I find the passage of western t-shirts through the developing world, and the prestige that English language garments bestow on the wearer, to be an infinitely fascinating phenomenon. However in some cases the result can be quite jarring. I very much doubt that this hard-working woman in Antsirabe, Madagascar has any idea what she is conveying to the world….
I think I can safely say that no travel experience offers absolute predictability. But cruise the islands of Papua New Guinea and you will encounter one immutable certainty. You will visit a predetermined number of picturesque villages, and you will be greeted at each by a performance of traditional dance.
These cultural displays are as diverse as the islanders themselves. Papua New Guinea has some of the greatest variety on earth. The people you visit today will likely speak a different language, have different traditions, and offer different items for sale once the festivities have concluded from those of the day before. Some of the dancers are children, some are adults. Some of the performances are accompanied by singing, others are not. Some simulate recognizable activities such as rowing, fighting, or, in at least one case, copulation. But given the relentless pace even the most attentive and ethnographically astute traveler will find that the experiences start to run together, and begin to ask him or herself, “Now was that the village where they suspended the babies in woven bags?” or “Was that where the women had facial tattoos?”
So should you ever have the opportunity of visiting these wonderfully exuberant and welcoming people, I offer the following quick reference guide:
Today I rummaged around until I found a 2008 Obama for President campaign button, and proudly affixed it to my battered day pack. No repeat of the Bush years for me – I want to deflect as much awkwardness as possible when interacting with foreign locals on my future travels.
Going abroad as a U.S. citizen during W’s years in office I was often aware of a certain wariness on the part of others, and of a hesitation to fully engage – no questions, and certainly no hostility, just guarded looks suggesting that people were evaluating my likely voting record. I got in the habit of trying to work subtle references to our unfortunate election outcome into conversations, and the dynamic would shift perceptibly. People relaxed, and despite whatever reservations they might have about us for other reasons, that particular sticking point was removed. Now, of course, it has returned in spades.
However history evaluates him, there is no questioning the fact that Obama was an inspirational figure to much of the world, and one that travelers could be proud to own. I was in a Korean truck stop in 2008 when its big screen TV broadcast his electoral victory. Locals cheered and, realizing there was a group of Americans in their midst, gave us high-fives. It felt at that moment as if the whole world had breathed a collective sigh of relief.
Nowhere, I suspect, was his ascendance to the highest office in our land more celebrated than in Africa. The photos accompanying this post were taken in Ethiopia, where I experienced the twin novelties of having strangers approach me to express their good will, and of seeing my president’s name in the unlikeliest of places.
My bags are packed and sitting by the door. The car awaits.
Whether the destination is Kalamazoo or Kuala Lumpur, I pass through my house in silent reflection
Visiting each room
Grateful for our common experience
Thankful for the people who have shared it
I beseech it to remain safe and strong until my return.
Every departure is an intimation of the last.
Sarajevo
In a week that saw both the forty-year sentence handed down to Bosnian Serb leader Radovan Karadzic for his role in the massacre at Srebrenica, and the decision of Bosnian Serb authorities to name a school building in his honor, I was moved again to reflect on the difficult and contentious path Bosnian citizens must walk towards their goal of reconciliation.
Here’s a joke that was making the rounds when I visited the country in 2015:
Three friends – a Serb, a Croat, and a Bosniak – go to a bar. After one beer, everything is OK. After two beers, everything is still OK. After the third beer someone asks “So who really started the war?” After a hasty fourth beer things are OK again.
Sometimes you can visit a country justly renowned for the beauty of its mountains, lakes, and castles and when you get home your favorite picture was taken at your hotel…
Ljubljana, Slovenia
This striking assemblage of folk art on the beach at Ouidah, Benin illustrates two ever-present themes of the West African experience: the terrible legacy of slavery, and the fact that nothing ever goes to waste.
The setting was the annual Voodoo Festival which, to this uninitiated viewer, looked like a massive meet-and-greet. The beach marks the point of no return from which slave ships sailed for the new world or, as the sign so eloquently puts it, the beginning and the end of history.
In response to the question “How was Mongolia?” there is only one adjective that comes to mind, pushing all other qualifiers out of contention: vast. The extent of the vastness can only be appreciated once you leave the capital of Ulaanbaatar and realize that you will be spending hours and hours, day after day, traversing huge distances in a rugged and bumpy vehicle, relying on GPS to guide you through roadless and unvarying landscapes.
Among this vastness you will see the country’s justly renowned sights, to wit:
The Monastery Complex at Erdene Zuu
The Flaming Cliffs
The Wild Takhi Horses
But meanwhile there is no denying that the days are long, the challenges of the road are many, and the novelty of the occasional settlement or camel herd is apt to wear thin. So while in Mongolia I found that the best strategy is to embrace the unexpected, and delight in the fact that you are in a country where:
There are vegan karaoke bars:
There are monuments to phalluses:
Angels perch atop baroque silver fountains at the edge of the desert:
The bartender at your ger camp is always ready to serve:
Genghis Khan (or at least his boot) still stands tall after eight centuries:
And museum placards leave you really wanting to know what else is registered in the Red Book of Mongolia…
The question on every traveler’s lips these days is “Have you been to Cuba?” Cuba is hot – tour operators are scrambling to offer it, and long-denied Americans are eager to sign up. I listen with genuine interest to fellow travelers’ reports of visits with artists and educators, and of their delight at seeing this spectacularly beautiful island. Then my thoughts drift back to another time and another Cuba, where I improbably engaged in a game of frisbee with the Soviet navy on the beach at Varadero.
In all the rush it’s mostly forgotten that there was a brief window during the Carter administration when it was legally permissible for U.S. Citizens to travel to the island. The Venceremos Brigade, best known for sending cane cutters to help with the sugar harvest in defiance of the blockade, leaped into action by organizing a series of study tours known as “Cubamobiles.” Moved by curiosity of the unknown I signed up for the third “Cubamobile,” departing in December 1978 and timed to coincide with the 20th anniversary of the Communist victory on January 1, 1979.
The itinerary was designed as an introduction to socialism, Cuban-style, and we predictably spent a lot of time at factories, revolutionary landmarks, and workers’ committees. At the Bulk Sugar Terminal we met with employees who eagerly explained the concept of “socialist emulation” – as best I understood it, a type of fraternal rather than individual competition among workers for the common good (those who want to know more are referred to the works of Che Guevara). We attended a meeting of a neighborhood Committee for the Defense of the Revolution, dedicated to keeping ideological tabs on the inhabitants and bringing dissenters back into the fold (although, we were assured, by the most benign and constructive methods). We made the obligatory stops at the Moncada Barracks in Santiago, where the first salvo of the revolution was fired, and at the site of the Bay of Pigs invasion, featuring what was then known as the Museum of American Imperialism. We visited with medical personnel, literacy workers, students at the Lenin high school, and cigar rollers, among countless others. Christmas Day was a day like any other, although we passed churches where services were being held unimpeded for tiny numbers of congregants.
And lest it seem otherwise, at no time were we minded. We mingled freely with Cubans everywhere – in their squares, at their Coppelia ice cream parlors, in their restaurants (they laughed with us at the iconic red Coca Cola signs that said instead “Coma Caca”), and outside the hotels that they were prohibited from entering (though many of these latter encounters seemed to involve attempts to purchase our American blue jeans).
And on to the beach at Varadero. Our bus broke down and we idled away the time playing frisbee while waiting for a replacement. Anchored just off the coast was a Soviet navy vessel, and when their curiosity got the best of them a group of sailors came ashore. They joined us in our game, which just happened to feature a tour member’s frisbee in the design of the American flag. When it was time to go we gave the frisbee to the sailors and they reciprocated with little Russian bear friendship pins. A perfect moment of people-to-people diplomacy in the midst of the Cold War.
Another Day Another Destination 