Ten Days in Puglia, Part 2: A Basilicata Seque and Southward

Lovely, limestoney, Trani welcomed us into a gorgeous old monestary and fed us fresh fish and creamy gelato.

Had we been staying in an apartment instead of a hotel, we would have hit up this charming fisherman and his selection of langoustine, pulpo, sea urchins and fresh fish.

Sometimes you just stop, right there in the middle of the street, and admire. But keep an ear out for oncoming Vespas. They'll sneak up on you, fast.



In case you've thought about doing one of those "Leaning Tower of Pisa" poses on other monuments, you might want to reconsider, as Ingo cheerfully demonstrates at the Castel del Monte, about an hour outside of Trani and high on Ingo's, "Must see before I die" list.

So, Matera. In all honesty, I had never heard about Matera until I read this article. I am not sure if the city, particularly the former cave dwellings, referred to as the "Sassi" or stones, have attracted many tourists in the past or if the industry got a boost when Mel Gibson' filmed "The Passion of the Christ" here in 2004. But it appears that Matera is poised to become a sort of Disneyland for spelunking tourists. Declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1993, the old cave dwelling side of the city faces a gorgeous arid canyon. The caves were actually inhabited until the 1950s when the Italian government forced residents out because it was an "embarrassment" to have people living in such squalor in modern times. Government high rises were constructed and the former owners were begrudgingly relocated. Begrudgingly because these caves were kinda rad. They stayed cool in hot summers, boasted the first irrigation system in the city and offered membership into a sort of tight knit community that comes from living literally on top of each other.

We booked a room at the Sextantio Albergo Diffuso Le Grotte della Civita which coincidentally, is the primary focus of an article in the upcoming September issue of National Geographic Traveler Magazine entitled "The Towns Italy Forgot". (Another one of those DAMNIT!! WHY DIDN’T I WRITE THIS!! moments). As Miriam Murphy says in the article, it is a one-of-a-kind hotel and she speaks with the proprietors and provides interesting background on the architect’s vision for the hotel and other similar projects focused on resurrecting abandoned villages while preserving their architectual and historic integrity. And although Phillipe Starcke obviously wasn't around back in the day to design bathtubs for the cave dwellings like the one in our hotel room, they do use mostly locally sourced materials, like the dark woods used by local carpenters to make the closets and tables. Or old stone troughs used as sinks.

We wandered the city from one steep slippery stone walkway to the next. Which was a bit of a technical feat being that I was 6 months pregnant – meaning I had to haul around 20 extra pounds and my balance was off - and it was 95 degrees. But the views kept us going, every winding trail offered scenery more spectacular than the next. As much as “jaw-dropping” is an overused cliché, I can’t think of a better word to describe the Sassi.

In a country like Italy, there is very little left to “discover” – the famous works of art and architecture have all been found, documented, restored and displayed. The charming fishing villages have traded in shanties for boutique hotels and waterfront seafood restaurants, the best beaches are covered with “bagni” where it costs 20 euro a day to have the privilege of sitting under one of their umbrellas and on one of their beach chairs, the best restaurants have lines and waiting lists, as do the most significant cathedrals and now even the wild countryside of Tuscany and Umbria boast views that are blocked by sign after sign for the newest oldest agrotourismo accommodations and dining.

 

Our cave room

Don’t get me wrong, I love Italy. I fell madly deeply hopelessly in love with Italy when I was 16 and went abroad for the first time in my life on a Rotary exchange program. I spent the summer with two families, both of whom had a girl my age who I quickly called my best friend and both of who lived outside of Milan. I was enchanted by the animated language from the lyricism of the words that would be impossible to speak in a straight jacket for lack of use of the hands and entire body. I was thrilled that dinner started with a huge plate of pasta – just started! I looked forward to the afternoon lull following lunch where we’d lay around and watch bad talk shows or just talk. But most of all, I fell head over heels for Massimiliano. And let’s be honest, a short but sweet love affair will definitely taint your view of a place.

 

The common room

Massimiliano is long gone but my love for Italy remains deep. The way they stock legs of prosciutto and wheels of Grana in gas stations (!) and convenience stores (!), the repertoire of endearing names you are called by complete strangers and acquaintances (Ciao bella! Ciao stella! Ciao gioia!), the stand-up espresso counters and potato chip buffet apperitivi, the nonnas in their one-size-fits-all moomoo dresses and knee high stockings, the way the women will get made up, decked out, dressed up just to go out to the corner store for milk, the multitude of hand gestures that one must learn to actually understand the language, the tolerance for sexist talk shows that have not changed in 20 years. Even the annoying things – especially the annoying things – are endearing. That’s love.

And the touristy stuff is often endearing as well. But not always. If Italy had a Masai Mara, a Chang Mai hill people tour, an overtouristy, voyeuristic, over-hyped, something potentially interesting relegated to the ranks of banal, it would be Alberobello and “trulli” country. Please tell me I am wrong, I so wanted to be enchanted. And I preface my opinion by saying we had only 24 hours to spend in the Valle d’Istria – nowhere near enough time to explore it properly. I would have loved to spend a week in an artfully restored trullo somewhere in the countryside – and I don’t doubt there are many of them and that they are amazing. But I am atalking about Alberobello.

 
A typical trullo in Alberobello

Just skip it. Drive by. Snap a pic if you want. But don’t stay there. It’s the kind of place where you feel like you got suckered. You will be angry with yourself for falling prey to the trulli scam. At least, that is kinda how we felt. Go instead to Locotarondo for dinner, and stop in Martina Franca for granita at the M Betitto Sorbeteria.

An evening stroll through Martina Franca

Drive by the trullis in the fields, maybe stop by. But do yourself a favor and skip Alberobello. Maybe it’s because we just came from Matera, or maybe it was the family from Long Island who was walking around behind us with a heavily accented running commentary, but the town was just – meh. Everyone wants to sell you something, or provide you with an “authentic” stay in one of their trullis. Just avoid. Overall we were surprised by how “untouristy” Puglia is. At least, by foreigners. Italians discovered Puglia long ago and continue to appreciate its beaches, its food, its towns. But the rest of the world has only just started to catch on. And a great way to take it all in, is to set up shop there for a little while. Like we did. With our HomeAwayUK rental on the Adriatic coast just outside of Tricase, north of the southern most tip, Santa Maria de Leuca. Next and final installment: our amazing little house on a cliff and the southern tip.

Ten Days in Puglia, Part 1: Gargano

It was a bit of a serendipitous babymoon.  A soon-to-expire voucher for a free rental of a HomeAway UK property via this Grantourismo travel blogging contest and my in-laws volunteering without prompting to take the kids for a while was the equivalent of the stars aligning to offer us what will most likely be our last vacation as two before the impending arrival of baby number three for the foreseeable future. I mean, maybe we will be able to do this again when a) baby three is weened b) the grandparents feel up to the challenge of taking on three at once and c) at least one child is old enough to cook dinner, do the laundry and perform CPR, just in case. Until then, we will revel in the memories of a gorgeous ten day get away to Puglia, otherwise known as "the heel of the boot".

We left the kids with tears in our eyes on the beach with their grandparents not far from Ferrara. An hour later, the tears were dry and we had the stereo cranked, the windows down and we were free on the open highway, just me, my man and one baby minus 14 weeks. First stop: the gorgeous Gargano Promontory and the slippery-stoned, peninsula-topped, jaw-dropping view offering town of Peschici.

There were delicious discoveries like little almond paste cookies that Ingo took one bite of and declared too rich, and a sort of Puglian scone, the Pane del Pescatore, a dense bun with sweet raisins and salty almonds that filled us up for the rest of the day. There were also slices of hot dog and french fry foccaccia which we passed on this time around.

After an amazing meal at Porta di Basso where we sat at a table literally ON a CLIFF, I mean one step over the guard rail and it would have been 100 meters straight down into the sea, we headed out the next day to trace the promontory. Cruising by the trabucci, these old fishing nets that reminded me of the ones in Cochin, where you can sit and eat fish from the sea, into the pan and onto your plate.

Stopping over the lunch hour in sweet little Vieste, we continued tracing the coast, stopping occassionally to oggle the view, like this:

And periodically stopping to hike down to some little spot of beach like this:

And then on to the Baia delle Zagare, a little bay and incredible hotel that Ingo had been hearing about from his parents since childhood when they would dump him and his brother at his grandmother's and head down south for a few weeks on their own (sound familiar?). They would occasionally stay at this hotel, a gorgeous place perched up on a cliff with an elevator built into the rock to take guests down to this secluded little expanse of white sand. The only way to get to this bay is to stay at the hotel, have your own yacht to cruise up in OR if you are sneaky like us, talk to someone at the front desk and tell them you are looking for a hotel and wanted to look around the grounds. They instructed us to make ourselves at home and pointed us toward the elevator. The famous elevator! To the famous bay!

Totally dreamy.

Pulling ourselves away from the bay, we continued along the coast, passing exceedingly ugly industrial Manfredonia, which spit us off of the promontory and into Trani:

where we got in just in time to see the sun set over the harbor and cathedral from our hotel room at Hotel San Paolo al Convento, a former convent with limestone walls and floor-to-ceiling windows. Thanks for the tip, in-laws!

From Trani through Matera and the Valle d'Istria and on to the tip of the heel... next.

Sniff's Grantourismo Top Ten Travel Tales

Atop Petra

In random order...

Spending the day with Pol Pot's former Head of State, Khieu Samphan and his family at his home outside of Pailin, Cambodia, a stones throw from the Thai border. Khieu is currently sitting before the International Tribunal pleading not guilty for his role in the deaths of 1.7 million Cambodians during the Khmer Rouge regime. During our lunch at his house, he completed denied any responsibility for the events and claimed ignorance.

After an incredible day at Petra, Jordan, we climbed atop the old court building at closing time with my friend Anees and his Bedoin friend who grew up in Petra. We had the park all to ourselves as we made tea and watched the sunset – 300 meters up. Then scrambled down in the dark after the police called to say they found our car in the middle of no where and wanted us to come into the station. Sobering, ahem.

Sharing my first khinkali dumplings with Stalin’s great grandson in Tbilisi, Georgia.

Breaking fast with the men who shovel the coal that warms the bath water in a little cave adjacent to the hamam during Ramadan in Fez, Morocco. We ate stuffed dates while they showed us the hole in the wall where they spied on the naked ladies in the bath.

My three-day overland trip from Dakhla, Morocco via 50 car military convoy through the Western Sahara territory into Mauritania. We then continued from Nouadibou to Nouakchott – it too us four days to drive 400 km through dramatic sand dunes in a Mercedes van, pulling the plaques out, stuffing them under the wheels and jumping back in the van as it was moving, Little Miss Sunshine style.

Getting caught in a rainstorm while sleeping on a rooftop in a small village in Dogon country, Mali. As we climbed down from the roof I burst into a rousing rendition of "Singing in the Rain" which turned into a medley of my favorites from "My Fair Lady", "Oliver" and "Sound of Music". The owners of the roof wanted to reciprocate so they cajoled the children into singing a traditional Malian song for us. They were fantastic and we gave them a thunderous round of applause.

My first trip abroad at 16, a month-long exchange in northern Italy. I fell in love with the food, the culture, the people... and Massimiliano.

My first summer in Cesky Krumlov, Czech Republic where my friend Vasek took us floating down the Vltava on inner tubes. We got out every five minutes or so, pulling over at a local bar to grab a Pilsner, a shot of Slivovitz and some head cheese. Then continuing the float, a lazy day around a gorgeous castle and lots of fire wire.

Standing on the rooftop of an old haveli in downtown Lahore, Pakistan during Basant, the annual kite festival, watching the kites dip and dance and fight. Cheering the winners who remained in the sky and sympathizing with the losers whose kites were cut and plummeting.

Driving around the Blue/Hazrat Ali Mosque in Mazar-e-Sharif, Afghanistan on Nowroz (New Years) only to find ourselves suddenly surrounded by a jubilant mob, singing and dancing and playing drums on the hood of our car. We were in standstill traffic, with euphoric revelers ten people thick surrounding us. There was a sudden moment of panic realizing that if this mob suddenly got out of hand, we could be in serious danger. But when we looked at the buzzing mob, we realized there was nothing but good will and good energy. And we were part of it.

This post has been entered into the Grantourismo-HomeAway UK travel writing competition for February. What are you favorite travel memories?

Home for the Holidays

My Polish sister-in-law, Kamila, sets an extra place at the table and heaps the would-be diner's plate high in keeping with the Polish tradition of preparing for an unexpected guest. Everyone takes a piece of wafer that is broken and distributed and we wish each other health and happiness in the New Year. Kamila's mother passes around homemade motsch, a gingerbread "soup", and makufki, poppyseed cake, both staples on the Polish Christmas table.

My Italian father-in-law pops open a bottle of prosecco and scrambles to stop it from overflowing. I set out a plate of cookies beneath the tree for Santa, my one insistence on an American tradition from my childhood.

Later, we dim the lights and assemble the German feuerzangenbowle - a pot of mulled wine straddled by a metal bridge supporting a sugar cone. Strong whiskey is ignited and ladled over the cone. The chemical reaction sends blue flames high enough to scourge the ladler's eyebrows and we ohh and ahh over the spectacle. As if this show of pyrotechnics was not enough, we light candles ON the tree - a German tradition that has always flabbergasted me. How these extremely practical, risk-adverse people could light a tree on fire is beyond me. But it's gorgeous and it glows as we sing a round of "O Tannenbaum".

Although some of us are far from our homelands, preserving our Christmas traditions by sharing them with our extended patchwork family makes it feel like I am home for the holidays. 

 

This post was entered into the Grantourismo HomeAwayUK travel blogging contest for December. We'd love to hear what you think. 

South Indian Local Spice

  Everyone on the bus is staring at me. I always managed to be the local attraction, despite the sari.

In preparation for my semester abroad in Madurai, India, I was given a crash course on customs and cultural differences; I learned to conduct myself as a respectable Indian girl. Upon arrival, my host family dressed me for the part—they wrapped me in vibrant saris with perfect pleats, sparkly stickers called bindis were placed on my forehead, and paisley swirls of henna decorated my body. My wanderings throughout the cavernous carved stone stalls of the Meenakshi Temple taught me how to barter and order sweet milky tea. I mastered the customary southern Indian head wobble, the respectful bow over hands pressed in prayer and only passed items with my right hand.

I stood out like a drag queen in church, and yet I felt my attempts to blend in with the locals were fairly successful—until I ate. With the first bite of my host mom’s cooking I was gripped by an intense panic that the inferno blazing inside my mouth was going to cause my head to spontaneously combust. My taste buds were under attack, my eyes burst from their sockets, a deluge of sweat washed over me.  The ability to pass chilies, so intense, from lips to stomach, would require months of pre-game training.

Riding a fresh wave of sweat, the bindi slid down my nose.

Stopping in mid-bite, jaws gaping; four dark brown faces stared at me with expressions of confusion and deep concern. Apparently, "turning pink and crying" while I ate was blowing my cover.

This post was entered into the Grantourismo - HomeAwayUK Travel Writing Competition for November on the topic, "Living Like Locals". We'd love to hear your thoughts in the comment section.

As Local As I'll Never Be

I spent two years living with a family in a hut made of cow dung in Mauritania, West Africa. I learned to speak the village language, Soninké, enough discuss the Koran with my host “father”, shoot the shit with my teenage brother Moussa about American pop culture and talk to my moms about female circumcision. I worked in the millet fields, pulled water from the well and slept outside with my sisters.

The Peace Corps, in essence, is the ultimate exchange program. It’s an opportunity to live more local than you ever thought possible in the developing world, basically being adopted into a family.

One afternoon during the daily tea break, I made fun of Moussa with the requisite insult, “You eat beans!” Everyone laughed. “Ah, Laliya (my local name),” said my mom, Khujedji, “You really are one of us.”

“No she’s not," Moussa shot back. “If anything happens to her, they’ll fly her out of here and she’ll leave us behind.” Khujedji shushed him. But he was right. I had an out.

For me, this was novel; for them, it was real life. I might have lived in the same mud hut, but I would be evacuated if I became severely ill; I’d be flown to shelter in the event of civil unrest and I would never be dependent on a millet crop for my survival.

While I gained a better understanding of daily life than otherwise possible, I would never know what it’s really like to be local.

This post was entered into the Grantourismo - HomeAwayUK Travel Writing Competition for November on the topic, "Living Like Locals". We'd love to hear your thoughts in the comment section. 

Dia de los Muertos

Watching people mourn their loved ones, whether they are drinking tequila while doing it or not, seems like a bizarre way to spend an evening, but we were in Mexico and it was Dia de los Muertos, so that is what we set out to do.

The large indigenous population of Patzcuaro promised all-night cemetery vigils and ghoulish revelry—eating, drinking and dancing with the dead. Hoards of Mexican and international tourists flock to the colonial lakeside town every year, and we were among them—sitting in traffic, miles from our destination. Anxious to get out from under the shadow of the tour buses, we took a spontaneous turn down a narrow road, following close behind a mud crusted pickup truck over-flowing with bright orange marigolds. A canopy of colorful paper flags hung low over the crumbling residential street which dead ended at an inconspicuous cemetery.

Buzzing with activity, the cemetery had a cheerful mood. Families were scrubbing tombstones and landscaping graves with fresh flowers and candles in preparation for a night of remembrance and rejoice with their deceased loved ones. Adoration and tenderness were channeled through their deeds. A vibrant blanket of marigold petals was laid out to welcome the souls home. Our serendipitous turn had derailed us from the spectacle of Dia de los Muertos and gave us an intimate peek behind-the-scenes. Leaving the iconic glamorous skeletons and sugar skulls far behind, we had the privilege of experiencing the true spirit of the holiday.

This post has been entered into the HomeAway UK Grantourismo travel blogging contest for October. We would love to hear your comments.

Breaking Fast

The Fez medina

We didn’t intend to fast. Trolling Fez’s medina during the holy month of Ramadan, we found sweet shops shuttered and restaurants baron. Shortly before sundown, our rumbling stomachs encouraged us to follow a group of Moroccan women carrying Tupperware containers as they weaved through the narrow alleyways. Their final destination: a soup shack.

We nuzzled in between diners at the countertop and were promptly presently with a steaming bowl of harira. Behind the counter, a man stood over a 40-gallon tub, ladling spoonfuls into containers for the women to take home to their families; for those of us who didn’t have families waiting, the camaraderie at the countertop among fellow fasters emulated a familial bond. We spoke little as we sat elbow to elbow, spoons poised at our lips, eyes fixed on the setting of the sun, which was broadcast on the television screen above. As the last glimpse of the glowing orb disappeared, the cook exclaimed “Aiwa - Bismillah!” In the name of God! And 50 people crammed in a closet-sized restaurant simultaneously slurped.

As everyone handed in empty bowls and zipped up jackets, we smiled at each other. The cook asked if we had fasted all day too and when we said yes, the other diners nodded in approval. For a few minutes, we were part of a collective ritual of breaking fast, and in doing so were adopted into a new family - if only for the three minutes it took to slurp a bowl of soup.

This post has been entered into the HomeAway UK Grantourismo travel blogging contest for October. We would love to hear your comments. 

Afghan Heirlooms

Qabili pilau and sabzi

Technically I was not supposed to be there. My Afghan colleague Najla invited me to dinner and I gladly accepted the invitation. Riding in an unarmored car to her home in Karte Parwan, one of Kabul’s residential neighborhoods, where the outer walls were less than ten meters high and there were no armed guards outside, was breaking all the rules of security protocol.

Due to the volatile situation and cultural restrictions, I had limited contact with my Afghan counterparts despite the fact that I lived in Kabul. Therefore, this invitation was more than just dinner, it was a window into the lives of the people I worked with everyday, but otherwise had little access to.

Najla and I took a seat on the toshaks, cushions laid out on the floor in the living room. Her nieces ran in giggling, gracefully balancing trays with tea and sweets and depositing them on the floor in front of us. I attempted to follow Najla’s lead and gracefully fold my legs beneath me but wound up shifting every few minutes, uncomfortable and awkward.

“I didn’t tell you, but this is a bit of a special occasion,” Najla said. “My eldest brother has just returned from Pakistan. We are finally all together in Kabul again!” Najla’s family fled Kabul like so many other residents of the Afghan capital during the civil war that engulfed the city in the early 1990s. They made their way over the Pakistani border into Peshawar where they stayed in camps until they returned after the fall of the Taliban.

The room slowly filled with family members and everyone squeezed in around the plates that began pouring from the kitchen: dark green sabzi, stewed spinach, banjan borani, delicious fried eggplant topped with tangy yogurt and paprika; aushak and mantu, hand made dumplings filled with either leaks or ground meat and covered with yogurt, lentils and mint.

But the centerpiece of the meal was the qabili pilau, the dish that heralds a special occasion. The faint brown rice was redolent with spices including cardamom, cinnamon, nutmeg and anise. While the fragrance was synonymous with a special holiday meal, the combination of the soft carrot strings, the sweet, robust raisins and succulent chunks of lamb made this dish feel more like comfort food.

When I inquired about the spices, Najla was coy. “The exact mixture of spices in the pilau varies from family to family,” she said. “It’s always slightly different and,” she paused, “it’s top secret,” she smiled mysteriously. “What you are eating is my mother’s recipe, which she learned from her mother, which she learned from her mother….” She trailed off.

Passed on from generation to generation, the family qabili pilau recipe is an heirloom. It is an oral history, something that they carried with them when they left everything else behind. As most Afghans at some point in their lives have been internally displaced or refugees, like Najla and her family, this recipe is more than just a meal - it is remembrance. 

 Girls' School in Herat

  Shah-e Doh Shamshira Mosque, Old City, Kabul

Stunning Band-i-Amir lake, Bamiyan Province, Central Highlands

Buzkashi, game traditionally played on Nowroz, or New Years, with players on horseback and a headless goat as the ball

Women in burqas visiting the sick at the Blue Mosque in Mazar-i-Sharif

Outside boys' school, Herat

Shopkeepers at prayer, Jalalabad

 Herat's Friday Mosque

The "kite runners" - boys chasing kites at the King's Masoleum, Kabul

This post has been entered into the September Grantourismo HomeAwayUK travel blogging competition.

Alejandrina

 The day I met Alejandrina, Hurricane Felix was whirling our way. The category five hurricane was rapidly gaining momentum and was predicted to hit land within two hours, on the North Coast of Honduras, twenty kilometers from Alejandrina’s simple home.

Usually I relished interviewing clients, and today shouldn’t have been any different. Alejandrina’s courage and steely determination was inspiring; against the daunting odds of poverty, she was building a better life. On her third loan from the Adelante Foundation’s micro-credit program, she had created a profitable clothing re-sale business. With the earnings, her goal to fortify the house she and her husband built had been realized—rotting wooden planks were switched out, two cinder block walls were constructed, a leak-proof metal roof replaced the dilapidated jerry-rigged tarp covering.

Proudly showing me around her two room abode, Alejandrina appeared unshaken by the tinny voice broadcasting a clear warning from the radio: Stock up on canned food and clean water, Felix is coming!

A queer, ominous light streamed through the unprotected windows. The dark brooding sky hung over us like an evil force preparing for battle. The air was hair-raisingly still. Raw fear electrified my being; I needed to get home.

Hastily fleeing to my car, I couldn’t help wondering if Alejandrina’s house would survive nature’s imminent smack-down. She met my uncertain gaze with the confident smile of a warrior. Decades of adversity mapped out across her face. Three years later I’m still awed by Alejandrina’s unflappable fight against life’s unrelenting storms.



This post was entered in the GranTourismo HomeAway UK Travel Writing Competition for August: Portrait. We would love to hear your thoughts in the comment section.

Valiko jan

In May, I observed municipal elections in the predominantly Aremenian state of Samatshke-Javakheti in the Republic of Georgia. My observation partner, Ruslan, was Kazakh and spoke fluent Russian – as did Aremnui, our interpreter and Valiko, our driver. When the three of them spoke Russian, I patiently waited for an abbreviated explanation of a 15 minute conversation or a joke that was lost in translation. Likewise, when the three of us would speak English, Valiko would turn up the radio. There was a disconnect between Valiko and I based solely on our inability to communicate directly with one another.

On the eve of the election, after we finished mapping the routes to the polling stations, we stopped in the sprawling countryside for an impromptu picnic. Valiko threw out a wool blanket, cranked up some Armenian pop music and offered us all bread that his sister-in-law had made fresh that morning. He opened a bottle of cognac, passed small glasses around and gave a toast with the typical flare that Georgians are famous for.

“Cheers, Valiko jan.” I used the diminutive “jan”, a familiar ending added to one’s name akin to “dear”, a custom I picked up in South Asia that I noticed was also used here.

Valiko froze. A huge smile plowed across his face. He squatted down on his haunches. “Jan?!?!?!?” He echoed approvingly. This little word bridged a cultural gap that volumes of Russian could not.

“To you, Jiffer jan”, he said. We smiled and clinked glasses.

This post was entered in the GranTourismo HomeAway UK Travel Writing Competition for August: Portrait. We would love to hear your thoughts in the comment section.

Darby Logger Days

A rare site: A hot saw hottie competes in The Cookie Stack. A competion of skill.

When the sawdust blizzard cleared, Paul Bunyan, the American legend, was staring me in the face. The burly, bearded man of the woods thrust a chainsaw high over his head and gave a victorious roar to the crowd packed into the bleachers behind me. No, he was not on a killing spree; he had just placed first in The Cookie Stack.

The Cookie Stack is one of the twenty timber sports competitions, including the axe throw, pole climb and speed chop that comprise the biggest festival of the summer in the Bitterroot Valley in Montana- Darby Logger Days. Like sawdust to honey, the event draws accomplished athletes in the lumberjack industry from around the country to flex their muscles and demonstrate their skills. In celebration of an industry and tradition that defines western Montana, it aims to keep America’s logging heritage alive.

The narrow main street of Darby was jam-packed with Harley-Davidsons and red, white and blue. The fairgrounds hosted booths with strong Libertarian messages, like: In God I Trust; the Government Is Another Story! Raffles auctioned off handguns and shotguns; corndogs and snow cones were served up to the kiddies.

Listening to the hollow thud of axes hitting wood stumps, the revved-up, buzzing whine of chainsaws and the casual voice of the MC, I marveled at this slice of the American pie, so completely foreign from my Midwestern roots. In awe of the remarkable diversity of American culture, I vowed to keep on truckin’ from sea to shining sea.

This post was entered into the totally awesome Grantourismo - HomeAwayUK Travel Writing Competition for July. We would love to hear your thoughts on the post in the comments section!

Tabaski 1418

Eid al-Adha, or Tabaski as it is known in parts of West Africa, is the "Festival of Sacrifice" in which Muslims remember Abraham's willingness to sacrifice his son at God's request. In the Islamic calendar year 1418, I was a Peace Corps volunteer in a small Soninké village in the Islamic Republic of Mauritania. Soninkés typically celebrate Tabaski with great flare, notably an elaborate feast and continuous dancing. Having looked forward to what everyone assured me would be the meal of the year, I gathered with the rest of the village to watch a few men slaughter a meager looking cow who was carved up and divided into equally distributed piles. Come mealtime, I was disheartened to find all the "good" pieces of the animal shoved my way, i.e. the testicles, intestines and other choice organs. While the others dug in, I shifted rubbery nubs of cow around to make it look like I had enjoyed the meal.
 
What the celebration lacked at the communal bowl, it made up for on the dance floor. Spontaneous circles formed throughout the day with children dressed in their holiday finest - flamboyant booboos in loud patterns and colors and painstakingly braided coifs adorned with golden hair clips. Children and adults alike took turns busting a move while the others clapped and cheered them on. The cheers turned into jeers however when I entered the circle, unable to match their rhythm and grace. But I got mad props for trying.

This post was entered into the Grantourismo - HomeAwayUK Travel Writing Competition for July. We would love to hear your thoughts on the post.

A Memorable Meal: Lunch with the Khmer Rouge

Khieu's home. Just to the left of this sign, the Thai border.

Our lunch together was purely unintentional. Vichet, the head of a local human rights organization, offered to show me around the remote northwestern Cambodian province of Banteay Meanchey. He proposed that we visit a few of his projects and then meet “some old Khmer Rouge guy”.

However, after spending a few minutes in this man’s presence I quickly realized that he was not just another “Khmer Rouge guy”. This was Khieu Samphan, former Head of State of Democratic Kampuchea under Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge regime. Khieu (last names are used first) is currently standing trial in the Extraordinary Chambers in the Courts of Cambodia, the long awaited international war crimes tribunal. He is charged with war crimes, crimes against humanity, murder, torture and genocide.

Seated on a turquoise leather sofa, he wore a striped button-up pajama top and a bright plaid sarong. His spiky, white hair juxtaposed the dark sunspots that dotted his worn skin and his eyes were clouded with age. While his movement was slow and laborious, his wit was quick and his charm effortless.

Vichet had been to Khieu’s home once before at the behest of Khieu’s daughter, one of Vichet’s employees. His attendance however was not social, but personal. Following the murder of his parents under Pol Pot's regime, young Vichet spent ten years in a refugee camp. He accepted the invitation but only to ask the unanswered questions that plagued him since childhood. How could this man have been part of the ruthless murder of 1.7 million of his own people?

Unintentionally disarmed by Khieu’s hospitality however, Vichet never asked. Today, he hoped that I, a foreigner, might be able to obtain some of the answers he sought.

Suddenly, lunch was announced. Two large mats were spread out on the floor. Khieu’s wife and daughters came up and down the stairs, each time bringing bowls of food: pots of raw meat, bowls of eggs, plates heaped with noodles, strainers filled with green vegetables—cabbage and morning glory, mushrooms and chilies. The two older girls set two clay pots filled with smoldering coals on the mats, and on top of each they placed a bowl with an elevated island in the center. Strips of meat were placed on the raised perforated metal, while the moat around it was filled with broth, vegetables, then handfuls of noodles, and raw eggs, all left to simmer.

We took a seat on the floor. Khieu’s wife sat next to him and orchestrated this “soup fondue.” He turned to me and said, “This is why I married her.” She had been a cook for the Khmer Rouge.

Over lunch, Khieu claimed he was merely a symbolic head of state with no real knowledge of the killings taking place in the countryside. For Vichet and the countless Cambodians who seek the truth in order to heal, the current tribunal may finally force Khieu and his co-conspirators to admit their culpability in one of the worst mass murders of the twentieth century.


This post has been entered into the Grantourismo HomeAwayUK May travel writing contest. We would love to hear your thoughts on the post in the comment section or on our Facebook page.

My Subscription to AFAR

Ingo demonstrates going local with the women at the well in Dangeremou, Mauritania

I had first heard of AFAR magazine back in the fall of last year. A couple of different friends contacted me simultaneously - including Smash - with an email, subject heading: YOU'VE GOT TO CHECK THIS OUT. Nearly everyone sent simply a link with a quick note, WHY DIDN’T WE THINK OF THIS!?!? After checking out the website and finally getting my hands on a copy of the first issue of the magazine, I replied, "We did think of this. But now someone is actually doing it!"

It was bittersweet. How many times had WE sat in a tea house, by a temple, in the middle of a market, in the back of a pickup truck filled with 50 people, one ton of rice and seven goats - and discussed the same thing that AFAR founders Joe Diaz and Greg Sullivan did - experiential travel is not about a good deal on a fancy hotel or ticking sites of a "100 places to see before we die" list. It's about the journey and the journey is about the characters you meet along the way, the conversations and the unexpected encounters with people and events that cause you to think about things that you had pretty much taken for granted in an entirely different way.

A publication, a platform, a network of like-minded individuals who love spontaneous journeys, who strike up conversations with the old men in the café, who poke their noses into the hausfrau's kitchen, who opt for the local rickshaw rather than the new air-conditioned taxi, whose favorite souvenir is not a purchase but a memory.

And thus began my crush on AFAR Media and Magazine.  

So when I was informed that the prize for third place in the Grantourismo monthly travel writing competition for March was a one-year subscription to AFAR - with all due respect to the other prize-givers - I felt as though I had placed first.

Living in Germany, I tend to get my English-language magazine fix when I am traveling i.e. the newstand at an international airport. I have tried to do international subscriptions and given up - frustrated by the long wait or by never seeing some issues at all - somehow lost in the mail. So when the big manila envelope arrived last week I was like a kid on Christmas. I tore it open and then put it into my satchel - preferring to wait until I had at least 60 consecutive minutes of time to really dig into it.

Reasons I Love AFAR

The Features

Having recently traveled to Guadalajara to visit my own expert in Mexican soul food, i.e. Smash, I drooled over Lygia Navarro's descriptions of taquitos de chapulines and escamole. I mean, you know you're a good food writer when people drool over your descriptions of grasshopper tacos and white ant larvae.

But more than making my stomach grumble, the article made my feet itch. Smash has always been more of the foodie in "smashandsniff" - having studied at the California Culinary Academy and worked in fine dining. But I learned to love food through travel. How much have I learned about a new culture, how many friendships solidified, while working together in the kitchen - often with a cook who spoke little to no English. My "host moms" in Mauritania critically observing as I tried in vain to slice the bean leaves as painstakingly thin as they did for my favorite dish, hakko, a mixture of greens, peanuts and spices served over millet; my landlady in Phnom Penh teaching me her family's recipe for amok, delicious fish in coconut sauce, chillies, khafir leaves and lemongrass wrapped in banana leaves while telling me about losing her husband and sons during the forced evacuation of the city under the Khmer Rouge in 1975; my good friend Horia, human rights activist, wife and mother,  making kabuli pilau in her Kabul kitchen as she told me about her flight from the 1980s civil war in Afghanistan across the border into Pakistan; Khatir, an Algerian Frenchman who used to work under legendary French chef Bernard Loiseau teaching me how to do a perfect confit de canard in his slaughterhouse in Hamburg while bemoaning what he considers a lack of passion in German kitchens.

Eating is a biological necessity and the preparation and sharing of food is a language that is spoken in every culture. Taking a sincere interest in another's proud culinary traditions, techniques and history breaks down most cultural or linguistic boundaries that exist and offers a window into much more than food. At smashandsniff we like to consider ourselves "foodthropologists" and Ms. Navarro's article proved that she does too. This piece, along with the other features, "The New Face of South Africa" by Chris Smith and "Chasing Shadows" by Jeff Greenwald were so rich in their story telling - in all three cases due primarily to the fascinating characters (especially Thami Nkosi in Jo'berg and the fascinating and, as the author puts it, "wacky" individuals who chase solar eclipses) in each of these articles - which is what I love most about AFAR magazine.

The Breakdown

Characters are again prominently featured in each of the opening sections, "See", "Connect" and "Go". I love how each of these sections is broken down: In "See", a quirky photo comparison of school lunches around the world in "Mix"; interesting and sometimes lesser known events in the "Calendar" and the detailed shorter articles in "Afar List/Where to Go Now". In the "Connect" section, an excellent profile of Bangkok resident Dtong and through him, his neighborhood; the writer assigned to a spontaneous and random destination - this time Susan Orlean went to Copenhagen in "Spin the Globe" (hey AFAR - ever thought about sending a BLOGGER on a sponaneous random journey? If so...); and the introduction to fascinating individuals living a global lifestyle in "Nomad" (coincidentally written by Sally McGrane who I know through mutual friends while we were both living San Francisco. Sally and I often compared notes on Germany - I was in love with a German and she was in love with the German capital. She waxed poetic about Berlin and was plotting her return - glad to see she made it). 

In "Go", the smashandsniff personal favorite is "Feast". "Caribbean Melting Pot" features Janera Sorel, a former classmate of mine from Columbia University's School of International and Public Affairs. Janera founded and runs www.janera.com, an organization that "curates global conversations" with the goal being to explore human stories behind world affairs through events that connect "gamechangers and influencers". And here she is in the AFAR "Feast" section, serving up keshi yana in her native Curacao. "Good Trips/Travel with a Purpose" is an excellent resource for travelers looking for volunteer opportunities with local and national organizations - a focus I imagine AFAR readers are especially keen on. In "Stay",  the article titled, "Yurt So Good" made me laugh out loud (you can imagine, living in Germany, what kind of cringe-worthy word plays I subject readers to - they are the "wurst" hahahaha) and also made me want to call Tseren Tours to ask for more information.

Thank you Grantourismo and HomeAwayUK for my subscription to AFAR. And thank you AFAR for doing what you do.

India by Rail: Going It Alone

We were running late. I had been in India for all of 16 hours when my friend Saurabh put me on an unreserved second-class train from Delhi to Agra.

“I’m so sorry I can’t take you myself,” he panted as we ran from our rickshaw to the ticket office. He had a flight to catch and I was going solo for a week before we met up again in Mumbai. I was simultaneously thrilled and petrified by the prospect of traveling around India on my own.

“You’ll be fine,” he said as he stuffed the ticket in my hand. I was not sure who he was trying to convince – himself or me. He helped me hoist my bag up the steps and waved sheepishly, then darted off into the distance.

There I was – alone in India. I wasn’t really alone, of course. I was surrounded by what seemed like thousands of other passengers, every one of them now staring directly at me, the only foreigner on the train. Social etiquette in India does not make staring taboo – a lesson I quickly learned first-hand as I tried in vain to blend into the crowd. The intensity of their unwavering stares made me feel utterly alone despite the suffocating crowd.

Arms and legs dangled from the overhead luggage racks. Teenage boys clung to the open doorway. A family of five took up residence in the lavatory for lack of anywhere else to sit. Due to delays, stragglers continued to push their way in. We heaved a collective sigh of relief as the whistle blew and the train miraculously lurched forward.

Somewhere about mid-journey, everyone lost interest in me. Their stares turned to the scenery and I became just another passenger on my way to Agra.

“Madame,” the man next to me whispered. “I would very much not leave my bag sitting alone in the corner if I were to be you.” I heeded his advice and dragged the duffle to my feet.

“Fancy a chai?” The man next to me offered me a small cup of tea. Even though I had been thoroughly warned about “Delhi-belly”, the risk of a debilitating bout of diarrhea was well worth the camaraderie and I thanked him more for the gesture than the tea.

"Where are you heading, Madame?" The group of young men in the doorway befriended me. They were all studying business and working in call centers where they were trained in small talk and instructed never to let on they were outside of the US. “I even got to pick out an English name,” Pradeep told me. “I chose Philip.”
The others nodded in approval. “This company, AT&T must be really bad. The people who call do nothing but complain.” I stifled my laughter and shrugged.

As the train finally rolled into the station, I gathered my bags, nodded to my neighbor and said good-bye to these strangers who, over the past five hours had become less strange, just as I had become less alone.

This post was entered into the Grantourismo HomeAway UK travel writing competition for April. We would love to hear your thoughts on the post in the comment section!