rhythms to electrify their evening. Just as wonderful is the quiet moment: a horseback ride into the countryside where farmers were drinking their Cubita coffee and playing dominoes. It was in Trinidad that my last “hotel” toothpaste and soap are shared. A donated UW baseball cap goes to a skeletal, toothless man selling undecipherable treats from an old wheelbarrow. He beams, bows and wants to share his treats with me.

            Our travel is not extraordinary, nor did we dance with danger. We leave with contentment, lucky to have the richness of time to explore —and more importantly, to connect authentically with Cuban people.

            Cuba seems to be an anomaly. It may lack some basic products, like the oft-seen nearly empty shelves of grocery stores and pharmacies. And if the shelves were full, it was of one governmental brand, not like the abundance of choices here.  Yet, the richness of the culture is spread out to all: the beloved ballet, the intense music, baseball games, and theater— all are affordably priced for locals and tourists alike.

            How long can this vibrant culture of Cuba remain intact, as more tourists and businesses vie for frolic and opportunities? No one knows. If I am lucky enough to revisit this charming country, I’ll gladly pack more pens and reams of paper.



Rita Ireland has been lucky to teach in various parts of the world.
It was a lovely impetus to escape -- growing up on an Iowa farm.
She now lives in Edmonds, WA with her spouse, who found her on 
desolate Sunday morning beach 41 years ago. They have two children 
who also live far away from home.  
     




       


Saturday, December 31, 2016

DUBLIN IN THE RAIN


Whatever the weather, Dublin is a fine place to visit.

Of course it rained, but being from the Pacific Northwest, my husband and I felt right at home. The rain fell on the sad cluster of statues memorializing the Potato Famine and it fell in the city center. It stopped briefly for Molly Maguire before it began to fall on us. 



We were armed with an umbrella but a vending machine would have saved us if we’d forgotten ours. 



And anyway a traditional pub beckoned for an early lunch. We shook off our umbrellas and raincoats and slid into a booth. Ah, warmth, food, and beer!  Too early for music although that was good because we never would have left.



There were two major sites to explore on that rainy day –first was the Long Room of the Trinity College Library, one of the most famous libraries in the world. Not highly decorated like some in other parts of Europe, but two floors of wonders. The library was founded in 1592 although the current building dates from 1712. We’ve all had the problem of sagging library shelves, and so too this library. By the late 1850s the floor was sagging and the ceiling was near collapse. After extensive work to shore it up it could accommodate 250,000 volumes. Among them are a first edition of Martin Luther’s Old Testament, the proclamation of the Irish Republic in 1916 and a medieval Celtic harp.

But the highlight for any visitor is the Book of Kells, a magnificent and lavishly decorated set of gospels produced between the seventh and ninth century in Ireland. The decorations are full of intricate Celtic swirls and knots, many of the angels and saints have red hair as does the Virgin and Child. Some of the animals are unidentifiable. Umberto Eco, who knew visionary scenes when he saw them, called the book “The product of cold blood hallucination” It was an apt remark.
Much of the decoration repeats standard Christian themes but some illustrations are puzzling such as four men with interlaced legs pulling each other’s beards. Some of the text is inaccurate and there are places where lines have been repeated by mistake or corrections made by some better-educated monk.



The vellum manuscript is extremely fragile and encased in protective glass with the book open to a different set of pages every day. We had the pleasure of looking at a page of illuminated script, and the unforgettable Virgin and Child – a masterpiece of design but surely one of the oddest depictions of the scene ever painted. The Virgin wears a red dress and has heavy dark eyebrows with a tiny pinched mouth. Her legs seem to dwindle to half what they normally would be. She stares into the distance away from the viewer while holding a child that doesn’t look anything like a child of any age, let alone a newborn. He is very long, with feet dangling below her knees and is dressed in green. With jutting chin, pointed nose and a mane of red hair, the child looks to be about forty.



I attempted to picture monks in a cold and dank scriptorium sketching out the design and beginning work that must have taken a lifetime for some. The whole effect of the book is fantastic, a product of visions produced by isolation and total devotion to non-worldly events. A world that I could never know or understand.

We returned to reality with a wedding party outside. It was raining but one of the groomsmen protected the bride with an umbrella while families gathered to help celebrate. It doesn’t take rain to stop happiness.



We moved on to the nearby National Museum of Ireland which is devoted to archeology. The Victorian-era building is filled with treasures including beautiful Celtic gold of stunning workmanship.








The museum also has several terrifying bog people who were thrown into the peat where they were preserved over millennia. Common throughout Northern Era, they all appear to have been murdered. Not an exhibit for the squeamish.







Enough for one day, we dodged the rain and found another pub to contemplate the mysteries of the ancient world over a pint or two. 

   


Photographs of the Book of Kells are in the Public Domain
Photographs of the bog men are by Mark Healey from Wikipedia Commons
Remaining photographs are copyright Judith Works

Tuesday, November 8, 2016

ACADIA NATIONAL PARK - A study in scarlet






Acadia -  the very name brings visions of a dream such as that painted by Nicholas Poussin in 1639.



It also brings to mind the Acadians, French settlers in New Brunswick and Nova Scotia, who were driven from their homes when the British pushed them out. Many settled in Maine, although some fled to Louisiana and transformed into the Cajuns, famous for good music and good food.




But the word also reminds me of a recent trip to Mount Desert Island and a day spent in Acadia National Park, one of the nation’s smallest, established in 1919, and the first  of our National Parks established East of the Mississippi.




The earliest known European to visit was Samuel de Champlain who arrived in 1604. He described the island as bare and rocky, thus its name. French Jesuits began a settlement in 1613, but during the following century the island was a site of contention between the French, British and then the Americans during the Revolutionary War. 


The island scenery didn’t remind me of ancient Greek Acadia with shepherds in robes, or nymphs and fauns flitting about. Instead, the landscape was a riot of fall color set against a deep blue ocean and matching sky.




Dark Balsam fir and spruce contrasted with maples, birch, and ash, along with red-berried shrubs
Ancient lichens decorate stone slabs and ghost branches laced the underbrush.




Rocks line the coast, some smooth and looking soft like the summers, others jagged reflecting the harsh winters and storms that batter the coast.





After stopping at the beautiful Jordan Pond, where a carpet of red shrubs led my eye down to the water and surrounding hills, we left the park for Northeast Harbor. Along the way, we could see carriage roads build by John D. Rockefeller who, ironically, wished to prevent automobiles on the island. They are now used for hiking, cycling, horseback riding and cross-country skiing. Rockefeller was one of the “Rusticators” who build gigantic summer “cottages” to spend time with fellow plutocrats like the Morgans, Vanderbilts, Astors, and Carnegies. Tourism became a major industry as the island was popularized by painters of the Hudson River School like Thomas Cole and Frederic Church. 






But fires burned the hotels, and the Depression and World War II put an end to the idyll except for a few. One of my favorite authors, Marguerite Yourcenar settled in Northeast Harbor in 1950 where she wrote Memoirs of Hadrian. More recently, luminaries such as Martha Stewart have come to summer.

The little town was quiet, boutiques closing for the season and lobster boats including the Dauntless, tied up or taken out of the water and readied for winter.







But Asticou Inn was open and offering traditional and irresistible Maine food: lobster and blueberry pie served on a sunny deck overlooking the water.






After, we returned to the park and the summit of windswept Cadillac Mountain to walk and enjoy the scenery while working off some of the calories. While the summit at 1528 feet doesn’t really qualify as a mountain to this Westerner, the sweeping view of water and islands  provided a perfect end to a memorable day.




All photos copyright Judith Works
Reproduction of painting by Nicholas Poussin and George Craig are from Wikipedia Creative Commons 

Sunday, September 25, 2016

ACOMA: The Sky City






My friends and I began our visit in the beautiful cultural center at the base of Acoma, about an hour’s drive west of Albuquerque. The ancient settlement itself is located on a mesa 365 feet above the desert floor, a broken land dotted with other rock formations. Settled around the year 1000 AD, it is one of the oldest continually-occupied areas in the country.



Where formerly there were only ladders and steps carved into the rock, a winding road now leads up the steep hill to the cluster of adobe buildings occupied by only 30 people due to the lack of water, sewerage, and electricity. The remainder of the pueblo's citizens have opted for modernity and live nearby where there are schools, shops, and the inevitable casino.






Like most of the Southwest, the Spanish arrived with their horses, guns and religion to irrevocably change the earlier culture. The mission church of San Esteban Rey, dominating the town, was founded in 1629. 



The silent church has only a couple of rows of pews and is mostly used for weddings and funerals. I visualized it in the past with the priest chanting and incense wafting up to the high beams, each made from a single pine tree the Native Americans were forced to carry from the the hills thirty miles away. During their long trek they were not allowed to let the logs touch the ground even at night.

No photos are allowed, but the interior is a mix of Spanish and native décor with outlines of animals, including a bull and horse, above the side doors, and the altar brightly decorated with red and green pillars, carvings and paintings. One wall is decorated by an enormous painting donated by the King of Spain after the founding of the church. In front of the church is a walled cemetery, layered over time as a valley was filled to accommodate the dead. We looked at layer four, now reserved for dignitaries and war veterans. 



The town is almost without vegetation, a lone tree beside a depression in the rock where rainwater collects stands as a sentinel. 



Potters displayed their work nearby. Shops in Santa Fe, with their stratospheric prices, feature the works of the most famous potters, Most are women, although I talked to one on our tour who said she was teaching her two sons. The most valuable pots are those which are totally handmade with clay that includes ground up shards - broken pieces of old pottery. Whether commercially shaped or totally by hand, all feature intricate designs in orange and black. 



As we strolled, we passed two and three-story homes, some with ladders that lead to kivas, rooms traditionally used for men's religious ceremonies. One ladder had a crosspiece at the top in a cloud shape to encourage rain. Kivas are traditionally built underground, but because the ground is too hard to excavate, Acoma kivas are built on the second story of houses. Our guide, Maria, joked that they were early man caves, which made me wonder if they are actually used any more.






A few doors were painted to brighten the scene but the ground and the adobe buildings are all the same color, a warm tan color, making the pueblo appear as though it sprung from the earth centuries ago. A few of the homes still had the old-fashioned windows made of mica which the Spanish may have mistaken for gold when they sparkled in the sunlight.







We paused for lunch at the visitors’ center and the chef joined us to accept compliments on his latest creation: an acorn squash filled with wild rice and pine nuts, topped with grated cheese. Delicious and a recipe I'll try at home.



On the way back to Albuquerque, we passed a small cemetery – so sad and lonely.
.



On the return trip back to Albuquerque, we took a detour to check out a white church on top of a hill at the Laguna Pueblo. The church, Mission San Jose de la Laguna, was built in 1699. As we were standing by the open front door I saw a man running toward us. Unsure if we might be trespassing, we stopped to wait. Out of breath and dripping with sweat, the man introduced himself as Arnold. He lived nearby and was a caretaker. He told us the story of the church, including some of the miracles that had happened there while empathizing that none happened at Acoma. To illustrate the continued blessing of happy events, he said his mother had recently been granted a house nearby on the reservation after many years of waiting.







As we began to move toward the exit, he brought out a wooden flute and serenaded us with a plaintive melody. Perhaps it was the same as that played in the centuries before the Spanish arrived.

    


All photos copyright Judith Works

Sunday, August 14, 2016

IN THE KAROO


A silent young man picked us up in front of our hotel in Cape Town near a post carved with animal heads depicting four of South Africa's big game.



We climbed into an SUV for a three-hour trip to a game preserve north of the city in an area called the Karoo. As we passed the sad townships, some with small houses and others with tin shacks, we were reminded of the deep poverty that envelopes so much of South Africa.



The contrast was emphasized when we came to the lush and manicured wine country with manor houses in Dutch Colonial style and acres of vines tended by black laborers. The landscape gave way to orchard and fields of grain. Small towns were anchored with sharp-steepled churches and small shops advertising braai (barbecued meat and sausage). We stopped in the delightfully-named town of Ceres (the Roman goddess of grain) for cold drinks before starting into the vast and empty Karoo. An enormous semi-desert, it is dotted with isolated farms and sparse vegetation that springs to life in the occasional rains.




Our destination was the Inverdoorn Game Reserve where we were to spend several days on safari to see the animals. The preserve encompasses 25,000 acres of fenced land and includes a cheetah breeding operation. But it is also home to many other of Africa’s animal wealth: Cape lion, zebra, Cape buffalo, rhino and hippo, giraffes and many species of antelope.

Not long after checking in we were greeted by two cheetah cubs (on leashes) coming to visit our bungalow. They were like large kittens rubbing against us, purring with a deep rumble. We petted the coarse fur and wondering what they were thinking, hoping that it wasn’t about dinner even though we’re pretty stringy. Their handler played with them but that ended when he put his fingers too close to one cub’s mouth and found his hand trapped. Another young man coaxed the animal to open up. No damage done but as my mother said, “Keep your hands to yourself.”




At dusk we drove deep into the preserve to watch the adults being trained to hunt. The conservationist told us that they will not breed unless they are in peak condition and must be thoroughly trained to hunt before they are released into the wild if they and their progeny are to survive. A pickup truck dragged a dead chicken on a long wire with the animals racing after it. The winner got the spoils and the others had to wait for the next run. They can run up to 70 miles an hour in short bursts - a spotted blur in the evening gloom.




The following day a group of day tourists arrived for lunch. Several rambunctious children were in the group and when the cubs were brought out they lunged at the children, more of a bite-size meal than us. Wild animals they were and I was content to admire them from a distance.

Although our room was luxurious and it was tempting to lounge around the pool, the attraction of the animals got me up before down, ready with camera and binoculars. The animals were so close that I didn’t even need a telephoto lens.




Rhinos and Cape buffalo, looking oblivious to our “ohs” and “aws” strolled to a waterhole, zebras cavorted, and giraffes trotted by with their rocking gaits. The low light cast a golden glow over the scene.



The homely gnus grazed but other large antelopes were stately as they looked at us curiously before moving slowly off into the brush in a dignified manner. The smaller antelope like springbok bounded around like hyperactive ten-year-olds. One apparently didn’t jump fast enough when on a morning game search we saw blood on the trail, the remains of a partially-eaten carcass and a leopard print. The leopard had leaped over the fence for a meal and was long gone but would return that night. 




The Cape lions, apparently extinct in the wild, were in a separate enclosure, the only zoo-like aspect of the game preserve. The guide opened both gates and we drove in. She closed the gates and turned the key in the ignition. It wouldn’t start. There we were like a pair of Daniels in the lions’ den. A tense few minutes followed while she radioed for backup. Fortunately they weren’t hungry. While we waited for help, we watched as the black-maned male mated with one female while the others in the pride napped in the shade of a few trees in the hot afternoon, uninterested in the coupling next to them.



It was hard not to think of all the wildlife being slaughtered without care throughout the continent. A tragedy for them and for us. We felt fortunate to have a small chance to see what is left outside the national parks, too far away for us on this journey.

We were reluctant to leave. The same driver came to pick us up for the journey back to Cape Town. This time he was conversational, telling us about his life. He was a migrant from the Congo. Economic migrants are bitterly, sometimes violently, resented by South Africans who are desperate for jobs. He was trying to support a family in his home country but said the pay was so low it was nearly impossible to sustain himself and them, and that he suffered constant discrimination. It seemed to us that not only were the animals under siege, but also the people of every country in the region, all seeking work no matter where the quest led them.

We took a different route than the outgoing trip, this time over craggy and mostly barren steep hills. Proteus, the national flower of South Africa, bloomed in crevices. At the summit we came upon a troop of baboons, dangerous to people and destructive to crops, preventing us from getting out of the SUV to enjoy the view. We descended and reached Ceres again where a long line of angry-looking agricultural workers marched along the roadway holding signs, some in Afrikaans and others in English. Low wages and not enough work – the universal problem.



We stopped at a coffee shop before we reached the city’s outskirts and convinced the driver to join us for a snack. He reluctantly did so, silently drinking a Coke and eating a sandwich. The other patrons stared at him. It was clear that he was accepted by neither whites nor blacks, caught in a harsh world of great beauty that offered him little.

How sheltered we were from reality again when we said good-bye and entered the enclosed world of a fancy hotel on the Cape Town waterfront, far removed from others’ problems, both animal and human.