tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74476992024-03-07T18:23:27.232+00:00Smoke Me A Kipper...Erik's exciting escapades around the world!Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903199424734773952noreply@blogger.comBlogger675125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7447699.post-28597592662468087482014-10-29T11:58:00.000+00:002015-03-13T12:01:28.132+00:00Maps And Figures<div style="text-align: justify;">
It probably won't come as a surprise to people that I love maps. From an early age I pored over them, and on our biannual family drives from Scotland to Czechoslovakia I would study our route and navigate for my dad. As I grew older I understood how maps could display so much more information than simple topography and place names: climate, industry, agriculture, ethnography, linguistics, politics - all are made clearer and more immediate with the help of a good map. I'm particularly fascinated by historical maps, with their imprecise coastlines, challenging handwriting, and flights of fancy (here be dragons). But especially because they show a reality that once existed and which isn't necessarily acknowledged today. Sure, London and Paris have been around for over 1000 years, but if you go back 2000 years then they disappear, only to be replaced by Londinium and Lutetia. Borders, which, today, feel immutable and permanent, ebb and flow, disappearing and reappearing with metronomic regularity. Names and national identities, for which people go to war and innocents die, are in fact ephemeral and subjective. Belarus epitomises this (un)reality perfectly. Attempts to find (the name) Belarus in old maps will more than likely come up blank; and if you do find it, it won't be where it is today.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maps have a strange power. This map of China, from 1735, was recently given as a present from German chancellor Angela Merkel to China's president Xi Jinping on a state visit. A nice present you would think. However it caused huge waves on the Chinese blogosphere because it doesn't show Tibet, Xinjiang, Taiwan or Inner Mongolia as being Chinese, despite the Chinese official narrative of these being immutable parts of China since "ancient times". [For a more detailed analysis see <a href="http://antipodefoundation.org/2014/06/11/maps-and-territory-in-china/" target="_blank">this article</a>.]</td></tr>
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For most of its history the area of modern-day Belarus was part of Lithuania, either as an independent duchy or as part of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. During that period the Slavic inhabitants of the region (we tend to think of multiculturalism as a new phenomenon, but, up until the 20th century and the rise of ethnic nationalism, it was in fact the norm in continental Europe) were known either as Ruthenians, or Litvins. When the region was annexed by the Russian empire the latter term was suppressed, along with all other Polish and Lithuanian influences, as they underwent a heavy bout of Russification. Nowadays though the term Litvin is making a comeback, especially amongst the nationalist intelligentsia who wish to differentiate themselves from their overbearing neighbours to the east. Although I don't like generalisations, there is often more than a kernel of truth to them. And so it was when one of my hosts explained to me the Belarusian "type" According to him, between the Slavic peoples the Poles are like the French, in that they tend to be a bit too philosophical (depressed?); the Russians are like the Italians, in that they're over-emotional and have a well-established mafia; whilst the Belarusians are like the Germans, tidy, quiet and hard-working.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This bookshop-gallery-cafe in a nondescript alleyway in central Minsk is a bastion of the Belarusian nationalist intelligentsia. It's called "<span class="st">Ў"</span> because it is a letter of the Belarusian alphabet that doesn't exist in Russian.</td></tr>
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This difference means that Belarusian historical sights are more similar to those in the rest of Europe, with stately homes and castles, rather than the kremlins and orthodox monasteries of Russia. That makes Belarus particularly popular with Russian tourists who want their fix of castles but who can't afford to travel to western Europe. Most of them gravitate to the twin towns of Mir at Nesvizh that were home to the powerful Radziwill family. They are surprisingly interesting and even have signage in English (which is never to be taken for granted round these parts), and it is easy to see that the government has invested heavily in restoring and promoting them (during the Soviet period the old renaissance palace was used as a sanatorium before being abandoned) as unfortunately most of Belarus's historical heritage failed to survive the double-whammy of Communism and WW2.
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The medieval castle of Mir dominates its surroundings and attracts many Russian tourists.</td></tr>
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<span style="text-align: justify;">Although Communism was harsh, the toll of WW2 is almost impossible to comprehend. Of the 60 million or so casualties over 40% of them were borne by the Soviet Union. That in itself is pretty stupendous, but whilst the USSR lost over 8% of its population in the conflict the brunt of the losses were incurred in the two western republics. Of its pre-war population of over 9 million 2.5 million perished in the horrors of '39-'45.* One third of the population. Only the Jews, who lost two thirds of their pre-war population, suffered more. Some 5,000 villages were razed, of which over 600 with the entire population still inside. The numbers are just overwhelming.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The remembrance hall of the Great Patriotic War museum in Minsk. Sobering.</td></tr>
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<span style="text-align: justify;">Naturally there are a multitude of memorials to the Great Patriotic War dotted throughout the country, from the recently opened - and surprisingly informative, though in places propagandistic - national museum of the war, to the poignant Khatyn memorial. However no memorial that I've ever seen can quite compare to the bombast of the monument to the Heroic Defenders of Brest Fortress. In 1939 the city of Brest (Brzesc Litewski in Polish) was a major hub in eastern Poland. When Poland was invaded by Germany in September 1939 (and by the Soviet Union a couple of weeks later) the fortress and city were captured by the Germans but then handed over to the Soviets in accordance with the Molotov-Ribbentrop pact. Two years later the Germans returned with Operation Barbarossa and retook the fortress from the Soviets. The fact that Brest saw the first fighting between German and Soviet forces, and that the defenders put up stubborn resistance for over a week, earned it a mythic place in the Soviet heroic narrative. Such an important place required an equally impressive monument. Built in 1965 in unflinching Socialist-Realist style the monument is still one of the largest in the world having used up some 4000m3 of concrete. It certainly LOOMS.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Brest monument (along with its honour guard of young pioneers) is the central focus of the fort, which is itself one vast memorial and museum complex devoted to WW2.</td></tr>
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<span style="text-align: justify;">Brest was certainly an interesting final stop in Belarus. It is the oldest city in the country, and though fixed in place has had borders move back and forth across it through time: initially Polish, taken by the Kievan Rus, laid to waste by the Mongols, incorporated into Lithuania, a metropolis of the Commonwealth, taken by Russia, captured by Germany, briefly part of ephemeral the Belarusian Democratic Republic and Ukrainian People's Republic before returning to Poland, captured by Germany, handed over to the Soviets, captured by Germany (again), retaken by the Soviets, and finally becoming part of an independent Belarus. Now it sits on the wrong side of the EU border, but who knows what will happen in the coming years. If there's one thing that history teaches us, it's that maps change.</span></div>
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<span style="text-align: justify;">*Or to put it another way, Belarus, with a population a fifth the size of the UK, suffered five times as many casualties.</span></div>
Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903199424734773952noreply@blogger.com2Brest, Belarus52.097621399999987 23.73405030000003551.941505899999989 23.411326800000037 52.253736899999986 24.056773800000034tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7447699.post-86958293651591727912014-10-24T16:13:00.000+01:002014-11-14T22:52:35.601+00:00A Desperate Despot?<div style="text-align: justify;">
For the "last dictatorship in Europe" I was surprised that I could arrive in the heart of the country without having my passport checked. It's funny how that sobriquet, bequeathed during George W. Bush's presidency, has come to stick to any and every mention of Belarus and its leader Alexander Lukashenko (not that they get many mentions in the world's media). After spending just a few days in Minsk talking politics with almost everyone I met (locals are far more world-savvy and open with their views than one would imagine), I realised that it's an over-simplification that obscures looking at the country realistically (for an idea of the sort of journalistic hatchet-jobs out there you can read <a href="http://www.gq-magazine.co.uk/comment/articles/2014-03/06/belarus-dictatorship-alexander-lukashenko/viewall" target="_blank">this recent article</a> in GQ). Sure, there's no denying Lukashenko has a tight grip on power, political dissent is only permitted within narrow limits (as attested to by the number of people behind bars for their contrary political views), and there is more than a little corruption to be found; nevertheless these truths need to be tempered with others that don't sell as many newspapers.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Just wait a sec, I haven't told you the punchline yet." Belarus's notorious president Lukashenko sporting his trademark moustache. [Source: Guardian.co.uk]</td></tr>
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At first glance the first thing that most visitors to Belarus notice is the cleanliness. This isn't just compared to Russia and other post-Communist countries, but even countries like the UK, USA and France. Sure, the same can be said of North Korea, where every citizen is responsible for cleaning a stretch of pavement, park, etc. But a second glance will show you that Belarusians are no cowed automatons, and life isn't grey and subservient to the state. In fact the quality of life seems reasonably high, people bustle to work, shops and restaurants are busy, and even villages in the countryside seem well taken care of.* This is not what I would expect reading the few articles you can find online about the country. So why is this?</div>
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Luckily, as I mentioned before, people in Belarus don't mind talking politics. Lukashenko came to power in 1994. The Soviet Union had already fallen apart and Russia and many other countries of the break-up were undergoing painful transitions to capitalism. These years were the ones of state theft on unprecedented levels, where the Russian oligarchs emerged following shady privatisations, where the Russian mafia developed into a vicious and powerful force. Following decades of relative stability the Yeltsin period was wrenching for the majority of people. Lukashenko appealed to peoples' nostalgia for the certainties of the past and kept many of the Soviet systems in place: state-run industry, a large police apparatus, free healthcare, no political plurality, etc. Most people work for state-owned companies and setting up a private business is a long, laborious process that requires connections and various backhanders, but on the other hand everyday corruption is minimal, unlike neighbouring Russia and Ukraine where it is endemic. One exception seems to be software outsourcing, which is currently booming in Belarus. Such a path kept the worst calamities of the transition from Communism at bay (mainly because the transition happened to a much smaller scale) whilst simultaneously stifling the best of liberalism.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In Belarus the Soviet period is regarded as being the halcyon days, and the socialist-realist iconography of those times is still ever-present.</td></tr>
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Of course this equation has a missing parameter. The Soviet Union partly collapsed due to economics - the sums just didn't add up. And they don't in Belarus either ... unless you factor in cheap fuel. The entire edifice of Belarus's economic model is founded on super-cheap oil and gas from Russia to feed its factories, power plants, cars and import-export industry. Belarus imports way more oil than it can ever possibly use, refines it, and then sells it on at a tidy profit. Recently Belarus has also taken advantage of sanctions and the lack of borders with Russia, as Belarusian seafood, grapes and olives have become far more common on supermarket shelves in Moscow (a fact many people I met in Minsk liked to joke about). Russia, however, doesn't just give away natural resources out of the kindness of its heart - there are substantial strings attached. Belarus pays for its energy security by being a Russian proxy and supposedly independent supporter. Belarus has, in effect, very little political wiggle-room. If it were to become more pro-Western Moscow would turn off the taps and increase the price for gas, bringing the entire economy crashing to a halt. And the winters in Minsk are very cold. However flying too close to Putin also has its risks, as the world has seen recently with the situation in Ukraine. Sensing danger from increased Russification within his country Lukashenko gave his very first speech in Belarusian earlier this year (most people speak Russian as a first language, and prior to this year there was a concerted effort to promote Russian culture and language above Belarusian) and has even criticised Putin's stance on the situation.<sup>†</sup> It's a fine line to tread, playing off the EU and Russia against each other to get as many concessions from each as possible.<br />
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And whilst political freedoms are severely curtailed, personal ones are not. Not only is travelling to Russia a dawdle, but even getting an annual Schengen visa isn't that tricky either. Consumer goods in Poland are significantly cheaper, a fact the Polish authorities have cottoned onto, and so many middle-class Belarusians apply for, and easily get, "shopping visas" that technically give them access to all 26 countries of the area. Internet access is also unrestricted and pretty ubiquitous.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Big shopping mall atrium in downtown Minsk. They had free wifi. I was happy.</td></tr>
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So where does that leave us? I'm not sure. Many Belarusians dislike Lukashenko's boorish reign, and yet at the same time acknowledge that things could have slid to truly grim depths had he not been around. I suppose for me the most interesting aspect was to (re)discover how a complex situation is often simplified to absurdity. Luckily though, with the increased focus on the region, a more nuanced view of the country is beginning to filter out (<a href="http://www.themoscowtimes.com/opinion/article/surviving-europe-s-last-dictator-in-belarus/509932.html" target="_blank">here</a> and <a href="http://belarusdigest.com/story/no-longer-last-dictatorship-europe-19253" target="_blank">here</a> are a couple of examples). The paradigm I've grown up with connotes any system that isn't democratic as negative: autocracy, dictatorship, oligarchy, despotism, tyranny. Yet I could easily reel off a dozen examples where such governments could be seen to be doing more good than harm. And conversely democracy doesn't automatically make everything that is done in its name to smell of roses. It is worth noting that the terms tyrant and despot were first coined in ancient Greece, where they simply meant ruler, with no value judgement attached. Is Lukashenko a good or bad tyrant? we will need history and hindsight to be able to answer that question.</div>
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*In the UN's <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_countries_by_inequality-adjusted_HDI" target="_blank">inequality-adjusted Human Development Index</a> Belarus is just 7 places off the United States.</div>
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<sup>†</sup>Of course he was promptly told that perhaps Russia may increase gas prices and he didn't say much after that.</div>
Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903199424734773952noreply@blogger.com1Minsk, Belarus53.9 27.56666700000005253.6005025 26.921220000000051 54.1994975 28.212114000000053tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7447699.post-72189109302076088662014-10-22T14:30:00.000+01:002014-11-12T14:39:06.793+00:00Old Town, New Town<div style="text-align: justify;">
My "holiday" started at 11:00 on Sunday as soon as breakfast was over in the Saint Petersburg hotel and I had said goodbye to my charges. It started snowing at 11:30. This was not a great start. Although there are several daily, direct, trains from Saint Petersburg to Minsk, that would have been too easy. Instead I decided to stop at Novgorod along the way. Located some 150km south of Saint Petersburg it is the oldest city in Russia, which is somewhat ironic, given that its name translates as "New Town".</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A footbridge over the Volkhov river in Novgorod. The city based its wealth on controlling this important crossing.</td></tr>
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<a name='more'></a>It was here at Novgorod that the Rus came to Russia, long before Moscow was even an inkling in someone's imagination. It may sound odd, but the Rus were not even Russian. Russians are a Slavic people (who speak a language related to Polish, Czech and Bulgarian) whereas the Rus were actually Vikings who came along the waterways of eastern Europe on their way to Byzantium and Arabia to trade*. A group of them, under the semi-mythic leader Rurik, came to the Slavs living around today's Novgorod and became their leader, giving rise to the kings and rulers of Ukraine and Russia until 1598. Whatever the case I thought it worth stopping off at for a night at least. I didn't realise though that although they had moved on from the days of the Rus, Novgorod's hoteliers maybe hadn't passed the threshold from Communism, and the first place I turned up at didn't have a permit to admit foreigners. Luckily the girl behind the desk was friendly and helped find a youth hostel that would take me and saved me from having to trudge through the driving snow.<br />
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Novgorod being an old Russian town had the traditional central kremlin (which means nothing more than simply fortress) with its obligatory old frescoed church. As I entered a gaggle of middle-aged ladies with shawls were chanting a liturgy in Church Slavonic. Although I hold no truck with religion <i>per se</i>, Slavonic chanting, especially with the reverberating acoustics of a church, has a beautiful, haunting quality to it.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyEdeXaSo1PeUvstkww-jKBCg9J148o6vHK5H2ByhrJcITKjkljx1c9-eFmmYxrIDStGK1y6wP3XkBdUFvefikKA1IMmBPyfdHNqZdyw2kpVh8ASFtpA3OwxKzOclzpKiB1wrR2g/s1600/DSCF0714.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyEdeXaSo1PeUvstkww-jKBCg9J148o6vHK5H2ByhrJcITKjkljx1c9-eFmmYxrIDStGK1y6wP3XkBdUFvefikKA1IMmBPyfdHNqZdyw2kpVh8ASFtpA3OwxKzOclzpKiB1wrR2g/s400/DSCF0714.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The walls of Novgorod's kremlin disappearing off into the fog.</td></tr>
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Although Novgorod's history is long and rich, there isn't that much to show for it thanks to the rising power of Moscow that taught Novgorod not to get too uppity in 1478 by burning down half the town and massacring a good a fear-inducing proportion of its population. One day was easily enough to see what Novgorod had to offer before moving on. The nearest station on the mainline to Minsk was a town to Sol'tsy, so I bought myself a bus ticket and set off. Sol'tsy is a nothing little town, and arriving after dark in the miserable drizzle did little to improve my impression of it. Nevertheless the Saint Petersburg to Minsk express stops there every night for a couple of minutes, where it meets the Brest to Murmansk train. It's what I love most about the ex-Soviet train network: trains criss-cross the former bloc from corner to corner, so that you can embark in an obscure station and end up half a world away a few days later without having to change trains. From Brest there is a train to Karaganda, from Kharkiv there's one to Almaty, from Murmansk to Vladikavkaz and so on. So there I was, standing on this desolate platform, alone and wondering whether I was, in fact, in the right place. I was, as I found out when both the Saint Petersburg to Minsk, and Brest to Murmansk trains simultaneously converged on me from opposite directions. The platform itself was barely any higher than the rails and suddenly on either side of me were two towering snakes of steel boxing me in on my dark strip of security. I frantically waved my torch (I've come to find that smartphones are actually really quite useful) until a <i>provodnitsa</i> opened up one of the carriage doors, let down the steps and let me into the belly of the iron beast, where I found my bunk, unfurled my bedding and did what I do best.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcuyAXEPl-P__LBbHLoD5Eh5uAgOjW4S_08KpcuR4-a1rqh-sxwG1fm-enSF3OrWBiYDZ7IURElvrs44kx29460wFI9EKewp-nFY2arc-AY9BdwlptCUw07bYuvERGH1hoc_Xgow/s1600/DSCF0731.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcuyAXEPl-P__LBbHLoD5Eh5uAgOjW4S_08KpcuR4-a1rqh-sxwG1fm-enSF3OrWBiYDZ7IURElvrs44kx29460wFI9EKewp-nFY2arc-AY9BdwlptCUw07bYuvERGH1hoc_Xgow/s400/DSCF0731.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Standing on a deserted, drizzly platform in the middle of the night - up until the train came through I wasn't certain that I was in fact in the right place.</td></tr>
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The next morning I awoke in Minsk, eager to explore this strange new world (Belarus and Russia - and Kazakhstan - have a customs and border union so that there aren't any border controls between them). But to hear about that you'll have to wait a little longer... </div>
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*To this day the Finns call the Swedes "<i>Ruotsi</i>").Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903199424734773952noreply@blogger.com2Veliky Novgorod, Novgorod Oblast, Russia58.525569800000007 31.27419280000003758.260502300000006 30.628745800000036 58.790637300000007 31.919639800000038tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7447699.post-85702636119181830262014-10-19T19:20:00.002+01:002014-10-19T20:28:18.362+01:00It's Work Jim, But Not As We Know It<div style="text-align: justify;">
Hello dear reader(s)! You may have surmised from my writing hiatus that my travels are over and that I have returned to the world of the working. And you would be right ... to a degree. It is true that I now have a job, with a pay-cheque and everything, however the travelling has not abated as much as I had envisaged upon my return to the UK.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs1v3SAcb4MHBwkzR6RZb5Y1576531WLxYMWSWoAZOQx_GfPNBMdvSf7F6_RaSRRQUy6Hh0c-lixiCHrNxcbbwxrP5O702mCwLLW9XIC7weFVgkEtzCQ3O_ydkb2Id_OQrF0sWbA/s1600/DSCF7603.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs1v3SAcb4MHBwkzR6RZb5Y1576531WLxYMWSWoAZOQx_GfPNBMdvSf7F6_RaSRRQUy6Hh0c-lixiCHrNxcbbwxrP5O702mCwLLW9XIC7weFVgkEtzCQ3O_ydkb2Id_OQrF0sWbA/s1600/DSCF7603.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Upon my return to the UK I decided to do a little tourism somewhat closer to home. Despite having worked a mere 15mins walk from the Tower of London for over 1.5 years I had never actually visited the iconic monument - a lacuna I quickly set to rights.</td></tr>
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I had thought that I would return to my desk-bound existence once my vagabonding had come to an end, to take up the banner of responsibility and settled life. And it was certainly an option. However I find that I now have a skill-set that, although it doesn't exclude more traditional, corporate-esque employment, makes me ideally suited to doing something travel-related (I have some experience...). And so, having talked to a few friends in the industry I set about sending off CVs, filling out applications and attending various travel shows to see what I could get and where. Admittedly I had set about my endeavours a little late, as the recruiting season in Europe starts in October and it was January when I finally got round to facing the task in hand (Christmas and New Year were spent catching up with friends and returning to the bosom of my family). Nevertheless I managed to get a few nibbles at my enquiries and attended a number of interviews until I was offered a job with <a href="http://www.tucantravel.com/" target="_blank">Tucan Travel</a> to lead tours in southeastern Europe.* Luckily, for both Tucan and myself, it was a region I knew reasonably well and liked (the Balkan region is my favourite corner of Europe), so my main worry was to get a handle on the actual tour-leading. Usually as a rookie you get sent out on a tour with another, experienced leader to learn the ropes and see how things are done. Unfortunately that wasn't to be as the tour itinerary was new and my "training" consisted of tracing the route on my own and creating my own tour notes. But on the flipside I got to add my own imprint on the itinerary.</div>
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The initial tours went well and I enjoyed imparting my knowledge of the countries and enthusiasm for travel with my passengers. The job is certainly varied with no two days alike and the interaction with people a constant motivator. Of course it's not all chocolates and roses: I'm effectively at work 24/7 with next to no time between tours, and although most of my passengers are lovely people, there have been a few times when personalities have clashed. But that said, it is certainly one of the more enjoyable jobs that are out there - I just need to see when I return home in winter whether it is one that has the potential for sustaining a balanced life on the side ... but more on that in a later post.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikFWakSvl7IY0_dDKf5xkXbCmNOPr5xq5iQiuNZWvP1wiKBCg19_prPDLEhLza6mxudMNR1e9RFc2qn_s5rXyVYXMb_cJg0KWC9CkAwx6kFphGay26Huwv_ipbw2u1REokRfgKhg/s1600/P1060665.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikFWakSvl7IY0_dDKf5xkXbCmNOPr5xq5iQiuNZWvP1wiKBCg19_prPDLEhLza6mxudMNR1e9RFc2qn_s5rXyVYXMb_cJg0KWC9CkAwx6kFphGay26Huwv_ipbw2u1REokRfgKhg/s1600/P1060665.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Being a tour leader certainly has its perks as a job, including being able to have a golden eagle perch on your arm (and they're surprisingly big birds once they spread their wings) and calling it "work".</td></tr>
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Although my initial remit was for the one tour between Budapest and Istanbul, opportunities for diversification presented themselves and I got switched to tours from Moscow to Budapest, and then on a couple of Transmongolian tours. This is, I suppose, the greatest draw of the job: getting sent to places that you want to go to anyway, and getting paid for it. Russia in particular is notoriously difficult to travel in as an independent traveller thanks to the difficulty in getting visas and the system of foreigner registration, a hangover from the Cold War era where Big Brother was watching your every move (He still is). And although the Transmongolian has never been high on my List (for long journeys I think it'll take quite a bit to beat my Pacific traverse) I wasn't going to say no to the opportunity to revisit such a magical country that had gouged out its own niche in my travellers' heart.</div>
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But the reason for reason for today's post isn't to talk shop (workplace blogging is too full of potential pitfalls that I'd rather keep clear of it if possible). Instead I have just finished my penultimate tour in Saint Petersburg and have two weeks to get down to Budapest for the final tour of the season. Finally a little time to myself to travel as I'm used to, with all that that entails (none of this hotels and train tickets booked in advance malarkey). And looking at the map of Europe, between my two points lies a country that does its utmost not to make waves or be noticed: Belarus. Honestly, when was the last time you'd hear of Belarus in the news? Regularly described as the last remaining dictatorship in Europe the country has been ruled by Alexander Lukashenko for the past 20 years. The former director of a collective farm, easily recognisable by his distinctive moustache, has held the country in an iron grip, stamping out any and all dissent and maintaining many of the trappings of the Soviet period. Nevertheless all who visit it remark on the cleanliness and organisation of the country, as well as the surreal time-warp it seems to be stuck in. Obviously the truth is quite complex and I'm looking forward to seeing if any of it will make any sense to me.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPm5aYDRvH9YtIk0JPltZu2hB5uOkLlei9Z-GKhSeeKpW1Og07F780Q_h-o1UvJDif9nYrH4pdrztSZDJNMuqF62JIaVZYMJnlzUJGyrBTz1Mp_AbwqYAdMZ_lRr5zx46KqajH2A/s1600/DSCF0615+-+Copy-001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPm5aYDRvH9YtIk0JPltZu2hB5uOkLlei9Z-GKhSeeKpW1Og07F780Q_h-o1UvJDif9nYrH4pdrztSZDJNMuqF62JIaVZYMJnlzUJGyrBTz1Mp_AbwqYAdMZ_lRr5zx46KqajH2A/s1600/DSCF0615+-+Copy-001.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At $228 the Belarusian visa is easily the most expensive one I've ever had to pay for. Obviously they're not too interested in attracting the foreign tourist dollar.</td></tr>
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*In a strange twist of irony the only organised tour I have ever done, was back in 2004 as a naive youth setting off on my first proper individual trip in South America, with Tucan.Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903199424734773952noreply@blogger.com1Saint Petersburg, Russia59.9342802 30.33509860000003859.4248817 29.044205100000038 60.443678700000007 31.625992100000037tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7447699.post-27946232213999299592014-01-02T15:55:00.000+00:002014-02-04T16:05:59.095+00:00North America In 20 PhotosHere are a collection of 20 of my favourite photos from my travels through North America that didn't make it into the blog for whatever reason. I hope you like them.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxWUjslJpD4GPU2qtQcoNcxAQQYml6i_8GsKYnZTfIu6Ba2AI-TG8nJGyLWsUXY5c7ziKqkMLZkKa7-8zzTX7oiIa48AY7TZ2XsbUY8W2Q6Ecda9UIk6j-2Q46pgbUzrmNZ1uDbQ/s1600/DSCF2796.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxWUjslJpD4GPU2qtQcoNcxAQQYml6i_8GsKYnZTfIu6Ba2AI-TG8nJGyLWsUXY5c7ziKqkMLZkKa7-8zzTX7oiIa48AY7TZ2XsbUY8W2Q6Ecda9UIk6j-2Q46pgbUzrmNZ1uDbQ/s1600/DSCF2796.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The variegated leaves of undergrowth shrubs in the cloud forest of Panama.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeP4Eoo4Jb_Ud9SagSgMGiD9ZmpN1bi1Rjcoq0O0rEEyyl7lHd5ppaaG4gf9F4SeBfX2SzkQmKgwuo-wqiEtZIneXY1VSizh32O7bvMcuvBQ4pZu2OnWlMz1qqnyo1Up8K4CeDdA/s1600/DSCF3047.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeP4Eoo4Jb_Ud9SagSgMGiD9ZmpN1bi1Rjcoq0O0rEEyyl7lHd5ppaaG4gf9F4SeBfX2SzkQmKgwuo-wqiEtZIneXY1VSizh32O7bvMcuvBQ4pZu2OnWlMz1qqnyo1Up8K4CeDdA/s1600/DSCF3047.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Family off on a cycle trip in Nicaragua. A very efficient use of limited resources.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_ZSgMytbNMr92qAYhFQQFcTRZ5qRlYR3FmSPjybpaBxQFKhuPcmJkUvNrhKUATWR7H1FOS1fPTRIx7PXqrww89a-5-Rij1x8kgXJoh67CRIBWNbehGiUAM-3TAW6NuzG2Eji0FQ/s1600/DSCF3374.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_ZSgMytbNMr92qAYhFQQFcTRZ5qRlYR3FmSPjybpaBxQFKhuPcmJkUvNrhKUATWR7H1FOS1fPTRIx7PXqrww89a-5-Rij1x8kgXJoh67CRIBWNbehGiUAM-3TAW6NuzG2Eji0FQ/s1600/DSCF3374.JPG" height="400" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grumpy face from an old Mayan relief carving in Copan. He really does not look happy.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD5OJaPLG6yLJL-djj30mRCspuzt5QkQmExXvn_FFT-V4_M4ywu2-oXPidc8W0x-OfA8dyZ4oZPo3kx0Tq2gWDXFlXWWYHXx7V-nsrNciGWwUjxqUKrklnHZMEvFahKUbuyVEgSg/s1600/DSCF3517.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD5OJaPLG6yLJL-djj30mRCspuzt5QkQmExXvn_FFT-V4_M4ywu2-oXPidc8W0x-OfA8dyZ4oZPo3kx0Tq2gWDXFlXWWYHXx7V-nsrNciGWwUjxqUKrklnHZMEvFahKUbuyVEgSg/s1600/DSCF3517.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Political opinions vary across the world. In Latin America (here in Guatemala) left-wing populists such as Chavez are very popular.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm9CET_cLmUVTW3wrYiV_zqx7Ns3YO_nto0bZSk1bxO4IuSiQhc43Wr1dc5XfN_bY1sfPlVi7iSgQ8zsTeclagVkmVv6onx8RUTrzsA_LQML2ZH4Tysr3NmK2DqDa8seOq9UNe0A/s1600/DSCF3554.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm9CET_cLmUVTW3wrYiV_zqx7Ns3YO_nto0bZSk1bxO4IuSiQhc43Wr1dc5XfN_bY1sfPlVi7iSgQ8zsTeclagVkmVv6onx8RUTrzsA_LQML2ZH4Tysr3NmK2DqDa8seOq9UNe0A/s1600/DSCF3554.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Two Mayan ladies walking in the street in Antigua.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-oiouvAmosiV3PqCEPp8lwGdurmTShWFdSp8mCGI11qWrH9QAlQAPsPwFZ9-tFvP4em_biPOyjmChFCr8JKpqtZonMbeJuUq90vZVfx0KzMVza1a_g1lAx-Ux4NmmAAT6K1PbaA/s1600/DSCF3689.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-oiouvAmosiV3PqCEPp8lwGdurmTShWFdSp8mCGI11qWrH9QAlQAPsPwFZ9-tFvP4em_biPOyjmChFCr8JKpqtZonMbeJuUq90vZVfx0KzMVza1a_g1lAx-Ux4NmmAAT6K1PbaA/s1600/DSCF3689.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mayan lady manning her souvenir stall and already looking very bored at 10am.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcvTA8SdJRpCh-Hwuew9tN-Dr5ejTJzh79S741R0JtiZz-DGi_9X4bc0BYXknVfXD7PLtWzpfWJs25xxnClLrmwFk8WkkUTi_p0oeR8Sfnurp46ltwKvd8RXYUYyIZwbNiroI8vg/s1600/S0023747.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcvTA8SdJRpCh-Hwuew9tN-Dr5ejTJzh79S741R0JtiZz-DGi_9X4bc0BYXknVfXD7PLtWzpfWJs25xxnClLrmwFk8WkkUTi_p0oeR8Sfnurp46ltwKvd8RXYUYyIZwbNiroI8vg/s1600/S0023747.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Now this is how you celebrate Independence Day! Giant communal water fights are the norm in Guatemala.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigVXihC-vn7rkXRvZN15Cd1SL0_wHBpN2SX-iA6qF_6KxPPl0an68p0R8p6ahVJ20zIHVbFv9JaYqM2KEI4AmReOTLAFfvtFe04X_Y8U1iaMc2uCByTx1kgqKPWNq5aemNZPuz7A/s1600/DSCF4116.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigVXihC-vn7rkXRvZN15Cd1SL0_wHBpN2SX-iA6qF_6KxPPl0an68p0R8p6ahVJ20zIHVbFv9JaYqM2KEI4AmReOTLAFfvtFe04X_Y8U1iaMc2uCByTx1kgqKPWNq5aemNZPuz7A/s1600/DSCF4116.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The mirror-calm surface of the Caribbean among the atolls of the Belize Barrier Reef.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6pj-ITYk9OVhYAAwb_w4fetPptPbhlbbHiAqCmvUQFknVHR-EZlriLHS-RQO24IS6oWtRa-rQcOvQAxdBQmKAX8Zf2F2la0OjYr1HCGoXwlzBvmJIm1URV6iIep-a3_JNNFgYlQ/s1600/DSCF4216.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6pj-ITYk9OVhYAAwb_w4fetPptPbhlbbHiAqCmvUQFknVHR-EZlriLHS-RQO24IS6oWtRa-rQcOvQAxdBQmKAX8Zf2F2la0OjYr1HCGoXwlzBvmJIm1URV6iIep-a3_JNNFgYlQ/s1600/DSCF4216.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The bane of every motorist in Mexico: topes!Seeing as Mexican drivers are not mindful of speed limitation signs they have to be persuaded to slow down more actively. There seems to be no law on the creation, dimensions or even signage of topes, so some may be tall whilst others flat, and some may be signed whilst others just seem to spring out of nowhere. Driving in Mexico is certainly interesting.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwYaJr39OtGJnwwSO9iIfx8RognDNnCOLRGBPp9aiJZ_9mNODpuchzt-6yoMUpcrBlSfJqhjRa-TFCXSEWVj529AweQ7RM4eWiVQRf-_0DJo16ptZCYTDNeyE8cUv52xA83JUVVQ/s1600/DSCF4220.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwYaJr39OtGJnwwSO9iIfx8RognDNnCOLRGBPp9aiJZ_9mNODpuchzt-6yoMUpcrBlSfJqhjRa-TFCXSEWVj529AweQ7RM4eWiVQRf-_0DJo16ptZCYTDNeyE8cUv52xA83JUVVQ/s1600/DSCF4220.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Houses in Veracruz state were often surrounded by large pools of water following the torrential rains they had had a couple of weeks previously.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4JnuGBMWk_JQhms7bSdE9IiJbid5lakEytJDLqqFRe00rSZBJDeHD1ZXMT_-JlBUKi05Cc5g05iQekDCLe1bI5E59jjf1tPzMHDh1Hbwy9rzqteviFpZQxCBQvMiKzRmOyFhAlg/s1600/DSCF4377.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4JnuGBMWk_JQhms7bSdE9IiJbid5lakEytJDLqqFRe00rSZBJDeHD1ZXMT_-JlBUKi05Cc5g05iQekDCLe1bI5E59jjf1tPzMHDh1Hbwy9rzqteviFpZQxCBQvMiKzRmOyFhAlg/s1600/DSCF4377.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Two urban cyclists in Cholula.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO818sAqyRXYaG9G6C_OMuHCwI1MJYzdEdtf64HXvavmv_xc2kyxSxDJjhglxs-FNf31-zEc29IgJbHLKDiaVa1IaV7GWF0jp7DGiVaNU78vXQQJgkDh5kWKcoZjEM-SxWVB0U_w/s1600/DSCF4606.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO818sAqyRXYaG9G6C_OMuHCwI1MJYzdEdtf64HXvavmv_xc2kyxSxDJjhglxs-FNf31-zEc29IgJbHLKDiaVa1IaV7GWF0jp7DGiVaNU78vXQQJgkDh5kWKcoZjEM-SxWVB0U_w/s1600/DSCF4606.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The impossibly narrow lanes of Taxco seemingly make the old centre off-limits to any car except VW Beeles.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIBsXZXzQOPzq35KilwhpVnk225-SQPfJx4At7_7WT6xnRoq7EdoKsTvKfAEeKpdTGPfFJtLp7dVYfSJ6O2FVtcwqhzM2-r68G_kHMBj12rOJC8EcQHWJ_uoV9ztTg6-iCCwaeSg/s1600/DSCF4716.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIBsXZXzQOPzq35KilwhpVnk225-SQPfJx4At7_7WT6xnRoq7EdoKsTvKfAEeKpdTGPfFJtLp7dVYfSJ6O2FVtcwqhzM2-r68G_kHMBj12rOJC8EcQHWJ_uoV9ztTg6-iCCwaeSg/s1600/DSCF4716.JPG" height="400" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A stolen kiss between young lovers in Taxco.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXzcqn0HVKDK2kl-0wkLMMxbvDwbZRH-cNyHKDtuEoFwwe0n_gJsLu_KAY7UtpFTnPSpoVuzCoUHniEZbJer7ypgg_9ats3zdM4IfHfv-4QmHZ5WWoOQVyYwI20nbq6MRHRCirjg/s1600/DSCF5179.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXzcqn0HVKDK2kl-0wkLMMxbvDwbZRH-cNyHKDtuEoFwwe0n_gJsLu_KAY7UtpFTnPSpoVuzCoUHniEZbJer7ypgg_9ats3zdM4IfHfv-4QmHZ5WWoOQVyYwI20nbq6MRHRCirjg/s1600/DSCF5179.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Local kids playing in the bed of a pick-up in by the abandoned mining building in Pozos.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7e4YXcePNYH7fzLL8rGag8JevWmAoggnTA1Yj8T2Nrx1u0iEjnqEiVwA3yiIGNr4AN2ikAusXjU7ZPtHVbp4kNE78LknL30fr19slkOxsfmwb6dHhKMDgfZVZx287x1srb3e64Q/s1600/DSCF5260.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7e4YXcePNYH7fzLL8rGag8JevWmAoggnTA1Yj8T2Nrx1u0iEjnqEiVwA3yiIGNr4AN2ikAusXjU7ZPtHVbp4kNE78LknL30fr19slkOxsfmwb6dHhKMDgfZVZx287x1srb3e64Q/s1600/DSCF5260.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The ridiculously fantastical stuccowork on the facades of a church in the Sierra Gorda mountains of Queretaro state, Mexico.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMGuUgLYi3Zoj_CwAk8yH9rP4tubS3LUXEh0658LR_JuY9yQis1rXhDw5UVf2EFgJFF3Ukn4vO0-FCzYqTGV0mLHNpw7dsASQIeNcRQFHpsZ38SHgSeyI6pQ3r29DRrpGToAqC2Q/s1600/DSCF5845.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMGuUgLYi3Zoj_CwAk8yH9rP4tubS3LUXEh0658LR_JuY9yQis1rXhDw5UVf2EFgJFF3Ukn4vO0-FCzYqTGV0mLHNpw7dsASQIeNcRQFHpsZ38SHgSeyI6pQ3r29DRrpGToAqC2Q/s1600/DSCF5845.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of m favourite pieces of urban art because it is both very funny, but also subtly unobtrusive (Des Moines).</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH4_f-1Z8Mp5f5j4vs20ohMZvgwY6Dpkn3LWa6JyZZz_UZXjNSMruz4vldW3yKgO6dWp9K4nmVb-dhddIoWBZQ2UsDZQ5vzrmCxqsB_P-c1HJ2E3HqL6l_nw6ToCcPr-O9dpyt4A/s1600/DSCF6227.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH4_f-1Z8Mp5f5j4vs20ohMZvgwY6Dpkn3LWa6JyZZz_UZXjNSMruz4vldW3yKgO6dWp9K4nmVb-dhddIoWBZQ2UsDZQ5vzrmCxqsB_P-c1HJ2E3HqL6l_nw6ToCcPr-O9dpyt4A/s1600/DSCF6227.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Inside the old post office building in Gary.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc1vjr5e13svCt4rjsB2wgKsTuE4RXKm48NBLZYS7VWHtIBFVGrdNnMerd6Lj3GDkpeQQ7h1wGuIW6p9eJ_YyYdavY2fR8un1bB1i5feHcQXLcgvhNgxDi3xsAf0dMlLp96rErqQ/s1600/DSCF6353.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc1vjr5e13svCt4rjsB2wgKsTuE4RXKm48NBLZYS7VWHtIBFVGrdNnMerd6Lj3GDkpeQQ7h1wGuIW6p9eJ_YyYdavY2fR8un1bB1i5feHcQXLcgvhNgxDi3xsAf0dMlLp96rErqQ/s1600/DSCF6353.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A stage inside the decrepit and decaying main church in Gary. All was falling apart, except for the green, leather chair, sitting unabashedly right in the centre.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOii4i-GcF6NqK0TxieVpHn-1SfhXboiF4EPn2umhlZXpWtyoYM87xgjaQ_GZPiLWcS097eXBf3PH6n94Xs0zLs4ZIjbyqZv-6nIUXB2EiS8KNXkJ-hZbCd28BNgFJr3-6WDhuSg/s1600/DSCF6831.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOii4i-GcF6NqK0TxieVpHn-1SfhXboiF4EPn2umhlZXpWtyoYM87xgjaQ_GZPiLWcS097eXBf3PH6n94Xs0zLs4ZIjbyqZv-6nIUXB2EiS8KNXkJ-hZbCd28BNgFJr3-6WDhuSg/s1600/DSCF6831.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Morning mists and reflections on Lake Otsego by Cooperstown.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJjGeuIJ1Zn_NhQ1kSWgQOc4vFhVICqExPPK_Ko-Yo9-MqcdFxQMH12sYdlkxNr4sSlj4IdAhbBv182ZGUfjwulga_mT1bzeIt5TIgCcw2O6TTEHZj2Ad2DIlKDrP3mPuiHy0cqA/s1600/DSCF6981.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJjGeuIJ1Zn_NhQ1kSWgQOc4vFhVICqExPPK_Ko-Yo9-MqcdFxQMH12sYdlkxNr4sSlj4IdAhbBv182ZGUfjwulga_mT1bzeIt5TIgCcw2O6TTEHZj2Ad2DIlKDrP3mPuiHy0cqA/s1600/DSCF6981.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Waiting for my train to come. A subway station somewhere in Brooklyn.</td></tr>
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Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903199424734773952noreply@blogger.com1North America54.5259614 -105.25511870000003-18.8897046 89.510506299999975 90 59.979256299999975tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7447699.post-57243922656884052972013-12-17T10:31:00.000+00:002014-01-23T08:53:33.221+00:00Back For Breakfast<div style="text-align: justify;">
My last days in America heralded the coming of winter, with heavy snowfalls and freezing temperatures. On the one hand I was glad, as low temperatures mean more layers of clothing, which in turn leads to a lighter backpack. However that does not help balance out the discomfort of colder and shorter days. Plus I had reached the end of the road on the American continent. The only way was back to Europe. It was time to go home. Not that this was a decision that had pounced on me suddenly out of the blue. In fact I had already decided a year before that I would be home for Christmas 2013, and was sticking to my plans.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU23XRIP_iUJY3ZyKtJ1ktHgg-x_QWecG0k49u8ZhMYVPGYGVzp1etg3St7DBFO3RzrfSSH7YTGMa1D1zFjmxUmxOkFCuAOQHPAgEeV4s0moCPwF_f9lutiiWPkNDaBCqwLjT1BQ/s1600/DSCF7192.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU23XRIP_iUJY3ZyKtJ1ktHgg-x_QWecG0k49u8ZhMYVPGYGVzp1etg3St7DBFO3RzrfSSH7YTGMa1D1zFjmxUmxOkFCuAOQHPAgEeV4s0moCPwF_f9lutiiWPkNDaBCqwLjT1BQ/s1600/DSCF7192.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My only possessions (apart from my backpack) to have survived the entire, 45 month circumnavigation: my sleeping bag, my sleeping bag liner, a base layer shirt, my Czech passport, comb, razor and my toothbrush.</td></tr>
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It was definitely the right choice. Not because I was getting tired of the travelling, or disliking it, far from it. But it is important to realise that there are other things in life as well, and that to have a properly rounded life you shouldn't devote all your energies to a single facet of your self to the neglect of all others. Otherwise you risk becoming one-dimensional person. I have met a fair few long-term travellers, in their 40's and 50's and, although fascinating and interesting people, I feel they are lacking something in their lives. I do not want to get that way, and feel that the time is now right for devoting myself to something else. For, despite the attractions and innumerable benefits of travel, for the mind, the soul, the karma, it is also a drug, and one that is deceptively addictive. It's time for me to go cold turkey before I pass the point of no return and turn into some vagabond hippie.</div>
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The overland thing didn't work out unfortunately. To book a sea passage you have to be able to plan and commit quite far in advance, something I wasn't able to do. And so instead I turned up at JFK international by subway; went through the typically paranoid American security screening; waited patiently in line at the boarding gate; made my way to my seat, stowed my bags under the seat in front; endured the safety demonstration; stayed awake until the complimentary meal; dozed for a few hours; and woke up in a new continent. A far cry, and altogether less exciting, from turning up at a deserted border crossing, being told it's closed, and spending the night in an army barracks (thank you East Timor). On the other hand it allowed me to return home quickly and surprise my mother by turning up at her apartment, unannounced on her birthday.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1ABH4ByN-9snNJw0W8dLZUjhM6vvJZcZSHwOjG_obDEVeOBejSx_qhI8pYUayL_8qdfHdKjLtx5PF3e4qAucFZ-ATyZ3lp7bkSpurAmqRnIJiC5YtV81qU8C_6vrsQoU8NBtvOQ/s1600/DSCF7191.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1ABH4ByN-9snNJw0W8dLZUjhM6vvJZcZSHwOjG_obDEVeOBejSx_qhI8pYUayL_8qdfHdKjLtx5PF3e4qAucFZ-ATyZ3lp7bkSpurAmqRnIJiC5YtV81qU8C_6vrsQoU8NBtvOQ/s1600/DSCF7191.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The whole family together for the first time in 4 years.</td></tr>
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Perhaps a damp squib of an ending to an epic journey, but maybe that's because we are led to expect fireworks-heralded tidy conclusions. Life, however, goes on, oblivious to my little dramas and achievements, and so must I. There are a myriad things I need to do, most of them mundane, as I readjust to a more sedentary life: rationalising my possessions, disposing of the chaff; going through a 4-year backlog of paperwork (despite my mother and brother helping take care of various bureaucratic necessities whilst I was away, I still had a crate of letters to sift through waiting for me); reconnecting with friends; and, perhaps most important of all, deciding on where to go from here. For my generation the possibilities and options are so rich and varied that making a choice becomes bewildering. I imagine (or perhaps hope) though that by next February I should have a better idea of where I'm headed.</div>
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A new adventure awaits!</div>
Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903199424734773952noreply@blogger.com1London, UK51.511213899999987 -0.1198243999999704151.195100899999986 -0.7652713999999704 51.827326899999989 0.52562260000002958tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7447699.post-38995980710770895922013-12-08T20:14:00.000+00:002014-01-08T08:23:36.383+00:00Not The Home Of The Braves<div style="text-align: justify;">
From Montreal it was due south to New York, my last stop, not just in America, but of the entire trip. It was strange for me to be thinking about being back home after so long on the road, so I decided not to think about it and instead concentrate on exploring New York. For many New York <i>is</i> America. Its dominance, both economical and cultural, is unparallelled. Its locales made famous from innumerable Hollywood films: Times Square, Wall Street, the Brooklyn Bridge, the Statue of Liberty, Fifth Avenue, the brownstones of Greenwich Village, the Empire State Building, and Central Park are as well known to people from Panama to Peshawar as much as they are to the populace of Pensacola. I had, actually, been there before, way back in 2001, as a young student on my summer holidays (ah, how innocence fades) and was interested to see how I would see it with more jaded eyes.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Manhattan's exclusive 5th Avenue looking uncharacteristically empty on a Sunday morning.</td></tr>
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I had, therefore, already seen the "major sights". I'd gawked at the lights of Times Square, I'd been up the World Trade Centre (and was not planning to visit the memorial plaza that has been built as, from what I have heard, the queues and security checks are deeply onerous), and I'd pounded the corridors of my fair share of museums and galleries. One sight, however, that I neglected to pay my respects to when I was first here, was Lady Liberty. And so I decided to rectify the omission this time around. Ironically, for many immigrants to America, she would have been one of the first things they would have seen of their new home, whereas for me it would be one of the last. The statue and nearby, associated, Ellis Island (Ellis Island was where the immigrant processing centre was located. A centre which saw over 12 million people passing through its doors during its 32 years of operation.) have a unique place not just in the American psyche, but also the myth of the creation of modern America. A myth of unbounded freedom, opportunity, justice. A myth that is played to and reinforced during a visit to the statue and the immigration museum on Ellis Island.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lady Liberty looking more glum and wet than proud and majestic.</td></tr>
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For example, during the audio tour of Liberty Island you are deluged with a bombastic panegyric to the statue, how its noble face and broken shackles inspire generations, how it is a symbol of all America stands for. But they fail to mention that Frédéric Bartholdi, the French sculptor of the statue, initially planned for it to be located at the mouth of the newly dug Suez Canal, a testament to the African continent. The Egyptian <i>khedive</i> (ruler) thought the idea smacked too much of European imperialism and refused, and so Bartholdi had to make do with America, his second choice. The idea that America is somehow second-best goes counter to the ideas of Manifest Destiny and American Exceptionalism that are central to the American psyche. The few Americans I did mention this oft-overlooked trivia morsel seemed to take it as a personal affront.</div>
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Over on Ellis Island the picture portrayed by the museum was a little more nuanced. As well as the standard tales of Europeans fleeing war, strife and famine caused by the dogma and ossification of the Old Ways, there were nods to the many West African slaves* that were forcibly brought over, and even a panel or two to the Native American tribes. And it is the latter that interested me the most. In the great American narrative the indigenous population are conspicuous by their absence. Although they evenly inhabited the entire continent from coast to coast they appear but a couple of times in great sweep of American history: first they are kind and helpful, being instrumental in the survival of the Pilgrim Fathers; and then almost nothing for another 250 years when the cowboys have to see off those pesky, savage injuns, who are rustling their livestock and threatening poor farmers. Throughout my travels through the States I had barely seen a single memorial, museum or plaque to the native population, their only tangible legacy being in local place names: Arkansas, Oklahoma, Mississippi, Michigan and Illinois are all Indian names. It seems especially ironic given the American penchant for commemorating any historical event, no matter how minor. But I suppose nobody likes being reminded of their genocidal past and how their prosperity is built on a foundation of misery, suffering, deceit and theft on a colossal scale. And I do not use the word genocide lightly, for that is, in essence, what the treatment of the indigenous population amounted to, as I have discovered whilst researching this blog post (a distressing experience, as every incident I learn about makes me simultaneously sad and angry; angry especially because it is not known, and instead ignominiously swept under the carpet of collective consciousness).</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The assessment hall on Ellis Island, through which millions of immigrants to America passed on their way to a new life.</td></tr>
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When the first settlers came they were in a position of weakness. They didn't know the land, and so they acted peacefully to the friendly locals who helped them out, signing treaties of friendship and non-aggression. As time passed more settlers came and the desire for more land and resources grew. The settlers, now more powerful, thought it more expedient to break their treaties and drive out their erstwhile allies than to keep their word. They were, at the end of the day, only heathen savages. And so the Native Americans were pushed ever further westwards until it was agreed that the Indians should be removed from American territory altogether and granted the land west of the Mississippi. George Washington had proposed that if the Indians were to adopt European ways they could be integrated into American society. The Cherokee, Choctaw, Creek, Seminole and Chickasaw took him at his word, adopting European farming practices, European education, European houses, Christianity, and even fought alongside American troops in the war of 1812. They thought they were sorted and that the Americans' words of friendship and equality would be honoured. They had failed, however, to count on the duplicitous nature of American. In the 44 years from 1786 to 1830 the Choctaws signed nine different treaties with America, which whittled their territory in and around the modern state of Mississippi from the size of Iceland down to nothing. The last treaty, of 1830, finally booted the Choctaw off their ancestral lands and west across the Mississippi to present-day Oklahoma, which was set aside as Indian Territory "in perpetuity" (which in American legal parlance, when dealing with minorities, seems to mean about 20 years). The 15,000-strong Choctaw nation was forced to walk 500km to their new homes. One in six died along the way.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I couldn't find any memorials to Native Americans, so instead I'll offer you a photo of the memorial dedicated to merchant seamen, many of whom died in WWII. The beauty of the sculpture is that at high tide the man in the water is almost totally submerged so that all that you can see is his outstretched hand.</td></tr>
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Seeing what a wonderful method this was to get rid of undesirables, President Jackson (who is on the $20 bill), enacted laws to remove the remaining tribes by fair means or foul (though usually foul). And so followed the Creek, the Cherokee, the Seminole and the Chickasaw along what they would call the Trail of Tears. The Cherokee, still believing in the White Man' system, took their case to the Supreme Court to fight their forced expulsion. Interestingly the court found in their favour and so the government went through with their removal anyway. If this is what happened to the tribes that the Americans deemed "civilised" then one can only imagine the contempt with which the Plains Indians were treated</div>
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A shame I had to learn most of this through online digging. I think that if many of these topics were more openly emphasised then America(ns) might have more humility, rather than simply appropriating their names to sell cars and sports merchandise. (I wonder what the few remaining Indians think of their cultures' names being used to promote products that are so completely antithetical to them.) But I seem to have strayed off topic somewhat. New York, the Big Apple. Having ticked off my big ticket sight, I set about discovering for myself some of the smaller, more homely curiosities that the city has to offer. Having spent years living in London I've come to realise that it's its little nooks and crannies and grotty little neighbourhoods that fascinate me most. So off it was to the Upper West Side and Yonkers to slake my thirst for obscura. Up in the northern corner of Manhattan is The Cloisters - part of the Metropolitan museum, a recreated medieval monastery incorporating actually Romanesque and Gothic stonework from French and Spanish. Add to that choral chants and it's a world away from the bustle just hundreds of metres away. From there you can walk along the Hudson shore to the George Washington Bridge, which shelters the cute little Jeffrey's Hook Lighthouse, known affectionately as the Little Red Lighthouse. It was meant to be torn down in the 50's, but due to its starring role in a children's book the kids of New York mobilised to save it.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Little Red Lighthouse, hiding under the George Washington Bridge. It's so unassuming and tucked away that many New Yorkers don't know of its existence.</td></tr>
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And if you, dear traveller, were to cross north out of Manhattan you would come to the New York borough of the Bronx (interesting fact: the Bronx is the only New York borough not to be on island). And if you were to continue further north, along the Hudson river, you would come to the town of Yonkers. Pleasant commuter-belt neighbourhoods, a sizeable Irish community. Yadda, yadda, yadda. My reason for visiting Yonkers stemmed once again from my interest in urban vestiges. A hundred years ago America saw the rise of the robber barons and a class of super-rich that hadn't been seen before. Unlike today's mega-rich, many of them had some sort of social conscience and funded numerous philanthropic projects. One such man was Samuel Untermeyer, who made his money as a lawyer, who opened up his lavish gardens every month to the public for them to enjoy. Upon his death he bequeathed them to the nation. Unfortunately the American government isn't very good with the concept of public goods and the gardens were passed around until they ended up being given to the city of Yonkers ... who didn't have the funds to look after them. A small portion of the gardens are still maintained, but the rest are now overgrown ruins overlooking the Hudson, with the added feature of having authentic ancient Roman ruins (Untermeyer had had them shipped over to decorate his garden).</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A row of original Corinthian columns, lost in a sea of weeds on the banks of the Hudson river. The to-overlooked Untermeyer Park.</td></tr>
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Whilst ambling through the slightly muddy and deserted grounds I spotted a gazebo (marked on the little handy map as the Temple of Love) and went over to investigate. Rounding the corner I surprised an embracing couple. I was about to apologise and leave when the guy said that it was OK, and if I could take some photos of them. I was about to say "?" when I noticed the rose petals on the ground, the garlands of plastic flowers, and, in case I hadn't got the message, a home-made banner with the words "Will You Marry Me". Judging by their smiles I guessed the answer. And so, by pure serendipity, I got to help record a very special moment for Matt and Kristina and hear about Matt's proposal preparations ("<i>Hey Kristina, do you want to go out for a walk?</i>", "<i>But I'm cleaning the bathroom.</i>", "<i>It'll only take a few minutes.</i>", "<i>I've started scrubbing the floor already.</i>" He made it sound so romantic.). The reflected glow from their happiness gave me a smile for the rest of the day.</div>
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As if that wasn't enough, a little further down the river is the Yonkers power station. Built at the turn of the last century to power the Hudson railway it soon became obsolete as larger, more efficient plants sprung up. It was finally mothballed in the early 60's since when it has diligently sat there gathering dust and graffiti tags. Whereas other urban power stations around the world have been gentrified into museums, shopping malls and apartments, the Yonkers plant has remained in purgatory, despite its privileged location by the river. But I didn't mind as it gave me a chance to see if I could still climb walls and disregard No Trespassing signs. Yes and yes as it turned out. Power stations are the cathedrals of the industrial age, their lofty turbine halls naves, and the ever-present graffiti frescoes. A perfect place to visit on a Sunday (also because there are no workmen on the site to shout at you for trespassing).</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Yonkers power station with its majestic riverside location.</td></tr>
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New York, New York. Not sure I want to be a part of it, but definitely don't mind stopping over to visit.</div>
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*I find the way the story of African slavery in the Americas is told in the US to be far too vague and imprecise. For a start the origins of the slaves is often reduced to the single word Africa. It is the second-largest continent in the world with incredible human diversity. Whilst the slaves brought to North America all came from a small part of it, namely the coast from Senegal to Nigeria, and its hinterlands. The difference between a Senegalese Wolof and a Kalahari Bushman, in terms of ethnicity culture and customs are far greater than those between, say a Portuguese and a Russian, yet we are far more likely to make the distinction between the latter than the former. Also the figure of 12 million slaves brought over is the most bandied about, yet of those, barely more than 5% were destined for what is today the USA (most ended up in Brazil).</div>
Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903199424734773952noreply@blogger.com1New York, NY, USA40.7143528 -74.005973140.3291648 -74.65142010000001 41.0995408 -73.3605261tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7447699.post-4688601584068317152013-12-02T19:15:00.000+00:002013-12-25T19:21:39.150+00:00The Real Melting Pot<div style="text-align: justify;">
America is famous for being a melting pot of ethnicities and cultures. And it is true that it is a nation of immigrants from all corners of the earth who have come, throughout the past few hundred years to escape persecution, gain an education, live in peace, and work towards a better life for themselves. Americans will regale you with details of their ethnic stock (one sixteenth Sioux, another English, one quarter Irish, one quarter Polak, and three eighths Chinese) and proudly proclaim that they are African-, German-, Chinese-, Italian- or Irish-American despite a complete lack of connection to this <i>urheimat</i> except for dressing in green once a year during Saint Patrick's Day, a penchant for sweet and sour stir fry, or a little more rhythm than your average citizen. Canada must be just the same, right?</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">"I am Canadian!" Canadians are quick to distinguish themselves from their southern neighbours. This beer add humourously captures these differences in a proud ode to Canadia. (Just a shame the beer itself is so bad.)</span></div>
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America's colder neighbour to the north is more unobtrusive on the stage of world consciousness, being less prone to self-aggrandisement and chest-beating. Or it may just be that Canadians are so easily mistaken for Americans, something that they take great umbrage to. Whilst backpacking Canadians are easy to spot as they invariably have a maple leaf flag conspicuously embroidered on their bags so as to say "I'm not American, please don't treat me like an ignorant Yankee gringo" (a minority of American travellers even try to pass themselves off as Canadian since global opinion is more favourable towards them). Nevertheless they share a similarly eclectic, immigrant stock. Nowhere is this more evident than in Toronto, Canada's largest city, where half the population is foreign-born. On paper then, this ought to be a carbon-copy of a large, US city: from their dress, accents, speech, urban surroundings, Canadians are indistinguishable from Americans. And yet there is no risk of making such a mistake here.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I just can't stop going to cemeteries. The Mont Royale cemetery in Montreal is a perfect display of Canada's multi-ethnic makeup: along with French and English surnames you can easily spot Polish, Italian, Hungarian, Lithuanian, Czech, Croatian, German, Jewish, Chinese and plenty of others besides.</td></tr>
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Just standing in a Toronto mall watching people walk past as they do their shopping (whilst waiting to get a Canadian SIM card), I noticed that while the variety of visible ethnicities was similar to Chicago and my memories of New York, the mixing was more complete and thorough. White, oriental, black, brown, Middle Eastern; the combinations and permutations were limitless. And everyone was decidedly middle-class. No gangster-chic for the black youth or pretentious hipsterism for the whites. Everyone is Canadian without the need for some qualifying adjective.And this is where Canada quietly succeeds where America lamely limps along. The Canadian government actively promotes its multiculturalism both in its constitution and through the subsidy of weekend schools for its minority groups so that they may preserve their languages and culture, whereas in America immigrant, minority communities are left pretty much to their own devices. Paradoxically the fostering of different cultures seems to bind people closer together and make them more tolerant and curious of each others' customs because they realise that cultural identity is not a zero-sum game: it's possible for multiple cultural allegiances to coexist within a person without either being diminished. I went to a birthday party in Toronto (which, in uniquely Canadian fashion, was combined with watching an ice hockey game) where the host was Chinese, but the guests included Canadians of Iranian, Indian, Haitian, Irish, English, and quite probably other, descent. Yet all were united in their support of the Toronto Maple Leafs and condemnation of Rob Ford (except for one guy - there's always one - who liked to play devil's advocate).</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpXO03IFho9qYXckqAL5ibFU-ntWmgT8mMEw-MA-5T0HY0Ap3ouPF9tLCM1jnD3f-jlqo2SUkBrkP6Ocfg53wnC31bdgzjAriadQYbzpZdkY4spXV6cXZMJtLvcP9t_LU85boj5A/s1600/DSCF6654.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpXO03IFho9qYXckqAL5ibFU-ntWmgT8mMEw-MA-5T0HY0Ap3ouPF9tLCM1jnD3f-jlqo2SUkBrkP6Ocfg53wnC31bdgzjAriadQYbzpZdkY4spXV6cXZMJtLvcP9t_LU85boj5A/s400/DSCF6654.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I generally plan my travels so as to avoid unpleasant weather conditions. Unfortunately I was unable to avoid Canada's cold and snow. Here Ottawa's famous Rideau Canal is beginning to freeze over. In a few weeks it will be solidly frozen and used as a communal skating rink.</td></tr>
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Of course I may wax lyrical about Canada's wonderful cultural tolerance, but that doesn't mean that it doesn't have its own problems. There is still a divide between the French and English-speaking halves of the country, though the Quebecois calls for secession are not as forceful as they used to be, and the populations are beginning to bleed into each other (in nominally anglophone Ottawa you're just as likely to hear French as English, whilst the same is true of francophone Montreal). And whilst I had no great desire to visit Montreal itself, I was long looking forward to going there for two reasons. Firstly I had hardly made use of my French skills during this entire trip and thought I really ought to dust off my francais; and secondly, the paths of two people I had met during the course of my trip had brought them to Montreal (McGill university is world-renowned, even though its classes are mainly in English). Due to my peripatetic lifestyle I have many friends all over the world, but it also means that I am rarely in the same location they are, and therefore if I am somewhat close geographically I will make the effort to try and meet up. And so, in a beautiful illustration of today's interconnected, globalised world, I reconnected with Meltem, who is Turkish, and Yi/Adele (I like how Chinese people often choose English names for themselves), before the cold got too much for me and I headed south back to America, for the last leg of my trip.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhnfRBzsGvUZ-IplpYNmnqW7yjfRyk3E8fUwZFZGmtJvVIIn1wYxAJhcKudJ_M9EPYiMhQ7zyQ-hTkwxQd40wt_imQAW-iE0yU68sVxvOSRoYda-ivqEydlQykMe8tPpjyq90hvQ/s1600/DSCF6713.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhnfRBzsGvUZ-IplpYNmnqW7yjfRyk3E8fUwZFZGmtJvVIIn1wYxAJhcKudJ_M9EPYiMhQ7zyQ-hTkwxQd40wt_imQAW-iE0yU68sVxvOSRoYda-ivqEydlQykMe8tPpjyq90hvQ/s400/DSCF6713.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Canada's greatest "contribution" to world cuisine: poutine. Chips drenched in gravy and topped with cheese curds. It may not be the most sophisticated of foods, but's hearty and filling, and just what you need on a cold, winter day. With Lee and my good friend Adele, who I met whilst in Taiwan.</td></tr>
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Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903199424734773952noreply@blogger.com0Toronto, ON, Canada43.653226 -79.38318429999998243.285985999999994 -80.028631299999986 44.020466 -78.737737299999978tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7447699.post-74408187054563808952013-11-23T18:28:00.000+00:002014-01-08T08:45:08.342+00:00Rusty<div style="text-align: justify;">
That America is the richest country in the world is well known. It manifests itself in towering skyscrapers, the car culture, its gargantuan military, its army of labour-saving devices, the dominance of Wall Street and American corporations throughout the globe, and, of course, the American Dream. Convenience is king, and, if you have a decent job, life is comfortable and easy. This big, bold brashness is evident in Chicago, the Windy City, and acknowledged capital of the Midwest. Lazily sprawling westwards from the shores of lake Michigan, the skyscrapers of the Loop (the central business district). Indeed, although may think of New York and Manhattan when talking of skyscrapers, it actually Chicago that is the spiritual home and birthplace of the skyscraper. The first steel-framed skyscrapers were built there; the revolutionary tubular design that allowed even taller, more efficient towers was developed there; and of course it is also home to the Sears (aka Willis) Tower, which, up until recently, was the tallest building in the Americas.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3YkI5tWnbllM4oo7AVsbbjJtNQ4QWRFCXlAjLAIyXt8VoGPasH8GTgaZ2eWl2vV3OwcrstaySKQeBwhyphenhyphen8zvd77J9AY4thyOzqeYI06FSHHGYr1syZ-5-WiE_ew93Lj0a5MKsuzA/s1600/DSCF6077.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3YkI5tWnbllM4oo7AVsbbjJtNQ4QWRFCXlAjLAIyXt8VoGPasH8GTgaZ2eWl2vV3OwcrstaySKQeBwhyphenhyphen8zvd77J9AY4thyOzqeYI06FSHHGYr1syZ-5-WiE_ew93Lj0a5MKsuzA/s640/DSCF6077.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The lakefront skyline of Chicago with its huddle of skyscrapers.</td></tr>
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The rivalry with New York for prominence extends to sports, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n8IKxbOpt0E" target="_blank">cuisine</a>, nicknames (which is best, Big Apple or Windy City?), as well as museums and cultural amenities. Chicago is big, it's loud, it's confident, it has chutzpah, and it doesn't care what anyone else says. World-class museums, globally recognised sports teams, their very own nickname. As the hub of the country's rail network and gateway to the west it has always been a magnet for newcomers, and boasts an ethnic diversity that rivals that of New York (Chicagoans would like to believe that they <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n8IKxbOpt0E" target="_blank">rival New York</a> in many other respects). Whatever your ethnicity or culture, there's a neighbourhood for you: Mexican, Polish, Chinese, Salvadorean, Greek, Ethiopian, Arabic, Italian, Russian and many more besides. If you want to you can buy maize torillas, <i>pierogi</i>, <i>baozi</i>, <i>pupusas</i>, kalamata olives, tef flour, <i>ful</i>, good prosciutto, and <i>kvas,</i> without having to leave the city, or even talk any English, in the myriad ethnic grocery stores that bring the world to the Midwest. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMM0CfOdjgXu_bYfwR_FHRAcs8_8aBU3Dwi9gnRZNSc7dBTeF4Vq_eR1oOJrKR2yvfRn5PrQf3bbd4blyOCgwyIJ-mJ6csSDombtEPrUlZbaMEKMB0mZedxgOS5ZrA_ZNyYzZuwg/s1600/DSCF6168.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMM0CfOdjgXu_bYfwR_FHRAcs8_8aBU3Dwi9gnRZNSc7dBTeF4Vq_eR1oOJrKR2yvfRn5PrQf3bbd4blyOCgwyIJ-mJ6csSDombtEPrUlZbaMEKMB0mZedxgOS5ZrA_ZNyYzZuwg/s400/DSCF6168.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">For Poles in Chicago missing their weekly issue of <i>Moja Historia</i> do not fear, there are plenty of <i>Polski skleps</i> for you to get your regular fix.</td></tr>
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Chicago has been big enough, and diverse enough, to weather the storm that has charged through the northeast of America. The entire Great Lakes area used to be America's industrial heartland, churning out steel, meat products and cars in stupendous quantities. Used to be. For it is no more. First it was the packing plants that went, then the steel mills, and most recently the automobile factories. The region has become hollowed out, brittle, rusty; both metaphorically and actually. Detroit, Flint and Gary were once the heavy industrial cities that powered the American Century, but increasing costs and foreign competition have seen them become pale shadows of their once-glorious days. It was not for nothing that Detroit was called Motown, as all the Big 3 American car makers (Ford, General Motors and Chrysler) are headquartered there. At its peak in the 60's the city had a population in excess of two million. Several decades, superior Japanese cars and a few recessions later and the population has dropped to around 700,000 as the city's many factories and their blue-collar jobs fled to cheaper climes. For a country where cities already display a large degree of urban sprawl this has led to entire neighbourhoods that once had thriving communities to becoming desolate wastelands, where the few inhabited houses feel like post-apocalyptic fortresses fending off zombie hordes.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSLyPtTlG191pI2f4P3sz_xjXxZoPZ9n7x3tZxI_1gOqsAS3BKx9bAZWh7Q-GN1Nph3M78tgUFBMAUQBOm4xiWEkRzk226eiD-nJRMs4I86XYeSrfRvyNifZefohWawBGzRPR_7Q/s1600/DSCF6526.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSLyPtTlG191pI2f4P3sz_xjXxZoPZ9n7x3tZxI_1gOqsAS3BKx9bAZWh7Q-GN1Nph3M78tgUFBMAUQBOm4xiWEkRzk226eiD-nJRMs4I86XYeSrfRvyNifZefohWawBGzRPR_7Q/s400/DSCF6526.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The scarily abandoned central train station in Detroit.</td></tr>
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Now I've always been attracted stories and aspects of history that are brushed over or ignored because they do not fit in with the accepted narrative or are embarrassing. The bits They don't want you to know. Here in America that happens to be the flipside of the American Dream: the callous way society treats individuals who don't make it; the brutal bust to the burgeoning boom; and the ephemeral, transient quality to American life, as well as its urban fabric. From the vast, crumbling, factories that ring the city, such as Ford's old Packard plant; the grandiose office buildings downtown, built in solid, brutalist style, but now left empty; to the opulent theatre that is now nothing more than an indoor parking lot. Detroit is the poster child for urban decay in America, and the abandoned behemoth central train station is the iconic image. Unfortunately the building has recently been bought by a developer and access to the grand hall is denied. As is the case with most of Detroit's abandoned landmarks in the downtown area (although I did manage to persuade the guard on duty to let me have a quick look at the parking lot below).<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjURcoC3CWtIVhOfCqa0dJOjp8ueojfmfAznTpw6QORSNxb_JKuv6P4Klg1ynPWF1oiN0GlHXPUaqAcBAIbRirPv8HxRGQ6v5L1xST43oaUO9ft-Y6M4Xvn0qPGhEjm1dbVMsQOqw/s1600/DSCF6542.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjURcoC3CWtIVhOfCqa0dJOjp8ueojfmfAznTpw6QORSNxb_JKuv6P4Klg1ynPWF1oiN0GlHXPUaqAcBAIbRirPv8HxRGQ6v5L1xST43oaUO9ft-Y6M4Xvn0qPGhEjm1dbVMsQOqw/s400/DSCF6542.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Perhaps the world's grandest, but also saddest, parking lot. Once it was the Michigan Theater</td></tr>
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And whilst Detroit is in dire straits and has filed for bankruptcy, it still has a good deal going for it, including some world class museums, a respectable university, a surprisingly thriving arts scene, and a privileged position as a gateway to Canada. Gary, Indiana, on the other hand, has absolutely nothing going for it. Most famous as the hometown of Michael Jackson (as well as the rest of the Jackson 5), Gary was a one-industry town. Steel drove everything in town. It was even the steel company that founded it only 100 years ago, to serve the giant steel mills on the southern shore of lake Michigan. Like many corporate towns Gary was well-appointed, with quality amenities for the company workers. However the entire cycle of boom through to terminal bust lasted less than 100 years; a single person's lifetime. Nowhere exemplifies the term Rust Belt more than Gary (and it's use is particularly apt given that it's a town built on steel).<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDYQvaq1z4n5w27CWIeF7n7fj-uX6Adui8H3FkOSWlqPlVzxEbfG6S0yUn6TrBmZgUZkH0z6aqe7WrP6LBjQPEeMGPB6SNJnWfh-4li83rIbXQ4xOhheum4E633c3IJEJv_Is-eA/s1600/DSCF6239.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDYQvaq1z4n5w27CWIeF7n7fj-uX6Adui8H3FkOSWlqPlVzxEbfG6S0yUn6TrBmZgUZkH0z6aqe7WrP6LBjQPEeMGPB6SNJnWfh-4li83rIbXQ4xOhheum4E633c3IJEJv_Is-eA/s400/DSCF6239.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the joys of urban exploration is winkling out quirky, funny, and sometimes beautiful graffiti. Here inside the main post office building someone has sprayed the message "did you get my letter"(to which somebody appended the word bitch).</td></tr>
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During the course of this trip I've discovered that I'm not the only person to be attracted to newly abandoned ruins. Apparently it's called urban exploration and there are a plethora of <a href="http://detroiturbex.com/content/index.html" target="_blank">websites</a> with some absolutely <a href="http://desertedplaces.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">stunning photos</a>. And there are few places in the world where the pickings are so rich, or as easily accessible, for urban explorers as Gary. The centre of town is now home to numerous empty lots and abandoned buildings, but in Gary the city is too broke to even put fencing up around them. Buildings are just left where they are to slowly crumble to dust as the cost of dealing with them is prohibitive; so the place has become an urban explorer's dream. The main post office, central theatre and cathedral all became excessive for the dwindling population so have been left to the graffiti artists and amateur photographers to practise their arts. Although I haven't been there, I think a walk round Gary is what it must feel like walking round Pompeii.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnbHZz-uEiZxq0joLpQfKiNxfgYqYcNbOM_T5sK13p0OLg37qf7d_W0PQO4A2Q4LSMfqhemeyXPUye1IhcF0DTkFuRWmkzHe9Na_uihRX10JfsKAW0KpgIXGvCoI4caQzK71RgtQ/s1600/DSCF6377.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnbHZz-uEiZxq0joLpQfKiNxfgYqYcNbOM_T5sK13p0OLg37qf7d_W0PQO4A2Q4LSMfqhemeyXPUye1IhcF0DTkFuRWmkzHe9Na_uihRX10JfsKAW0KpgIXGvCoI4caQzK71RgtQ/s400/DSCF6377.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A once-opulent apartment building, now a great place for exploring.</td></tr>
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Not surprisingly Gary has a very shady reputation and all the people I met in Chicago who I told of my plans to visit either told me to be very careful or actively tried to discourage me from going. However the vibe I got from the town was not one of danger, but rather a forlorn melancholy. Few people were on the streets, nothing seemed open apart from the pawn shop, the post-autumnal trees were bare and the grass was turning brown. The soft upholstery of the torn up seats lined the floor of the theatre, whilst an old grand piano lay in the orchestra pit gathering dust; a pair of crutches lay abandoned in the lobby of what must have once been a swanky apartment block; saplings grew through the floor of the post office, aiming for the skylights above; and a girl's pair of ice skates looked incongruous in the nave of the cathedral. A cathedral that, despite not being open for services, was seeing a fair amount of traffic when I was there, with other urban photographers seeking out interesting angles and exchanging tips on the latest places to check out.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJTQqVD5KnvJuMQ8RnHWi0I9vb2wtEtHJtodV2QarKiMVqt1jhiB2Zk9AVwTQr_3QheTwSelQ3qG_9mgGn7YqOVxA9TouFvopmTgWIWf9v649ILLe4jzm1Y_Szu1WArppnT2774w/s1600/DSCF6368.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJTQqVD5KnvJuMQ8RnHWi0I9vb2wtEtHJtodV2QarKiMVqt1jhiB2Zk9AVwTQr_3QheTwSelQ3qG_9mgGn7YqOVxA9TouFvopmTgWIWf9v649ILLe4jzm1Y_Szu1WArppnT2774w/s400/DSCF6368.JPG" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another urban explorer taking photos in the nave of the derelict cathedral.</td></tr>
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The whole urban exploration thing must seem rather macabre to some people as it has gained a pejorative nickname as well: ruin porn. I imagine locals perhaps feel as if the news of <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sh8mNjeuyV4" target="_blank">Gary's demise</a> is greatly exaggerated (or at least more than a little premature). And to be fair there are serious attempts to save the city, albeit on a smaller scale, with some very neat and respectable neighbourhoods of newly-built houses amongst the urban decay.It will be interesting to see whether they will be able to turn their town around. Be that as it may, for me, Gary was the most fascinating place I visited in America. At one and the same time it shows the giddy heights and terrible lows of the American system. It remains for each observer interpret it for themselves: a positive or negative force?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2Q3iJN-xNI6_qucVyo9eEk5JOR_68rqjOTkrzv1MXt9MlOqLOnWR9UdUZ6H_gGchYVpCEJEQDAaexBhOnnHC01fHS8cXO4XcQjSXZjwSU1ttzvUMTf_G5rWQbWXNUSRYIQBrmtw/s1600/DSCF6187.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2Q3iJN-xNI6_qucVyo9eEk5JOR_68rqjOTkrzv1MXt9MlOqLOnWR9UdUZ6H_gGchYVpCEJEQDAaexBhOnnHC01fHS8cXO4XcQjSXZjwSU1ttzvUMTf_G5rWQbWXNUSRYIQBrmtw/s400/DSCF6187.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">They have their work cut out. Good luck to them.</td></tr>
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Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903199424734773952noreply@blogger.com1Detroit, MI, USA42.331427 -83.045753842.143674499999996 -83.3684773 42.5191795 -82.7230303tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7447699.post-76266406761529383572013-11-16T15:30:00.000+00:002013-12-15T15:31:50.415+00:00Paradoxysms<div style="text-align: justify;">
Countries often have deep, internal divisions that cleave the society in two. Often the divide is between a poor, religiously conservative rural population, and an urban, middle-class, educated, liberal one. I found this particularly apparent in countries such as Iran, Turkey and China, which are still undergoing transitions towards more industrial economies. In America the transition has occurred but the division still exists to a large degree, and somehow the rural poor have been duped into voting for rich corporate interests. But taking pot-shots at American political dysfunctionality and woeful health provision is too easy and instead I want to look at the quirkier paradoxes and polarisations that exist within the US.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRUjt0GueC6GGAgJb7bbzxwJZj3-t2GiYLcWWpm3Q83F3RoMg0M7ZQajfO9C2RrwwFOMH1MColPyzpyRvMFBc8fdm4eQhNHOnzhiz3T8RUCdubnQ4txbk45pqmyRPEEQXaydoXxw/s1600/DSCF6046.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRUjt0GueC6GGAgJb7bbzxwJZj3-t2GiYLcWWpm3Q83F3RoMg0M7ZQajfO9C2RrwwFOMH1MColPyzpyRvMFBc8fdm4eQhNHOnzhiz3T8RUCdubnQ4txbk45pqmyRPEEQXaydoXxw/s400/DSCF6046.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">For poorer Americans access to fresh fruit and vegetables is not only severely restricted, but food education is of a very low standard. Whilst wandering the African-American museum in Chicago I stumbled across this educational play aimed at younger children about the benefits of fresh fruit and veg using hip-hop and gospel music. Here the hero (a broccoli) is being led astray by a couple of rashers of bacon. (Though it seemed to me that the bad foods had the best tunes.)</td></tr>
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One of the most persistent stereotypes of America and Americans is the prevalence of obesity and general ill health brought about by the abundance of fast food "restaurants" peddling cheap, poor quality food for the apathetic masses. And there is a lot of truth to that. Pick up any food product at an American supermarket and the list of ingredients reads like a short novel, full of unknown, esoteric such as the literary gem below from a small packet of Chick-fil-A sauce. The over-reliance on ingredients such as high fructose corn syrup, xanthan gum, mono-sodium glutamate and trans-fats in even the most basic of foodstuffs manages to dent even my, normally robust, appetite. In many poor, disadvantaged neighbourhoods fresh fruit and vegetables are the stuff of fantastical legend. So much so that it has led to the coining of the term <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Food_desert" target="_blank">food deserts</a>. On the other hand America boasts a profusion of farmers' markets and whole foods stores where the quality of fresh, wholesome produce is second to none. Yet these are not without their problems too. The cult of food is frighteningly dogmatic and faddish, with new "super-foods" appearing with frightening regularity. Of course these foods are all marketed to the moneyed few, and are priced so as to be practically unattainable to the working classes. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgK8SyjD1H0fYUKNFaH9PfNxRt6BsfPrEbQ4AIpzxK4A9W5lpOuKVsbv2wFb3rayy0O6ZwpX1wpm9KEZI__Knj-ifn63GyCZqSRt2vQcWb7bN6BO-9D0wFCgTAZfIvnx1cR1m1bw/s1600/DSCF5564.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgK8SyjD1H0fYUKNFaH9PfNxRt6BsfPrEbQ4AIpzxK4A9W5lpOuKVsbv2wFb3rayy0O6ZwpX1wpm9KEZI__Knj-ifn63GyCZqSRt2vQcWb7bN6BO-9D0wFCgTAZfIvnx1cR1m1bw/s400/DSCF5564.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Let us just for a moment ignore the tackiness of the name Chick-fil-A and move on to the list of ingredients, which has 28 separate entries ... and this is one of the less extreme examples.</td></tr>
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A facet of this gastronomic bipolarism is clearly seen with American beer. It is universally accepted that the United states produces the worst mass-produced beer in the world: Coors, Miller, Bud and Pabst. All are dreadful (and feature prominently in <a href="http://www.ratebeer.com/Ratings/TheWorstBeers.asp" target="_blank">this list</a>) and dominate the domestic beer market. Whilst on the other hand there is a burgeoning craft beer scene where local, small-scale brewing artisans, who joyfully experiment with unusual ingredients, as well as adding unexpected twists to classic beer types. The tiny <a href="http://alchemistbeer.com/" target="_blank">Alchemist brewery</a>, tucked away in a forgotten corner of Vermont is a perfect example, churning out a measly 2000 litres of their Heady Topper. Nevertheless by many accounts it is considered the best beer in the world. So popular is the brew that people come from hundreds of miles to buy it when it is put on sale every Monday at the brewery (so small is the output that it is only sold in and around the brewery), even though they are limited to a single case each, which has led to something of a black market with tenfold mark-ups for the amber nectar.</div>
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For the country that gave the world the assembly line and the constant pursuit of ever-greater efficiencies there are many aspects of American life that seem ridiculously wasteful to me. It seems as if efficiency and responsibility are no match for the sacred American dogma of personal freedom. I suppose the number one culprit is my favourite object of ire, the car. Most vehicles here are driven in single occupancy and, given the penchant for brutish pick-ups for simple, urban commutes, weigh in at well over two tonnes. Or, to put it another way, about 25kg of vehicle for every kg of passenger transported. One person who wasn't so inefficient, despite (sort of) being alone in her car when she picked me up, was my ride from Iowa City to Wisconsin. I met Chandra at a small rest stop off the interstate. I generally don't bother much asking single women for rides because they are usually more fearful to pick up (male) hitchers. But it was so cold so I thought what the hell. The first thing she asked was whether I could be trusted and was respectful. It turns out she wasn't so worried about herself, but more about her cargo. Her uncle Joe was in the back. He had died the week before.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSayOcjH_QZn74z0TQR2uqdXJvcp5WzxnSXwnnzd7KcP4We30e7Ml2KZNQZakkGX_S_i7sdLieq3NCQkUt3qTeMgL2sxoJlrxgW1kUAqMIfh55RUeWj7DPNOp_wOtaNk6lXo5mjQ/s1600/DSCF6021.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSayOcjH_QZn74z0TQR2uqdXJvcp5WzxnSXwnnzd7KcP4We30e7Ml2KZNQZakkGX_S_i7sdLieq3NCQkUt3qTeMgL2sxoJlrxgW1kUAqMIfh55RUeWj7DPNOp_wOtaNk6lXo5mjQ/s400/DSCF6021.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Typical farmhouse of the northern Midwest countryside.</td></tr>
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Chandra was a mortician and was driving the casket of her uncle from Kansas to his ancestral town in Wisconsin. She had a Midwestern, no-nonsense personality, and after she made a couple of jokes about me killing her and dumping her body by the side of the road we hit it off famously. The three hours passed by very quickly as the flat Iowan plains gave way to gentle hills on the other side of the Mississippi, and I tried to make myself useful by helping with navigation. However Chandra was not going to Dodgeville, the town where I was aiming for, but instead to a town about an hour to the south. No problem said Chandra, she just needed to drop off Uncle Joe, have some dinner, and then she would drive me to my destination. So I accompanied her as we left the casket at a local funeral parlour (oddly enough Uncle Joe became the very first dead body I have seen in my life), then joined the fifteen-strong family for dinner (they were surprisingly accepting of my presence given the rather unusual circumstances) before she drove me up to Dodgeville to cap off a surprisingly wonderful day. Hitchhiking is not an efficient way of visiting America, and I missed out on a whole host of things I would have liked to have seen, but on the other hand I wouldn't have had such fabulous encounters.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsGAGijyntQ9NPIoR3jNYOpwTQ3ZkX78JLH27ThboCr4R9krwnPZErdUnkVy6_yRGM0bN-mTaW0_0bDlwx2oLNaFMdPsky346A78QhuQK-AEaP5OOix1XkNbIXWMgDSCBKBuG2Ug/s1600/DSCF5865.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsGAGijyntQ9NPIoR3jNYOpwTQ3ZkX78JLH27ThboCr4R9krwnPZErdUnkVy6_yRGM0bN-mTaW0_0bDlwx2oLNaFMdPsky346A78QhuQK-AEaP5OOix1XkNbIXWMgDSCBKBuG2Ug/s400/DSCF5865.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With Chandra at the end of our trip together. I could tell that she was a little disappointed that I hadn't killed her and dumped her body by the side of the road like a proper hitchhiking psychopath.</td></tr>
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So; Dodgeville, Wisconsin. The obvious question is why? Ask almost anybody, even in America, and the name will draw a puzzled blank (except, perhaps, to fans of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/American_Gods" target="_blank">Neil Gaiman</a>). Look it up on a <a href="https://maps.google.com/maps?ll=42.963333,-90.131111&q=loc:42.963333,-90.131111&hl=en&t=m&z=12" target="_blank">map</a> and few places would more aptly describe the phrase "middle of nowhere". It was precisely due to the region's bucolic idyll that Alex Jordan chose to build a country retreat on a rock outcrop several miles north of Dodgeville following WWII. Jordan was no trained architect, or particularly rich, but he made up for it with imagination, determination and carpentry skills. Soon people came to stop by just to have a look at this eccentric building his strange house on a near-inaccessible rock. Jordan, having a typically American entrepreneurial spirit started charging them a quarter for a tour. Things might have stopped there, but Jordan also had an eclectic and voracious appetite for stuff. Knick-knacks, hand-crafted art, vintage music machines, Oriental statuettes, toy cars, Art Nouveau stained glass, he valued them all equally. High art and low. Not only did he use the admission to fund the construction of his house, but also to fill it with what has turned into the world's largest collection of miscellanea. As more people came to visit he could buy more junk to fill his house and its fame spread ever further. And so was born the <a href="http://www.thehouseontherock.com/HOTR_AttractionMain.htm" target="_blank">House on the Rock</a>. As the years passed several annex buildings had to be built to house this vast, sprawling collection, which is particularly noted for its mechanical musical instruments and the world's largest carousel. What I particularly loved about the House on the Rock was that, to me, it is such a distillation of America. There is an absence of pretence or deference, styles, genres, epochs and tastes are indiscriminately mixed. Persian rug, Japanese plastic manga figurine, Chinese porcelain, Indian carved woodwork, and Indonesian folk masks all share a single display. High art, low art. Who cares? Sometimes it really doesn't work, but then again sometimes it does. It is this willingness to experiment with trends and tastes and mash them up into strange combinations that I find most compelling, whereas in Europe the standard reaction to an unorthodox combination (be it in food, fashion or film) is to dismiss and disregard.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1xliXzM0QB0IdfkW2epVe9u96OZskWrRGavuJFkkifrhYNcZq1755rGlB3v8VhfHKuhmRXjG7V1s3Yi524O0PBwdbg8AdjzHsjNn58nos2P0Y3zYPME6rPqv94RKvq1Kjl4yBpA/s1600/DSCF5982.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1xliXzM0QB0IdfkW2epVe9u96OZskWrRGavuJFkkifrhYNcZq1755rGlB3v8VhfHKuhmRXjG7V1s3Yi524O0PBwdbg8AdjzHsjNn58nos2P0Y3zYPME6rPqv94RKvq1Kjl4yBpA/s400/DSCF5982.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The giant carousel at the House on the Rock is a flamboyant, heartfelt monument to kitsch, with 269 animals, not a single one of which is a horse.</td></tr>
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Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903199424734773952noreply@blogger.com0House on the Rock, Wyoming, WI 53588, USA43.1 -90.13599999999996717.5779655 -131.44459399999997 68.6220345 -48.827405999999968tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7447699.post-64486444658891483092013-11-11T19:03:00.000+00:002013-12-03T19:08:08.715+00:00Straight Up The Middle<div style="text-align: justify;">
From Texas the logical and reasonable thing for me to do would have been to hug the southern states up until the coast before heading north to New York, so as to stay in a band of temperate weather for as long as possible. Logic is not my strong suit and so instead I headed, more or less, straight north cutting through the much-neglected Midwest. This large, flat expanse, right in the middle of America, is oft-overlooked by visitors to the country who tend to gravitate to the coasts. for me that was reason enough to visit as I was curious to uncover (if only a small part of) the hidden heart of America.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtcDq7MkvshgGNMzgDMxbSP1cQ6AGfpcZ2wAQrmi9GksTAcm7nvIQ5IGFh3_qMlsQyq9m7Pwtc6ICIiywp1RLgVt268AhUaZ4xhO6wsjEnRLt88rOD9HVOzOzQgqoYOfeCYyKAIA/s1600/DSCF5624.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtcDq7MkvshgGNMzgDMxbSP1cQ6AGfpcZ2wAQrmi9GksTAcm7nvIQ5IGFh3_qMlsQyq9m7Pwtc6ICIiywp1RLgVt268AhUaZ4xhO6wsjEnRLt88rOD9HVOzOzQgqoYOfeCYyKAIA/s400/DSCF5624.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">For many towns around the world 4pm on a Saturday afternoon might be considered the busiest time of the week, but not so in Lufkin, Texas, which resembled a ghost town. In the 2 hours that I walked its streets I literally saw less than a dozen other people walking. </td></tr>
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There was a snag, of course. Transport. It's a well known fact that in America the car is king. From motels, to wide freeways, drive-ins, drive-thrus and RV's, the primary focus when building in America is to make things as convenient as possible for drivers. The automobile appeals to the national sense of individuality and freedom, as well as the big car manufacturers and oil companies. The problem is not simply that priority is given to automobiles, it's that everything else is ignored. The idea of actually walking to or between destinations is not just rejected, but seemingly discouraged. In several towns I have walked through the centre, only to find that there is no pavement (sidewalk) and so been forced to walk on the road. And it's not as if there is a lack of space, as roads are often two lanes in both directions and there are wide, grassy verges. But to construct some sort of space for people to walk is firmly out of the question. In smaller towns I rarely, if ever, see other pedestrians, as people storm past in their enclosed, vehicular bubbles. You are well and truly a second-class citizen in the US if, for whatever
reason, you do not have a car and/or drive, and live outside one of the
few large cities with decent public transport. In fact public transport
seems to me to be one of the areas where America's pernicious racism has
found a new home. It is no longer acceptable, and rightly so, to be
openly racist in public. So instead policies are put in place that
disproportionately disadvantage minority populations, usually by
targetting the poor. This became abundantly clear when I hopped on Kansas City's buses and the racial demographic reversed from being 90% white to 90% black and latino. Forced to rely on public services minorities are then hostage to inadequate route coverage and patchy schedules.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgJVlc6iT7aF8mrX9mPtZ3goW9blQCwrt-pv375kIqS2ASjSHJYw8OYMUMrUelI8GDELVGeDwkSc1z8JojyGjIZkjanX3EUYi1yZx7Syfs1flSETB3rXf_BwFlUknoLLRZ3Mddig/s1600/DSCF5623.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgJVlc6iT7aF8mrX9mPtZ3goW9blQCwrt-pv375kIqS2ASjSHJYw8OYMUMrUelI8GDELVGeDwkSc1z8JojyGjIZkjanX3EUYi1yZx7Syfs1flSETB3rXf_BwFlUknoLLRZ3Mddig/s400/DSCF5623.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A nice, wheelchair-friendly pavement ramp ... that peters away after a metre. For those who cannot drive to to health or financial reasons the USA makes life hellishly difficult for them.</td></tr>
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If America is the land where cars rule, it is also the country that invented the concept of hitchhiking (or at least marketed it better than anyone else). And I am certainly not alone in having, as a youth, read Jack Kerouac's On The Road and been inspired to dream of hitting the open road with a vague idea of where I'm going with nothing but my backpack and my thumb. America's roads hold a hitching allure that few places can match. Not only that, but the dearth of public transportation in the country, especially in more rural areas, means that if you don't have a car then thumbing a ride may be the only really viable option for getting to where you want to go.</div>
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Unfortunately the halcyon days of hitching are well and truly over. The creeping paranoia of the mass media has made everyone fearful of trusting others and unwilling to stop to help out their fellow man. Even my special hitching preparations didn't seem to be of much help: I had got my mother to bring out my kilt to Mexico in the hope that people would be more tempted to stop for a man in a kilt, not an everyday sight on America's roads. Despite my disarming (and disarmed, because how can you conceal a gun under a kilt?) appearance rides were not always forthcoming. Indeed, I spent an entire day at a truck stop at the edge of Lufkin, Texas asking people as courteously as possible whether they could give me a ride, but to no avail. In the end I hopped on the one daily northbound bus that night.<br />
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I found it especially telling that when I did get picked up almost every single person that stopped would not have been considered as part of the mainstream of society, but were, instead, on the fringes: minorities, the poor, metalheads, veterans having trouble reintegrating, etc. One morning in Arkansas I was standing on the edge of Little Rock, at a good hitch spot, trying to head north. I waited for over three hours before someone pulled over in a beat up pick-up. When he did I asked him where he was going he said Conway (about 20 miles up the road) to see his parole officer. It turns out he had done some time (twice) for running a garage crystal meth lab. Nevertheless he not only took me to Conway, but he went out of his way to drop me off somewhere where I could easily hitch from again (America is a big country and even its small towns are ludicrously sprawled out, so that it may take an hour to walk to the edge of a settlement of only a couple of thousand people). I found it particularly interesting that here, in the heart of the Bible Belt, where churches line every roadside and people take their Christian faith very seriously, that it was the criminal who was able to show the most humanity and help out a stranger in need. I don't think it would be possible to get any closer to the parable of the Good Samaritan.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg73-93IrV03OvvT1kyGX_1N48YbqXReeN5xjOjPR74oHXsvdec3RYJQKBlFNSYWpZUgYpkKn2i5idFwfOhA52_IYDKx9_3ZFygkRWrVJfzmYrAkGI387q7j11jm5bcON2f_6xGyQ/s1600/DSCF5508.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg73-93IrV03OvvT1kyGX_1N48YbqXReeN5xjOjPR74oHXsvdec3RYJQKBlFNSYWpZUgYpkKn2i5idFwfOhA52_IYDKx9_3ZFygkRWrVJfzmYrAkGI387q7j11jm5bcON2f_6xGyQ/s400/DSCF5508.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Whilst hitching from Austin to Huntsville I got picked up by the guy in the vest on the right. Goatee, piercings, tattoos all over his arms, messy pick-up and a redneck southern drawl. He was only heading a few miles up the road to a bar for after-work beers. Shortly after dropping me off the bar girl (centre) came out with a beer and said the guys inside wanted to buy me a drink. Although many Americans would have been afraid to step inside the bar (it was called The Beer Joint and wasn't too appealing from the outside) the clientele were all extremely friendly and generous and several of them offered to let me stay the night (which I would have accepted if I hadn't already arranged to meet someone that evening).</td></tr>
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In films hitchers always get rides from truck drivers, but that avenue is also firmly barricaded as insurance companies have strict policies against unregistered people in truck cabs. Today truck drivers run the very real risk of losing their jobs if they're found with unlisted passengers.</div>
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Yet despite this nationwide paranoia towards strangers in general, and hitchhikers in particular, I managed, with a little perseverance, to get a number of rides throughout the South and Midwest, and I was struck by the generosity of the people. The barriers to other people may be high and difficult to breach, but once on the other side I found Americans to be exceedingly hospitable. A couple of hours after being dropped off by the felon I was only some 50 miles from where I had started my day, not particularly impressed with my progress with dusk approaching. A middle-aged guy pulled up and said he could take me to Harrison, most of the way that I had been planning to go that day. He was quite a talker. I wasn't surprised given the number of empty red Bull cans strewn about and the packs of cigarettes. He told me about his time in the special forces, about his taekwondo, and about how his great grandfather was Red Cloud, one of the main Sioux chiefs who fought against the Americans. People tend to exaggerate when they have a captive audience that can't question their veracity, and I just politely nodded along. He was a nice guy after all even though he didn't really look native American. Then he said that on second thoughts, maybe it wouldn't be such a good idea to leave me in Harrison after all, as it's where the Ku Klux Klan have their headquarters, and would I like to come over and stay at his house. Why not? I thought - in for a penny, in for a pound.</div>
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It turned out to be a cosy house near a lake. Along the way we stopped off at the taekwondo dojo to say hello, and when we arrived at his house, his mother and brother didn't bat an eyelid and offered me dinner. After that he brought out the family scrap book with pictures of Sitting Bull, Red Cloud and Buffalo Bill. I was speechless. By the end of the evening they were telling me that I could stay for as long as I wanted. Although it was a tempting offer, especially as it would give me a chance to see some of the beautiful Ozark scenery in all its autumnal splendour, I had to move onwards and northwards.</div>
Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903199424734773952noreply@blogger.com0Kansas City, MO, USA39.0997265 -94.5785667000000138.310999 -95.8694602 39.888454 -93.287673200000015tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7447699.post-72162466098434389942013-11-04T19:02:00.000+00:002013-11-18T03:03:02.271+00:00I See Dead People<div style="text-align: justify;">
My time in Huntsville proved to be unexpectedly eclectic, however my initial reason for visiting was simply to visit the prisoners' cemetery, where all those who die whilst in the "care" of the Texas justice system, and whose bodies are not claimed by family, are buried. Now it may seem like a macabre thing to visit, but I found it a sobering and important place to have seen. The cemetery is surprisingly large, unadorned and unmarked, occupying a wasteland between two nondescript roads on the edge of town. No signs announce or inform the passer-by as to the site's identity, no fence separates it from its surroundings. Every expense has been spared. So much so that up until 2000 the graves were marked by a simple concrete cross inscribed with a date of death and prisoner number. Nothing more. Not even a name by which the deceased could be remembered. As if in death these people are no longer considered humans but simply numbers, a burden to be placed in the ground, a sack of shit that has the temerity to waste our tax-payer dollars.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqLcU1tqjSTu2Jo8QVbFbyo6jhyphenhyphenrhh72LuBXwv0d6g1wGEnVKydhbtI1iR-UgJkwD6AFODckMqaFmZv-m8ooMTSUZNOp1AwCcn4z6AlAZOZUMSrcRBoeDY6nmLEXkBIpGz2l3_tQ/s1600/DSCF5542.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqLcU1tqjSTu2Jo8QVbFbyo6jhyphenhyphenrhh72LuBXwv0d6g1wGEnVKydhbtI1iR-UgJkwD6AFODckMqaFmZv-m8ooMTSUZNOp1AwCcn4z6AlAZOZUMSrcRBoeDY6nmLEXkBIpGz2l3_tQ/s400/DSCF5542.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A sea of concrete crosses devoid of any embellishments or even names to distinguish them, just a date and a prisoner number. According to Dostoevsky a society can be judged by how well it treats its prisoners, in which case America ought to perhaps take a look at itself.</td></tr>
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I love cemeteries, they're fascinating places. Often, if you care to look closely, they can tell you stories of a past that isn't written in history books, or is actively ignored or suppressed, or that is simply more personal and human than can possibly be conveyed on paper. So I'm taking this opportunity to take on a tour of some of my favourite graveyards, tombs, sepulchres and mausoleums (mausolea) and the hidden stories they tell.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzjeXqQ6sF-A3-oJR25m-Wfv8C425sWe4oPko2hpJIs31fUdpr8fPG1tjNRFAjS7pYNGVvNjAmuZnOaA0kT8Qdp2Qbd3roKtw8dPra7mMk1mhyphenhyphenTgnDWs3nj89lrwMLBaWy0zQopg/s1600/Germans+in+Sighisoara.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzjeXqQ6sF-A3-oJR25m-Wfv8C425sWe4oPko2hpJIs31fUdpr8fPG1tjNRFAjS7pYNGVvNjAmuZnOaA0kT8Qdp2Qbd3roKtw8dPra7mMk1mhyphenhyphenTgnDWs3nj89lrwMLBaWy0zQopg/s400/Germans+in+Sighisoara.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This cemetery is tucked away behind the beautiful church in the medieval town of Sighisoara, in the very heart of Romania. There's not a single Romanian buried there. That's because up until the end of WWII much of Transylvania was mainly German (or Hungarian). Of the Germans that did remain after the war many left following the fall of communism, so one of the few tangible reminders of their 800 year history in the region.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga4OX4kmgNNGs31OfxGmogtWQBHolFv5pohsNzIlAokZ_vm13gjUzewep7oZkPujKbkLHaknhrL2KnC4HIR7c_o0f5T9EFJb4dTIb9Uitnwbj5dUA9yj1VXkYg6mPoSyHZG61E0w/s1600/Ambon+WW2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga4OX4kmgNNGs31OfxGmogtWQBHolFv5pohsNzIlAokZ_vm13gjUzewep7oZkPujKbkLHaknhrL2KnC4HIR7c_o0f5T9EFJb4dTIb9Uitnwbj5dUA9yj1VXkYg6mPoSyHZG61E0w/s400/Ambon+WW2.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This gravestone is located in the WWII servicemen's cemetery in Ambon, Indonesia. Most of the graves are of soldiers and sailors from Australia and Britain, but a small section is home to the remains of Indian troops, both Hindu and Muslim, who also fought on the Allied side</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif0TBIkoIqznsH9peFhnHehYejliJ_FE9gPu2IglNnAi3BJlhjLPM-r_f3c8w3PJjsoBLGfNEJWyWrKqIm2hfN6XvBpoeQJlYGpz1cUItB2mysx1LwKVFR4FSnRoIuw0nKSQ-aeQ/s1600/Bijapur.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif0TBIkoIqznsH9peFhnHehYejliJ_FE9gPu2IglNnAi3BJlhjLPM-r_f3c8w3PJjsoBLGfNEJWyWrKqIm2hfN6XvBpoeQJlYGpz1cUItB2mysx1LwKVFR4FSnRoIuw0nKSQ-aeQ/s400/Bijapur.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Gol Gumbaz in Bijapur, India. Located in the north of Karnataka state off the main tourist trail the town gets few visitors, however this giant mausoleum (at 44m the dome was only surpassed by Florence's Duomo when it was built) of the Adil Shahi dynasty is a testament to the period of cultural flowering that preceded the Mughal domination</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_RknbRRpJMv7rJp4HR4P5-sbGfybw4TmhLSCgvL_TykJOjA_RgXH-4mS6NC4A0SZn596uaOVPunwQqiz9p4cnOxFSpY1ez4OuXfyCn2x35-2A0oScF1c5WlsH6jdXAWohvmIkfA/s1600/Japan+Sandakan.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_RknbRRpJMv7rJp4HR4P5-sbGfybw4TmhLSCgvL_TykJOjA_RgXH-4mS6NC4A0SZn596uaOVPunwQqiz9p4cnOxFSpY1ez4OuXfyCn2x35-2A0oScF1c5WlsH6jdXAWohvmIkfA/s400/Japan+Sandakan.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A beautiful testament to our common humanity. This Japanese cemetery is located in Sandakan, East Malaysia, and dates from the occupation of the region by the Japanese during WWII. Despite the negative history, the graves are still maintained and looked after.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN1S9ZyiexwHA7qT-zXfLpRC-4nJgVvdujljSCvvULm3vpunwPNsvTAv_HKXBB0zp7H03PjTjWzLkwafrgDkA33rxn6m_Alm63FdRmEjVe6X3pROj1NLT9CSk19ck7VKWCjwCBwg/s1600/Jewish+Ukraine.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN1S9ZyiexwHA7qT-zXfLpRC-4nJgVvdujljSCvvULm3vpunwPNsvTAv_HKXBB0zp7H03PjTjWzLkwafrgDkA33rxn6m_Alm63FdRmEjVe6X3pROj1NLT9CSk19ck7VKWCjwCBwg/s400/Jewish+Ukraine.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Old Jewish graves in Sharhorod, which used to be one of the largest <i>shtetls</i> in the Jewish Pale of Settlement in what is now Ukraine. Today there are no more Jews left, the synagogue has been abandoned (after an incarnation as a liquor factory during the Soviet period), and the cemetery is a loose collection of gravestones tumbling down an overgrown hillside. Yet their presence a long history of Hasidic Judaism in the region.</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijs2K80fxgukzPV_mSBssFzSBA9Fm-ZfkG1zSNOrTcwTUndY-dtvhd9BpRN3rZs46ibfftIYTtibcrsvAlFeXsZSeorsJ3KO3ebwt4Z8RwDtEGFC7dfqIDXPHyQSrnKnHBteRAuQ/s1600/Kyoto.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijs2K80fxgukzPV_mSBssFzSBA9Fm-ZfkG1zSNOrTcwTUndY-dtvhd9BpRN3rZs46ibfftIYTtibcrsvAlFeXsZSeorsJ3KO3ebwt4Z8RwDtEGFC7dfqIDXPHyQSrnKnHBteRAuQ/s400/Kyoto.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's no secret that Japan's a country where space is at a premium. Not only do people live in what would pass for a medium-sized walk in cupboard in Texas, but they pack their dead pretty tight too.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh10t-T4C67rWEfK-blBkRvKxABBfGThez6VVztYVTHFrhs3_tqBdwiwFSeb6JpkgxoQ5sQYCeJUzloDuz2BYiH1CuH0tUcnIbrV_gLTo7YcpdUa63RwgN-w5ATcoTDmB9yS5cB0A/s1600/Uzbek+Kim.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh10t-T4C67rWEfK-blBkRvKxABBfGThez6VVztYVTHFrhs3_tqBdwiwFSeb6JpkgxoQ5sQYCeJUzloDuz2BYiH1CuH0tUcnIbrV_gLTo7YcpdUa63RwgN-w5ATcoTDmB9yS5cB0A/s400/Uzbek+Kim.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There is a row of Parks and Kims in the main cemetery outside the Shah-i Zinda complex. Most of the gravestones have Tajik or Uzbek names, but this small group tells a story all of its own. When the Soviet Union was created many of its minorities were forcibly relocated so as not to be a nuisance or harbour dreams of secession.</td></tr>
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The following three photos all come from the same cemetery in L'viv and beautifully illustrate its heritage as a mixed city, at the confluence of many different cultures (but also at the same time the source of tensions as different groups claim the city as their "own").</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2ss44MZCtbsHspDvzbmYrjXGywyaik8e6cPSLa5a8KJlyuqpWEW1l26ryk9IocdS5Cen7uXVjHGkoiIwDZ0N08ySqz1N-LtvayfQQ4d3g_S8uboCGNE0Ad4uXkSculBmJwPyI4w/s1600/Lviv+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2ss44MZCtbsHspDvzbmYrjXGywyaik8e6cPSLa5a8KJlyuqpWEW1l26ryk9IocdS5Cen7uXVjHGkoiIwDZ0N08ySqz1N-LtvayfQQ4d3g_S8uboCGNE0Ad4uXkSculBmJwPyI4w/s400/Lviv+1.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A German soldier who died on the Eastern front.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoTn4gZVrspqnXw6xZeQ4KwomAbnWGtzQqmJJ4ee6xW_PkmmPKTeWvG8Mot31DeoedOhvHcXFj8ZCVNGppat55lTxQqahsBzBncupUJeKhRwTyc76xpagb1SYuKjfvJDlix1RrsA/s1600/Lviv+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoTn4gZVrspqnXw6xZeQ4KwomAbnWGtzQqmJJ4ee6xW_PkmmPKTeWvG8Mot31DeoedOhvHcXFj8ZCVNGppat55lTxQqahsBzBncupUJeKhRwTyc76xpagb1SYuKjfvJDlix1RrsA/s400/Lviv+2.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Polish lady of the bourgeoisie who died in the late 19th century.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz1gFmA80QJTR8INj5jWbSwCFYkt3aLnbyzcN8U9Kfnge54SIaVmkrTu5GgVwEfi6cjnUUWG3Jxe7IIwkXUDNyPMPL3bA_7joxD5j_or3USAuYJI6Hq3CgL783lREMi_jOJcCBHQ/s1600/Lviv+3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz1gFmA80QJTR8INj5jWbSwCFYkt3aLnbyzcN8U9Kfnge54SIaVmkrTu5GgVwEfi6cjnUUWG3Jxe7IIwkXUDNyPMPL3bA_7joxD5j_or3USAuYJI6Hq3CgL783lREMi_jOJcCBHQ/s400/Lviv+3.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Soviet gymnast Viktor Chukarin, who dominated the 1952 Helsinki Olympics.</td></tr>
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And in archaeology perhaps the majority of research and findings come from examining tombs, either from the grave goods or the bodies themselves. In a sense here the dead really do speak to us and inform us of what life was like back then.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDHhd_uimYzb6zaqUAQBQdgQJT6EYOwM7Kdq8wHToav2lZw3TRdEAf5ctNXJL7hAy82Ul1Lm31JcXCm8VDPK2leWgGdZzxNG5iI1nTSD610IhylGfjfkGdpasXsghovh-wSOpt7g/s1600/Trujillo+museum.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDHhd_uimYzb6zaqUAQBQdgQJT6EYOwM7Kdq8wHToav2lZw3TRdEAf5ctNXJL7hAy82Ul1Lm31JcXCm8VDPK2leWgGdZzxNG5iI1nTSD610IhylGfjfkGdpasXsghovh-wSOpt7g/s400/Trujillo+museum.JPG" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Owl sceptre top from the Lord of Sipan tomb complex, the richest and most complete funerary site in all of South America, its discovery shone a spotlight onto pre-Incan civilisations in Peru.</td></tr>
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And last, but by certainly no means least, my favourite cemetery.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivZL_E6zO4lZU6jwf60xRAjJNg6H8RBkz3xUMUxjV277vmL19vGufyZJC1_Or79XlgJG1IZdW0ROMnc-0Yf1HcVBG4wLKqkl9KpWV-LAMyPoC_jgqUGLE97OZOSDAvn135Xb2zCA/s1600/Happy+cemetery.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivZL_E6zO4lZU6jwf60xRAjJNg6H8RBkz3xUMUxjV277vmL19vGufyZJC1_Or79XlgJG1IZdW0ROMnc-0Yf1HcVBG4wLKqkl9KpWV-LAMyPoC_jgqUGLE97OZOSDAvn135Xb2zCA/s400/Happy+cemetery.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Merry Cemetery in Săpânța, northern Romania. The oeuvre of a single carpenter who, with bright colours and humourous verses, transformed what is usually a place of grim mourning, to a joyous affirmation of life.</td></tr>
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<br />Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903199424734773952noreply@blogger.com0Huntsville, TX, USA30.7235263 -95.550777130.505066799999998 -95.8735006 30.9419858 -95.22805360000001tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7447699.post-70783228252165660092013-11-02T16:45:00.000+00:002013-11-12T16:56:24.910+00:00America, F#@k Yeah!<div style="text-align: justify;">
From Monterrey I caught a bus to take me over the American border and into Texas as I thought hitching might be problematic due to (perceived) violence from drug gangs. Having procured myself an online visa waiver I expected the crossing to be a formality. It wasn't. Unfortunately I hadn't read the small print on the customs website and the visa waiver doesn't apply to land borders and so not only did it cost me money for nothing, but I confused the hell out of the border guards who almost never see non-Mexicans crossing. This resulted in substantial attention from the immigration officials who interrogated me, took my photo as well as an entire set of fingerprints. Of the 65 border crossings I have had on this trip it was the most intrusive and time-consuming, even more so than upon entering and leaving North Korea. It took so long that my bus carried on without me, leaving me stranded at the border until the next bus came past eight hours later. Needless to say I was not impressed with my first contact with America. To be honest America is not the most compelling destination for me, the history isn't all that old, the culture rather mainstream, and the cities a bit too cookie-cutter. I would like to explore the natural sights, but it's too late in the year for that. Instead my two main goals are to see friends and family who I seldom get to see, and to try and winkle out a few experiences of Americana, the quirky, small-town, Midwest of America that makes the country so different from Europe.</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">A little clip of American cliches to get you into the mood (warning, NSFW).</span></div>
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My first port of call was Austin, Texas's state capital. The large student population and love of live music (during the annual South By Southwest music festival you can even catch a performance in some of the city's laundromats) make the city an island of liberalism in an otherwise conservative state. My reason for visiting was more personal. Virginie, one of my good friends from my school days in France, had moved out here with her husband some nine years ago and I hadn't seen her the few years prior to that either, so there was no way I was going to pass by so close without saying hello.</div>
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I sometimes think of the different paths our lives can take, how single decisions can radically alter the shape of our futures, and the "what ifs" that litter our past. Virginie's path ended up taking her to Austin, where her boyfriend from high school (and now husband) found a far better job in IT than he could back in France, where corporate advancement is more ponderous. So now they are in America, leading quintessential suburban lives: two kids, nice house, soccer practice for the son, ballet for the daughter, neighbourhood friends. Not at all where one would have expected her to be had I asked her as we were graduating together back in 1998. But then again neither am I. Seeing as I don't see any of my high school friends as much as I'd like it was warmingly nostalgic gossipping about old friends, revisiting shared occasions, and remembering common experiences. I enjoyed sitting down to a slightly slower pace, and marvelled at how well Virginie had adapted to a new culture and language (the French are notoriously bad at English, but she had only the slightest trace of an accent), whilst still maintaining her own language with her children. Domestic life is very far from the one I know, but it also has its challenges that are no less taxing than navigating Beijing's public bus system with a limited knowledge of Chinese.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFOs_j4NpX6pWw9XPqg51Re39c60S8vcmjVAAAfbTymtLYJBws4YcwAlmFrTh00tcXE7LK6STYwjYzzWRe9acBzsT9n10jIisUKmm2yOwcAUEyoZvYdJzZj-0GgzGVxi8bGFLhdA/s1600/DSCF5492.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFOs_j4NpX6pWw9XPqg51Re39c60S8vcmjVAAAfbTymtLYJBws4YcwAlmFrTh00tcXE7LK6STYwjYzzWRe9acBzsT9n10jIisUKmm2yOwcAUEyoZvYdJzZj-0GgzGVxi8bGFLhdA/s400/DSCF5492.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After a day with the kids Virginie was wishing that her cup was filled with whiskey rather than Coke.</td></tr>
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Texas' two main metropolises, Dallas and Houston, are about equidistant from Austin. However neither of them seemed to fulfil my small town Americana requirements, and so instead I headed over to Huntsville, the "Prison Capital of Texas" (and therefore possibly the world).`The town's nine different prison facilities hold over 15,000 inmates, accounting for about a quarter of the town's population and 10% of the entire Texas prison population. The jails are the biggest employer, and the local university specialises in law, social work and pretty much anything else that may have something to do with crime and punishment. In the developed world's most lock-'em-up happy country Huntsville is ground zero. Outsiders naturally feel a bit wary and Huntsville has something of a grim reputation. This is, after all, where the state's death row inmates are kept and the executions carried out. However the student population is active and my hosts introduced me to the surprisingly vibrant bohemian arts community that inhabit this, otherwise conservative, corner of Texas. A local architect is involved in building homes out of discarded building materials for low-income families and artists, whilst one local real-estate agent is an artist, yoga instructor and <a href="http://crazywood.org/" target="_blank">gallery owner</a>.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWcJpBsHdL-k6sq3rUxGYGfVnyr3J89S7VS4rjqAFrc_R8X1_-zim9illgL32aNGQo0a8DFtvTtR1gQqj-2s6cesb6-Y9zvIj0Q5qSGBuHE7Go1UvCrIjhabIn_CT1vDa9vQERFw/s1600/DSCF5568.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWcJpBsHdL-k6sq3rUxGYGfVnyr3J89S7VS4rjqAFrc_R8X1_-zim9illgL32aNGQo0a8DFtvTtR1gQqj-2s6cesb6-Y9zvIj0Q5qSGBuHE7Go1UvCrIjhabIn_CT1vDa9vQERFw/s400/DSCF5568.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A rather macabre exhibit at the national prison museum in Huntsville: the chair on which 361 prisoners were executed from 1924 until 1965 (when the state switched to lethal injection).</td></tr>
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My timing in Huntsville luckily coincided not only with Halloween, but also the first weekend in November, which, in America, is the start of the (deer) hunting season. Whilst back in Europe hunting is the preserve of a small minority, here it is very much mainstream. Land is plentiful and many pulp and timber companies, that own vast tracts of forest, lease out hunting rights to groups of people. I learnt all this thanks to my host Keil who, although not hunting now, had spent many a season in the east Texan woods with his father. His hunting friends were heading out to their lodge, like they do on every first Friday in November, to get together for a grill* to celebrate being able to go out and replenish their freezer cabinets with venison. It's more of a social occasion though, as only half a dozen of the thirty or so people who turned up were going hunting. Instead it was a time to chinwag, see old friends, eat lots of meat, have a few beers, and to talk a little politics (I followed Keil's advice and just kept my mouth shut and opinions to myself). I was surprised at how readily I was welcomed amongst this group of conservative, middle-aged men. But then again, people in the south of America take pride in Southern Hospitality, where welcoming a guest and treating them well is a point of honour (I wonder what they would think if they knew how similar they are in that respect - and quite a few others besides - to people in the Middle East). But there was no denying how lucky I felt to be able to witness, and take part in, this facet of American culture that is very much mainstream, yet is barely visible to outsiders.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCRwlzx_eSzAU0tGQ1EgGBk6INZXrhWlpwFSmlIpj_EvCgt8az5Xqiu5OipqejawnFX_1rf8xFQQblUkG7wLHhuvojbQlp_mceJOk6dPSGUamVcsq2w6KImXesi6QdNEAaJBZrcw/s1600/DSCF5616.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCRwlzx_eSzAU0tGQ1EgGBk6INZXrhWlpwFSmlIpj_EvCgt8az5Xqiu5OipqejawnFX_1rf8xFQQblUkG7wLHhuvojbQlp_mceJOk6dPSGUamVcsq2w6KImXesi6QdNEAaJBZrcw/s400/DSCF5616.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hanging out with the old hunters around the fire, shooting the breeze, having a beer. You can't get more Americana than that.</td></tr>
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*I also learnt that what is called a barbecue in Britain and Australia is called a grill in the US, whereas a barbecue in the US places the meat much further above the flame and uses the smoke to cook it.</div>
Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903199424734773952noreply@blogger.com2Austin, TX, USA30.267153 -97.74306079999996729.828484 -98.388507799999971 30.705822 -97.097613799999962tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7447699.post-57928709313121855912013-10-26T13:48:00.000+01:002014-01-08T08:45:08.338+00:00Heavy Industry, Light Art<div style="text-align: justify;">
During my previous Mexican jaunt I had spent quite a bit of time among the northern, colonial mining towns such as Zacatecas, Guanajuato and San Miguel de Allende. I had, however, missed out the largest of them all: Queretaro. I have no idea why I didn't go there the first time, but was glad as it gave me a point to visit on my way north as well as an opportunity to revisit the region with older, more understanding eyes (I'm a little mortified when I read what 23 year-old me was writing about the place). It also allowed me to meet some local people, and here I was really lucky to stumble upon Clara and Mario, a wonderful young couple who not only showed me the town, but also its varied culinary delights; the dry, semi-arid landscape of the central highlands; family life; and even the less picturesque, but deeply atmospheric, legacies of the mining history that can be seen in the ghost towns that dot the region.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5O4ABfXDo6hIqKCpiW1mULSAyx-I2dxPf7DQL8cZoS3qeO9e52Fes_F7QM4ZF0UOnzFJcT2Ffz7zn4m8o1h-Oq6sNgaieNTvf4pPZRyQeL4y3tz92r6i3uEJybI7Whe8E55H3zw/s1600/DSCF5203.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5O4ABfXDo6hIqKCpiW1mULSAyx-I2dxPf7DQL8cZoS3qeO9e52Fes_F7QM4ZF0UOnzFJcT2Ffz7zn4m8o1h-Oq6sNgaieNTvf4pPZRyQeL4y3tz92r6i3uEJybI7Whe8E55H3zw/s400/DSCF5203.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The abandoned smelting furnaces of Pozos, one of the many ghost towns left over from the mining boom in Central Mexico.</td></tr>
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There was a definite change when heading north out of Mexico City. The roads are wider and better-maintained than in the south; malls and supermarkets become a common fixture of the urban landscape; and things are generally neater and tidier. Queretaro is home to large industrial estates of factories both large and small, heavy and light, including a sprawling Samsung complex that supplies much of the Americas with smartphones and laptops. The industrial theme continued ever more strongly the further north I went until I reached Monterrey.</div>
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The "Sultana of the North" feels like a whole different country. Cowboy hats are common (as I was soon to find out, more so than even in Texas), trucks are bigger, and people walk with a swagger. The city has a strong independent streak and its inhabitants cultivate a distinct identity from the capital. Although just as welcoming as other Mexicans, they take pride in being hard workers and entrepreneurs. For long a bit of a backwater and playing not just second fiddle, but more like ninth or tenth, to the urban centres to the south, that all changed with its rapid industrialisation beginning in the late eighteen hundreds. The centrepiece of its importance was the Fundidora steel mill that drew further factories like a magnet and the city hasn't looked back since. Its affluent confidence is evident in the heart of downtown where a dozen city blocks were razed in the 80's to create what is today the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_city_squares_by_size" target="_blank">fifth-largest</a> urban square in the world. And although its steel industry died in the mid 80's, like many post-industrial cities it has converted its erstwhile heavy industry park into a gentrified leisure area, complete with boating pond, sculpture gardens, ice-skating rink, art galleries, free bicycle rental, concert hall and, most fun of all, a science museum in an old foundry.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4jYwOL9AZ5MRnp1aUsY69LNSls4XPERczNpe_U_AaFLvxAjz0nYEIEkFLLg862Arf_tkm_kOt9RkBJp9FedUNXT12c2n_51HGfbLtiwjYn3ciu-tmcjP8f4yTMF7ttM-bht-lLg/s1600/DSCF5441.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4jYwOL9AZ5MRnp1aUsY69LNSls4XPERczNpe_U_AaFLvxAjz0nYEIEkFLLg862Arf_tkm_kOt9RkBJp9FedUNXT12c2n_51HGfbLtiwjYn3ciu-tmcjP8f4yTMF7ttM-bht-lLg/s400/DSCF5441.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Horno3, one of the old steel foundries in the Parque Fundidora, that has now been converted into a hands-on science museum.</td></tr>
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However Monterrey and Queretaro were bookends, albeit pleasant ones, to the highlight of my north Mexico trip. I have seen untold colonial towns, historical museums, mountain landscapes, big cities, churches, mosques, rainforests and tropical islands. I still enjoy seeing the variety and local history of each and every place I visit, but I particularly treasure places that are unique and one-of-a-kind in the world. It just so happens that there is such a place some 250km northeast of Queretaro on the gulf side of the Sierra Madre by the small, mountain town of Xilitla. A pretty unremarkable place, yet the slopes behind town are home to one of the greatest syntheses of art and architecture of the 20th century.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHePvwCkoW-FGRE9r-oVIZx6N3olBzL-qpHdDbMDkXiDeOPCU8PaK5YOpZWHGoZMDfVVuSZnTNv7HOW_H5tsLAEDwv4Ts5uDGDaJF8PzkZE9c82BDPFW6eTedcMWBbEbAiWs-GKQ/s1600/DSCF5360.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHePvwCkoW-FGRE9r-oVIZx6N3olBzL-qpHdDbMDkXiDeOPCU8PaK5YOpZWHGoZMDfVVuSZnTNv7HOW_H5tsLAEDwv4Ts5uDGDaJF8PzkZE9c82BDPFW6eTedcMWBbEbAiWs-GKQ/s400/DSCF5360.JPG" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A peek through a doorway into the weird world of Edward James.</td></tr>
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Edward James was born in Britain, the only son and heir of a sizeable fortune. As with many who were born into money in Britain, he went to the best schools and universities (Eton followed by Oxford) on a well-trodden path to a life of comfort, indolence and venal pleasures. Along the way though he met the likes of Evelyn Waugh and John Betjeman and was drawn to the world of the arts and arts patronage. In the 30's he became a major patron of surrealist artists, especially Salvador Dali and Rene Magritte. With the coming of WWII he moved to America and after a holiday in Mexico decided to create his very own "Garden of Eden" according to his particular surrealist tastes. And thus was born the incredible estate at Las Pozas. Here the only thing limiting the fantastical buildings and sculptures of the complex, which climbs a jungle-clad hillside gushing with fast-flowing streams, was James's overactive imagination. Pavilions combine elements of Gothic, Art Nouveau, Escheresque constructions and organic shapes mimicking James's beloved orchids. Fantastical pavilion after pavilion is hidden away amongst the thick jungle foliage, at times seemingly part of the forest. A walk through the labyrinthine maze of winding pathways is like a journey through the rabbit hole to a very peculiar reality indeed. It's safe to say that there is nowhere in the world like Las Pozas and probably never will be, as the combination of personal eccentricity, financial independence, and artistic flair required to create such an oeuvre is rare indeed. It's hard to imagine then that such a wonder was almost lost after the death of James in the 80's, and the estate was largely neglected. Recently, however, its worth has been recognised and there is a concerted effort to save and restore the site to its oddball, surrealist glory; a testament to one man's dedication to his chosen art.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSvbi-piFzGLXyJQRiJkGgy1nut929k7mIexH-c7v8AvbIdCoxYO6-zt_FVxygQU6G0Yg36C1cT1MB3qJnfbDjbRH2cpf10YehfhJpIJu6YcU_B80Ae_BMomNS4w_JtherwHBsoQ/s1600/DSCF5381.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSvbi-piFzGLXyJQRiJkGgy1nut929k7mIexH-c7v8AvbIdCoxYO6-zt_FVxygQU6G0Yg36C1cT1MB3qJnfbDjbRH2cpf10YehfhJpIJu6YcU_B80Ae_BMomNS4w_JtherwHBsoQ/s400/DSCF5381.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The fantastical constructions at Las Pozas, fruit of James's fecund imagination, are among the most intriguing displays of architectural whimsy in the world.</td></tr>
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<br />Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903199424734773952noreply@blogger.com0Xilitla, San Luis Potosi, Mexico21.383169 -98.99117321.3683835 -99.011343 21.397954499999997 -98.97100300000001tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7447699.post-89171846834768380182013-10-15T14:38:00.000+01:002013-10-30T14:39:34.062+00:00Mexican Interlude<div style="text-align: justify;">
I spent a few more days in Mexico city with my parents seeing some sites, spending time with my cousins who live there, before they had to fly back home. It was important seeing them again and knowing that I'll be back home with them soon. As well as revisiting family I had mundane matters to take care of, such as repairing my laptop screen and finding another rucksack buckle for the interim one I had bought back in Lima and that had cracked in El Salvador. I didn't feel the need to do much sight-seeing though, having been in Mexico City before. In fact it was here that I started my first round the world trip, all the way <a href="http://tchecossais.blogspot.com/2004_09_01_archive.html" target="_blank">back in </a>2004, and it was the first time that I had ventured out of my Europe-USA-Canada comfort zone. It was here that my worldly learning curve began and so returning was thought-provoking exercise in reviewing past experiences and opinions and seeing how much my thoughts had changed in the intervening years.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh356Nk31GP0Ov1WjbsAy6uTSPeuj9SQbB0sQHrPFZP6JZCG8LPJJYR996nnJh-1mRXDCENsTb8qcoH4SBUyjtmgeLJvQE6HP5mXPsIjXDmmJqgeYUotcT1YDfog795MzaFEYD_ZQ/s1600/DSCF5461.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh356Nk31GP0Ov1WjbsAy6uTSPeuj9SQbB0sQHrPFZP6JZCG8LPJJYR996nnJh-1mRXDCENsTb8qcoH4SBUyjtmgeLJvQE6HP5mXPsIjXDmmJqgeYUotcT1YDfog795MzaFEYD_ZQ/s400/DSCF5461.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Big public education sign exhorting people to pay for their electricity and to adopt a more "legal culture". The non-payment of taxes and services is a huge burden on many developing countries where the bureaucratic infrastructure often can't cope</td></tr>
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I remember noting back then that Mexico was far more developed, the people like "us" and the cities like "ours" than my media upbringing had led me to believe. Looking on now, with eyes that have traversed (almost) all of Latin America, it's no wonder. Partly because the media images we are fed tend to, invariably, be false and misleading, but also because Mexico is easily one of the wealthiest and most developed countries in the region (only outdone by Chile and Panama). It might be bottom of the OECD rankings for most quality of life indicators, but at least it's in the OECD. Signs of relative prosperity are everywhere: new cars, decent transport infrastructure (though my dad would have something to say about the roads), the greater frequency of receipts in shops*, and the emphasis of public health campaigns on issues such as autism and people with disabilities, rather than basic preventable diseases that mainly afflict poorer countries. Of course there is substantial disparity within the country. The south, with its more rural population, small-scale agriculture and patchier infrastructure lags behind the north, with its educated, urban population and legions of factories and <i>maquilladoras</i> that service the hungry American market. But by and large it feels like a country that is on the up. Its politics is (ever so slowly) getting more transparent, the youth are no longer eagerly dreaming of emigrating to America, to become busboys, gardeners or maids, and would rather pursue meaningful careers at home.</div>
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Serendipitously, as well as seeing my cousins, my time in Mexico allowed me to see two friends. Lisbeth, who I have known since my student days, has recently moved back to Mexico after spending several years working at the University of California in San Diego, and is a great example of a Mexican out of choice because of better opportunities, family ties and work-life balance. It was wonderful to be able to reconnect after so many years and catch up on our various paths up until now, plus I got the opportunity to have a guided tour of her hometown of Toluca. My second encounter was with John, an American who had hosted me in <a href="http://tchecossais.blogspot.com/2010/12/ima-vreme.html" target="_blank">Macedonia</a> whilst he had been doing his Peace Corps service there. He has long-since returned and is now working in a bilingual school in an upmarket district of Mexico City, so we met up for tacos and a chat to revisit the intervening three years (it's only when I look back like this that I see how long it has been). All in all Mexico City was a welcome stop to recharge, regroup and rest before the final home straight.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2wz3n3zCekSfO9O_zMSWTTlrz4P9GjSxoJgWN1c5FD99m1hyphenhyphenO5a8jpcqiMz-ovtkKCa594RkQEb_uESKu-VNPHOh55vHYTCz5gRq4-U0oVpUtCqR8AfGy1avZhtQIHQb6BeiXEw/s1600/DSCF4883.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2wz3n3zCekSfO9O_zMSWTTlrz4P9GjSxoJgWN1c5FD99m1hyphenhyphenO5a8jpcqiMz-ovtkKCa594RkQEb_uESKu-VNPHOh55vHYTCz5gRq4-U0oVpUtCqR8AfGy1avZhtQIHQb6BeiXEw/s400/DSCF4883.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lisbeth showing me round the, surprisingly impressive, Cosmovitral, one of the largest works of stained glass in the world, and pretty cool to boot.</td></tr>
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*It may seem like an odd thing to notice, but receipts are a good proxy for a working bureaucracy, as transactions that generate receipts are logged and generate governmental revenue in the form of sales tax. Many developing countries find it difficult to fund public spending because tax revenue is low and very little of it comes from private income or internal spending.</div>
Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903199424734773952noreply@blogger.com0Mexico City, Federal District, Mexico19.4326077 -99.13320799999996818.9531097 -99.778654999999972 19.912105699999998 -98.487760999999963tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7447699.post-964734195755535222013-10-07T19:04:00.000+01:002013-10-18T19:08:26.325+01:00Pyramidal<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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At Chetumal, on the Mexican side of the border with Belize, I was met by my parents. Although I had seen my father a year ago I hadn't seen my mother in two and a half years ... and well, family is family. So my parents had decided to come out and travel with me for a while, see me and use my services as a tour guide in Mexico. They had already driven down from Mexico City and together we were to drive back up, catching some sights along the way. Of course with a hired car and staying in hotels this was not the sort of travelling I was used to, but I was determined not to let the softness get to me and tried to gently nudge them a little bit towards the edges of their comfort zone.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH3qHFHtjDnLm0pF1W0Tieyu85J0kc6AdfoMUJSSoRbSu6l7RfKYoOhnhZzZIYqtDn8ZsgovSzn3BKPFiF6a0jJXvvms4svABNgNhyphenhyphendmXSNnJX8a8I0FhcFW5Yl3eA0YfXO2tErg/s1600/DSCF4201.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH3qHFHtjDnLm0pF1W0Tieyu85J0kc6AdfoMUJSSoRbSu6l7RfKYoOhnhZzZIYqtDn8ZsgovSzn3BKPFiF6a0jJXvvms4svABNgNhyphenhyphendmXSNnJX8a8I0FhcFW5Yl3eA0YfXO2tErg/s400/DSCF4201.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An advantage of travelling with my parents is that I get to eat far better than I usually do. Here we stopped at a lovely little seafood restaurant on the Caribbean coast in Veracruz.</td></tr>
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One advantage of travelling with my parents was the mobility that a hire car gave us, allowing us to visit places that would have taken me significantly longer under my own steam, most notably the magical Mayan ruins of Calakmul. In Mexico Palenque and Chichen Itza are the big Mayan draws, but their ease of accessibility draws throngs of visitors every day of the week regardless of the season. Calakmul, on the other hand, lies close to the Guatemalan border slap bang in the middle of a giant biosphere reserve, reached solely via a 60km, bumpy, potholed access road. You have to want to get there. But if you do, you are royally rewarded with temples, steles and towering pyramids lifting you up above the canopy affording views not just of the treetops, but the spider monkeys swinging through them, the odd flitting jungle birds, and, even more importantly, the bloody mosquitoes don't fly that high. The tranquility from this man-made perch overlooking a vast, unbroken expanse of nature is the ideal place to wax philosophical. The Mayans reached a high degree of technological sophistication, cleared the jungle for miles for agriculture, leading to a population boom, which in turn further necessitated more farmland for the additional people, which ultimately led to a catastrophic change in the climate (jungles are far better at creating rain than fields are) that wiped out the ancient Mayan civilisation. Thank god that we humans learn from our past mistakes...</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDoMGTln2wBvUYZAoaA5R-lH78uVqo4XfervTd1Opj_3FnY7slYxVohzoJLWSL63DEtJ9CXQOFhMZxGUCknfGwr3zNYHmdbvV6cuCuJEJz4nUMOjtQZvPcnt_OwUMbcNellzBqsQ/s1600/DSCF4161.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDoMGTln2wBvUYZAoaA5R-lH78uVqo4XfervTd1Opj_3FnY7slYxVohzoJLWSL63DEtJ9CXQOFhMZxGUCknfGwr3zNYHmdbvV6cuCuJEJz4nUMOjtQZvPcnt_OwUMbcNellzBqsQ/s400/DSCF4161.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of Calakmul's giant pyramids (about 50m tall) peeking through the high jungle canopy.</td></tr>
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We hugged the gulf coast curving ever more northwards through the state of Veracruz, where the main road balances along thin spits separating inland lagoons from the Caribbean. My parents had been unlucky with the weather (though not as unlucky as the residents of Acapulco) when they first arrived in Mexico City and had to stay for a few days longer waiting for the tropical storms to abate before they could head south. On this return leg it was impossible to tell that the country had experienced some of its worst storms in living memory, with blue skies, and only the occasional shower, accompanying us along the way.By the time we reached the intriguing ruins of El Tajin though I had had my fill of coastal heat and humidity and was hankering for something more civilised. So our route then took us up to the central plateau, past the giant volcanoes of Orizaba, Itza and Popo(catepetl), the latter still smoking dangerously. Here, in the geographical heart of Mexico, is where most of the population live, where the high altitude provides a more temperate and pleasant climate, not dissimilar to southern Europe. Gone are the humid jungles and sugar-cane plantations of the lowlands, to be replaced by gently rolling fields of maize and pastureland, ringed by the twin branches of the Sierra Madre. This is not only where the Aztecs reigned, but also where the Spaniards preferred to set up shop when they came conquistadoring through. This is where you'll find the jewels of Mexican colonial history.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEPh_ubZEa-4cPTFgfgetb6JhsIRMbCem4awEDCaDrFhx1cX248dkEDnnvVSb7r49ULpOl-9m0FLej17eAjuUm4V5Pr8-JDfC1pvTj7mA_6VlQVEHPwQAdy1fpQhLH7ff0pyWDYQ/s1600/DSCF4479.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEPh_ubZEa-4cPTFgfgetb6JhsIRMbCem4awEDCaDrFhx1cX248dkEDnnvVSb7r49ULpOl-9m0FLej17eAjuUm4V5Pr8-JDfC1pvTj7mA_6VlQVEHPwQAdy1fpQhLH7ff0pyWDYQ/s400/DSCF4479.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mexico's cultural wealth resides not just in archaeological ruins and colonial towns, but in a unique and vibrant folk heritage that has blended Spanish and indigenous flavours to create its own signature dish.</td></tr>
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Puebla is Mexico's fourth-largest city. Founded in 1531 in a wide plain it exhibits the classic colonial urban grid pattern, and its historic core is the most extensive in the country. From its majestic cathedral occupying an entire city block, to rows of neat, two-storey colonial buildings, either with brick-tile facades or painted in vivid pastel colours: blue, crimson, yellow. The architectural heritage runs all the way from renaissance, through to baroque and beyond. The many squares and plazas are meeting places for friends, families and lovers, whilst the evening cool brings out mariachi bands like urban crickets. It is here that you find the archetype of Mexican-ness (Mexicanity?). Of course nothing is this idyllic, and many colonial towns are built upon dark historical foundations.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoKExhDXMCJmn_3UachyBtlXUSGcp0x_QMaNEIVC9GDDoZ5P4RpbsV1quC9teNOkxxxaOV9gWElNmKHfiJL143ZuGKLkPCHMSiwXcehp-zZAfkEQepaP2GR2OBWSMoMSJKz4OL7g/s1600/DSCF4432.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoKExhDXMCJmn_3UachyBtlXUSGcp0x_QMaNEIVC9GDDoZ5P4RpbsV1quC9teNOkxxxaOV9gWElNmKHfiJL143ZuGKLkPCHMSiwXcehp-zZAfkEQepaP2GR2OBWSMoMSJKz4OL7g/s400/DSCF4432.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I wish our churches in Europe were this colourful.</td></tr>
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The nearby town of Cholula has been engulfed by Puebla's urban sprawl, yet the centre retains its own, distinctive character. Cholula is famous for its abundance of churches, which partly represents the religious fervour of the early Spanish settlers, but also the cultural cataclysm that came with their arrival. Cholula is built upon a once-prosperous pre-Hispanic city of the same name. It was amongst the largest of the Aztec empire and an important religious centre. In an effort to cow the Aztecs of the capital (Mexico City was built on top of the Aztec capital of Tenochtitlan) Hernan Cortes and his conquistadors slaughtered some 6000 nobles and men of the city. They then set about building a church for every temple they destroyed
(there are about 50 in the small town today), including one on a prominent
hill in the centre of town. Ironically what the Spaniards, and even possibly the local inhabitants of that time, failed to realise was that it was an overgrown pyramid from a previous civilisation. It wasn't until the late 19th century that archaeologists finally figured out that it was, in fact, a man-made structure. In fact the Cholula pyramid is the second-largest in the world (by volume), only a little behind the Pyramid of Cheops in Egypt. It just goes to show that you never know what you will find when you scratch a little below the surface.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh64BU3DJ_REDwnqDL-_NihHs0jAMQjRY18S5EQhPkSf6KNey7SWPAnokjx2X9_qLcigo754zKij7VptVa1n3bpka7IbxIg2FXdM1RUxAaeMRjKw7DKVz0I3modzle_qR3tf6BKQ/s1600/DSCF4389.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh64BU3DJ_REDwnqDL-_NihHs0jAMQjRY18S5EQhPkSf6KNey7SWPAnokjx2X9_qLcigo754zKij7VptVa1n3bpka7IbxIg2FXdM1RUxAaeMRjKw7DKVz0I3modzle_qR3tf6BKQ/s400/DSCF4389.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The overgrown Great Pyramid of Cholula with its church plonked on top dominates the town's skyline and can be easily seen from miles around.</td></tr>
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Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903199424734773952noreply@blogger.com0Puebla, Mexico19.0412967 -98.20619959999999118.8011397 -98.528923099999986 19.2814537 -97.8834761tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7447699.post-75900259859063077012013-09-29T16:47:00.000+01:002013-10-12T01:05:51.161+01:00You Better Belize It<div style="text-align: justify;">
Belize is an odd country. In pretty much every way imaginable it is different from its Central American neighbours. Geographically firmly ensconced in the Central American region, but culturally much more Caribbean. Surrounded by Spanish-speaking countries yet anglophone. It remained a colony until 1981 whilst the rest of the region gained their independence 160 years earlier. Though partly thanks to that it has been a haven of stability whilst all around there has been turmoil and strife. It's a midget in terms of population, with fewer inhabitants than the Bahamas and fully an order of magnitude less than its neighbours. But what's it really like?</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCrfqCEg8BVKRN-Sw-5rtbFyTBd_MWcHWl9eS0VpjtIcYm3B4fnQkUJBvfp7O6JVOTf5g80lRYU-RhM06fLnHazYPoUOtWnIWR3GuL5KAToL9QLuk9hSO8UkpH0BdJlL-GNtf42w/s1600/DSCF3990.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCrfqCEg8BVKRN-Sw-5rtbFyTBd_MWcHWl9eS0VpjtIcYm3B4fnQkUJBvfp7O6JVOTf5g80lRYU-RhM06fLnHazYPoUOtWnIWR3GuL5KAToL9QLuk9hSO8UkpH0BdJlL-GNtf42w/s400/DSCF3990.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Although I missed Belize's independence celebrations by a day the bunting was still up during the length of my stay (do they ever take it down?). Here you can see that there is still fondness and attachment towards its ex colonial master.</td></tr>
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I arrived in Belize by boat from Puerto Barrios, Guatemala's Caribbean port. As soon as I arrived things were different. Not just that the officials spoke English, but that they were official too. All very proper, searched my bag, only the second time that's happened in the Americas (the other being when crossing from Colombia to Panama, though there's it's understandable due to drug trafficking), and had my two bananas that I had been saving up for lunch confiscated (apparently fruit flies can only get from Guatemala to Belize via boat and not by flying across their shared land border). Punto Gorda, the port on the Belizean side, was comatose. It was a Sunday and the day before had been Independence Day, so I was willing to overlook the fact. I was struck, though, by how much neater and tidier the place was than similar towns in the region.Aged wooden houses, but set within individual, well-tended gardens and little litter. Obviously the British rather than the Spanish influence at work there.</div>
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Since nothing much was happening in PG (as it is known in Belize) I got on a bus heading north. Everywhere in Belize you can pay either in US dollars or local Belizean dollars, which are pegged to a handy 2:1 ratio. It was somehow comforting to see Liz on a banknote again. I stopped off at the Mayan ruins of Nim Li Punit (not only does the name sound fun and friendly, but even more so when you learn that it means "Big Headdress"after a carved stele found at the site of a king with what looks like the world's biggest afro). To be honest the ruins were rather underwhelming, but the jungle setting, with uninterrupted birdsong and no other visitors (there had been about a dozen that whole week) made it a tranquil place. A perfect place, I thought, to spend the night in my tent (not at the ruins themselves, as that would be rude, but by the little visitor centre). I'd done it a few times before and never had any problems. So I asked the caretaker, a young Mayan guy from the village by the main road, if it'd be OK to pitch my tent there. He seemed rather uncomfortable and worried he might get into trouble and instead suggested I head down the road to a farm where I might be able to stay. A little disappointed I agreed (I certainly wouldn't want to get someone into trouble) and set off. I hadn't got far when a little kid came running up behind me to tell me that I could pitch my tent in their front yard.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-aH215-YTTOXYvoPyoNzdJkGYqLEmJuMXqV9n3VL-qHwWKo47NnfW2iPT1lB-uYnhwjftqN0dCyHufuDbkbt-I15HpV01yTdqJbNXzHxGBB7yV0Gk5WkpuV_ClmpDpYdAA3j5Aw/s1600/DSCF3999.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-aH215-YTTOXYvoPyoNzdJkGYqLEmJuMXqV9n3VL-qHwWKo47NnfW2iPT1lB-uYnhwjftqN0dCyHufuDbkbt-I15HpV01yTdqJbNXzHxGBB7yV0Gk5WkpuV_ClmpDpYdAA3j5Aw/s400/DSCF3999.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The houses of the poor Maya community may be basic, but they are meticulously tended and looked after.</td></tr>
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Not one for walking any further than I need to I gladly accepted and set up my tent between the chicken coop and the dog kennel as the children watched on fascinated by my strange contraption. The people in the village were all Kekchi Maya and so it was strange for me to speak to them in English when throughout my travels to date I had been addressing all similarly indigenous looking people in Spanish. Equally odd for me were the kids' names: Kevin, Ian and Harry. Time to scratch another stereotype. It was fascinating talking to them and hearing their stories over the dinner of tortillas and soup that they offered me. The head of the household had, like so many other of the Mayan population, that comprise a tenth of the country's population, come over from Guatemala as a child to flee the genocide perpetrated against the Mayans by the military dictatorship. And although they didn't have electricity in the village (admittedly a rarity in Belize) they were content with their lives and positive about their prospects and those of their children. The central message was undoubtedly that they were happy to be living in Belize rather than Guatemala.<br />
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The next day I packed up my bags and continued on to Belmopan, Belize's capital since 1970, after <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hurricane_Hattie" target="_blank">hurricane Hattie</a> convinced the country's leaders that a coastal capital in a hurricane zone was not a great idea. Although the government and ministries have moved, many people are still reluctant to leave the bright city lights (and the term is used in a purely relative way here) of Belize City, giving the place a small, suburban feel. Not a great suburbanite myself I soon joined the action (such as it is) in Belize. It will never be one of the world's metropolises, but there was a little buzz and a greater Creole presence, whereas in other parts of the country mestizos have become the majority group and Spanish is as prevalent as English. (Creoles used to form a majority in the country, but over the past 30 years there has been an influx of mestizos from neighbouring countries whilst Creoles have emigrated, mainly to the US. Mestizos are now the majority, but it seemed to me that there is a good deal of harmony between the different ethnic groups.) I partook of the national dish of rice and beans (pronounced as a single word <i>riceahnbeens</i>), which is basically identical to Nicaragua and Costa Rica's <i>gallo pinto</i> ("spotted rooster", even though it contains no poultry), only here the name actually allows you to guess what the ingredients might actually be, before embarking to see the country's only substantial site: the barrier reef.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8yfuxUumQQrF81lwbCod4jxm79f4WfzwEvHnYvJ0gtdJyXj2MGZrXw_DtwzcbosZpVRqQi2K-YuxBUZ_V3wj1kTNJY4TCvGmzCsQXH5b_Ii2rIMk_rmMOoBWMyRz44iCHSJ_NEw/s1600/DSCF4016.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8yfuxUumQQrF81lwbCod4jxm79f4WfzwEvHnYvJ0gtdJyXj2MGZrXw_DtwzcbosZpVRqQi2K-YuxBUZ_V3wj1kTNJY4TCvGmzCsQXH5b_Ii2rIMk_rmMOoBWMyRz44iCHSJ_NEw/s400/DSCF4016.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"You work, I'll watch." Taking it easy is a national philosophy in Belize.</td></tr>
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Belize's barrier reef is acknowledged to be the second largest in the world and the largest reef system in the northern hemisphere by a considerable margin. It is famous for its tropical paradise cayes and atolls. The former are reached by public water taxis and have small communities as well as hotels, whereas the latter are further out, accessible only by chartered boat, and home to exclusive boutique hotels. It didn't take me long to make my choice, and in fact I even managed to find, amongst the beachside hotels, pizza joints, bars and tour operators, a cat shelter in Caye Caulker that allowed camping for a meagre fee. A bargain I thought until I experienced the persistent sand flies, so small that they could flit through the mesh of my tent inner forcing me to decamp to the end of a jetty where I only had a few adventurous mosquitoes to deal with. And although the cats left me alone one of them peed on my flysheet before I left.<br />
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But I was here for the reef and not to worry about terrestrial pests. The reef's iconic image is the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Great_Blue_Hole" target="_blank">Great Blue Hole</a>, made famous by old Jacques Cousteau, where one can dive down to 40m along its sheer walls. Unfortunately there were no tours heading out there during my stay (but fortunately for my wallet, as a trip costs upwards of $200 per person) so I had to make do with snorkelling some nearer reefs that, although not as spectacular, were still rich in marine life such as rays, green turtles, barracuda and schools of placid nurse sharks. It would also be my last opportunity to bask in a tropical sea, marvel at colourful corals, and get sunburnt before heading north to cooler climes.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2e_6aIIHzYZzd5GnIeRkNqphyQ5pa086vSDyoLvoxPJwejXbM-BCnerELkwSOdXn0K8Oo88LduKanmXyc61Lvn1JblMpKYcgIwbLWKi9HAEb-KDrMQNj6MqKD0dpH_Eg-yfMOOA/s1600/DSCF4090.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2e_6aIIHzYZzd5GnIeRkNqphyQ5pa086vSDyoLvoxPJwejXbM-BCnerELkwSOdXn0K8Oo88LduKanmXyc61Lvn1JblMpKYcgIwbLWKi9HAEb-KDrMQNj6MqKD0dpH_Eg-yfMOOA/s400/DSCF4090.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nurse sharks swarming round our boat to get fish scraps. Although some of them were twice as large as me they are docile and (almost) totally harmless.</td></tr>
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*I find countries where the capital has the same name as the country, such as Panama, Guatemala and Belize, confusing as it's not always clear whether someone is talking about the city or the country.</div>
Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903199424734773952noreply@blogger.com0Belize17.189877 -88.49765000000002113.3092195 -93.661224000000018 21.0705345 -83.334076000000024tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7447699.post-81370395906823637902013-09-23T05:26:00.000+01:002013-10-07T05:54:54.127+01:00Pirates Of The Caribbean<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="text-align: justify;">When the Spaniards first colonised the Americas their primary interest was gold and silver. Initially taken directly from the local civilisations, such as the Aztec and the Inca, and then extracted from the rich mines of Potosi, Guanajuato and Taxco. Once every year two great convoys of ships would sail from Cadiz to Havana before splitting up, one heading for <a href="http://tchecossais.blogspot.mx/2013/08/in-zone.html" target="_blank">Portobelo</a> in Panama, and the other to Veracruz on the central Gulf coast of Mexico. For centuries these were the only Spanish ports in the Americas allowed to trade with Europe.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnw3yfUiXq7ol9erX2kZT7Uvo2VSfZoTOgNSNDWpbaIb44mI9XtBi54ttHVuZkb_ISucsqREaZT20jK08EvXG4B_7B9nUwjpl2uhVeZhofymJbR6uEOBFAVucYCwI4x2eSJn_UbA/s1600/DSCF4032.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnw3yfUiXq7ol9erX2kZT7Uvo2VSfZoTOgNSNDWpbaIb44mI9XtBi54ttHVuZkb_ISucsqREaZT20jK08EvXG4B_7B9nUwjpl2uhVeZhofymJbR6uEOBFAVucYCwI4x2eSJn_UbA/s400/DSCF4032.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Even for Latin American standards the pace of life on the Caribbean coast is slow. It may seem idyllic, but the heat, humidity, sand flies and mosquitoes</td></tr>
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The reason only these ports were used is pretty simple: there almost were no other Spanish-controlled ports on the east coast of the Americas. The entire eastern coast of Central America was a damp, sweltering, swampy, disease-ridden hellhole that the Spanish preferred to avoid. This allowed the local indigenous groups to survive whilst the generally more advanced peoples of the interior and Pacific coast were decimated and assimilated by the conquistadors. Some outsiders did move in though, as they found the conditions ideal for their purposes. Pirates hated official attention, and the cover provided by the sparse Caribbean coast was perfect for hiding from the Spanish and launching raids on shipping and unprotected communities. Indeed, although the Spanish crown lay claim to the entirety of the Central American mainland, their authority stopped well short of the east coast. Along with the pirates, who settled down and became (semi-)respectable citizens in Belize, the British got friendly with the local Miskito Indians and ended up controlling the entire Nicaraguan and Honduran Caribbean coast (known as the Mosquito Coast) by cannily offering the Miskitos British protection and at the same time giving them muskets (which some claim is the origin for their name) with which to fight the Spanish. It wasn't until the turn of the last century that the Mosquito Coast came under any semblance of Nicaraguan or Honduran rule. To this day you're just as well off with (West Indies) English as with Spanish if you go to Bluefields, Nicaragua's main town on the Caribbean.</div>
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Of the new arrivals the most interesting to me are the little-known Garifuna. An ethnic group formed by the mixing of Carib natives from the island of Saint Vincent and African slaves brought over by European colonists. After Britain wrested control of the island from the French in the 18th century the Garifuna were considered a threat and deported to the coast of Honduras. They soon spread, forming fishing and farming communities stretching all the way from northern Nicaragua to southern Belize. Their language is a mix of Carib Indian, along with west African, English and French, while the people for the most part look black. But they are best known for their distinctive music and dance styles, which bring Afro-Caribbean rhythms to Latin America. A fascinating legacy of colonial history, European rivalry, cultural blending and cultural resilience made flesh in a friendly, fun-loving people.<br />
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It wasn't until the beginning of the last century that transport connections were made and the coast opened up. The driving force was bananas and the big American companies that ended up controlling vast tracts of land (and the governments too) to feed Western appetites for the yellow fruit. That said, most communities on the Caribbean coast are still only accessible by boat or via very poor dirt roads that are often impassable. Even today the Caribbean region is often considered as a different planet by mainstream citizens of Central American countries, from Costa Rica all the way up to Guatemala (more Costa Ricans have probably been to Miami, than to their only Caribbean port of Limon). In fact up until after WWII inhabitants of the Caribbean coastal region of Nicaragua were not permitted to travel to the western half of the country.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_vM-s-hZ9Kw5ts-mFkVDfOodV7pkX2uZcl4T10pWAL2DwyvjdIfROdEUEl4J0k-R_Yua4K5Z3im9C1PhFWs0M5ecxyUzd3PY9Y2eMVQRyWKX0eTPyLtZ8Z-wQquItRByWtyK-RA/s1600/DSCF3982.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_vM-s-hZ9Kw5ts-mFkVDfOodV7pkX2uZcl4T10pWAL2DwyvjdIfROdEUEl4J0k-R_Yua4K5Z3im9C1PhFWs0M5ecxyUzd3PY9Y2eMVQRyWKX0eTPyLtZ8Z-wQquItRByWtyK-RA/s400/DSCF3982.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Who's your daddy? Although American banana companies don't rule the country like they used to, they still are a dominant force in the local economy. The Caribbean port of Puerto Barrios sees scores of trucks hauling containers of bananas rumbling through every day.</td></tr>
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I love travelling and the vast majority of my experiences are wonderful
and enriching. Sometimes, however, things don't go according to plan and
mishaps and accidents occur. Rather than candy-coat my entire
travellingexperience I want to share a particularly bad couple of days
where nothing seemed to go my way. It started when I was staying in the
quaint little town of Lanquin. It's the gateway to a beautiful, karst
region of Guatemala and I was camping by a swift little river. Idyllic. However I hadn't counted on the local fauna. When I went to enter my tent in the evening I started to lift the flap of my flysheet when suddenly I felt as if my hand had been sprayed with acid. Instinctively pulling away I went to wash my hand and get something to shed some light (literally) on the situation. When I returned and carefully lifted up the flap I saw ants crawling all over the place. They had found a small piece of cake that I had tightly wrapped and hung up. In the past this tactic has worked well for me as, in my experience, they can't scent food that is suspended above the ground. Obviously these were not only highly sensitive little buggers, but they were also very aggressive. They managed to chew through my tent in several places and were spraying me with acid as well as biting me. I decided that discretion truly is the better part of valour and left them alone for the night and decamped to a hammock a safe distance away. Good thing too as it turns out I'm a little allergic to ant acid and my face puffed up a bit.</div>
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The next day, armed with plastic bags to cover my hands and trousers tucked firmly into my socks, I spent a good hour removing the pesky blighters from my tent and rucksack before packing up and heading off. I was aiming for Flores, the main gateway to Tikal and the Peten region. There are tourist shuttle buses that connect Lanquin, but I believe very strongly that if you're on some means of transport and locals are outnumbered by foreigners, then you're doing something wrong. So instead I hopped from one bus to another to get there. Along one bone-jarring, mountainous stretch the bus was so packed that I had to get up onto the roof with the luggage, and soon even the roof became crowded ... and then it started to rain. Luckily someone pulled out a tarp which we pulled over the top of our heads and clung onto to stop it from flying away. Certainly a first for me. Unfortunately when I arrived in Flores and finally found a hostel, I discovered someone - almost certainly a heavy someone - had decided to use my bag as a seat and now my laptop's screen was cracked and useless, with little prospect of getting it fixed until I get to Mexico. Apart from the added expense, it will make things more problematic for me (it's amazing how much time I spend online - not just writing this blog, but also researching future destinations and keeping in touch with friends and family). Then the next morning, just to add insult to injury, the zip on my camera died on me and my lens cap inexplicably jammed tight. Luckily I use a filter so I can still take photos by unscrewing the filter, but it's another annoyance I don't need.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic2gUjha0q4oG1bZPn7W2PkKTdzWLqNxj_CSBqoruGRQOaFfs3dKASNvl1T8aa5OWIbA3LiQooeCty0jqWCZ_jHa3LVnYNRy9dxgl6xXR62SvhBRDLlXhmOCkuYTN3Tc7nIBcIvA/s1600/DSCF4325.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic2gUjha0q4oG1bZPn7W2PkKTdzWLqNxj_CSBqoruGRQOaFfs3dKASNvl1T8aa5OWIbA3LiQooeCty0jqWCZ_jHa3LVnYNRy9dxgl6xXR62SvhBRDLlXhmOCkuYTN3Tc7nIBcIvA/s400/DSCF4325.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With my laptop screen broken I have to resort to trying to scrounge a monitor at the hotels I'm staying at and hooking it up by cable. Not particularly elegant, but it's all I can do.</td></tr>
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Just to show you that there are setbacks every now and again and that this travelling lark isn't always plain sailing. Although rarely have I been beset by so many at once. Anyway, I had to take the day and do very little so as to calm down a little and regain my inner Zen before setting off again. Hopefully that's my bad luck exhausted for the rest of the trip.</div>
Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903199424734773952noreply@blogger.com0Puerto Barrios, Guatemala15.7166667 -88.58333329999999315.594382699999999 -88.744694799999991 15.8389507 -88.4219718tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7447699.post-10903111642894742602013-09-20T14:29:00.000+01:002013-11-06T16:09:24.480+00:00Guat's Up?<div style="text-align: justify;">
Of all the countries of Central America Guatemala is hands down the richest in terms of cultural heritage. Not only was its territory was the cradle of the classic Mayan civilisation but, what is less known, it was also the seat of the Spanish viceroyalty that consisted of the entire region, from southern Mexico all the way to Panama. This is where the rich and powerful of colonial Central America lorded it over their indigenous subjects. Even post-independence Guatemala was the dominant country amongst the small statelets of the region. It wasn't until the inevitable civil war of the second half of the last century that pitted left wing intellectuals, reformists and guerrillas against US-backed right wing genocidal military dictatorships and death squads that the country became a byword for violence, danger and rural misery. Things have quietened down a bit over the past 10 years (a lot less violence but still plenty of rural misery as the right wing military elite are still in power) and the tourists have returned to see what they had been missing out on.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF_yM1HX8g9P2wdut5ghMjLYoGgdTQVZ2OuYFexGR5-CXhqxl1yaThB_bJhmePhlCJ4BtFgIhyIDzGbDqlBL3Z8JSdDkGQMzMbySNUNP8MwqatUmmOthG9YyCw-p_W14YRPWvF8g/s1600/DSCF3684.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF_yM1HX8g9P2wdut5ghMjLYoGgdTQVZ2OuYFexGR5-CXhqxl1yaThB_bJhmePhlCJ4BtFgIhyIDzGbDqlBL3Z8JSdDkGQMzMbySNUNP8MwqatUmmOthG9YyCw-p_W14YRPWvF8g/s400/DSCF3684.JPG" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Quiche Maya lady in traditional costume selling embroidery to tourists.</td></tr>
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Antigua* was the centre of colonial Central America. It rivalled the likes of Bogota and Quito in riches and splendour, right up until 1773 when a powerful earthquake flattened the city. What with the earth moving and the nearby mountains smoking the Spaniards realised that they may not have chosen a judicious location for their capital and decamped 40kmeast to what is now Guatemala City, leaving Antigua in ruins. Some, however, decided to stay in the few decent houses amongst the rubble, thereby preventing the place from falling into complete disrepair. So when rich Guatemalans from the capital "rediscovered" Antigua a century ago with its quaint, original colonial charm. Quickly it became a haven for the moneyed elite and expat Gringos, giving the town a faint theme park feel. Nevertheless there is no denying Antigua is the most gorgeous colonial town in all of Central America. And for me the congregation of churches in various stages of decay and ruin - odd pieces of masonry rubble still lying around, the odd stucco angel still clinging to a niche, and traces of fresco still visible on the walls - just serve to add to its beauty. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRVozhub32WUJSYQSUTM2Wxk_1xoMgT_JB0eq0BuBNYpKk4GbyHHhBtR47KeU3C708a2Ao7RJN4WaerIjazF-e1v9DKijjtlT7eeouPg5qVbJPjnKRPyvKfKpxCygwdtyc-ykTRw/s1600/DSCF3590.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRVozhub32WUJSYQSUTM2Wxk_1xoMgT_JB0eq0BuBNYpKk4GbyHHhBtR47KeU3C708a2Ao7RJN4WaerIjazF-e1v9DKijjtlT7eeouPg5qVbJPjnKRPyvKfKpxCygwdtyc-ykTRw/s400/DSCF3590.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Despite lying in ruins for over two centuries Antigua's cathedral still maintains a grandiose majesty.</td></tr>
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If Antigua is the acme of colonial sights, the highlands to its west and north are equally so in regards to indigenous culture. As I've already mentioned, the classic Mayan civilisation disappeared almost a thousand years ago, but the Mayans as a people carried on regardless. Much of the physical heritage has gone, but the intangible is still strong: the language and calendar are still dominant amongst the indigenous community. And although Christianity is the universal religion, it is just a thin veneer over original pagan beliefs. In many places old shrines are regularly visited and offerings given to the old gods and spirits. Certainly you will hear more Mayan, with its pleasantly "clicky" syllables, spoken than Spanish in this region, and colourful traditional clothes are readily seen (at least on women).<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUVleWbCJIrLSDYP0XKB7_uo_BGeeJ8FyyPj2xa3SOWZ6lkg_aovVr-R6evi_vmYR74JS4EAYCW0i6zjwzz_RE5sEY4mDt6jWCgFFTvnqGrYTb4y8kP8RyFhqbgXhOaseZP308Dg/s1600/DSCF3906.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUVleWbCJIrLSDYP0XKB7_uo_BGeeJ8FyyPj2xa3SOWZ6lkg_aovVr-R6evi_vmYR74JS4EAYCW0i6zjwzz_RE5sEY4mDt6jWCgFFTvnqGrYTb4y8kP8RyFhqbgXhOaseZP308Dg/s400/DSCF3906.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pagan rituals are alive and well among Guatemala's indigenous Maya. Nowadays neo-hippies are wanting to get in on the esoteric act as well. I spotted this group of foreign tourists carrying out some wannabe Mayan ritual at Tikal.</td></tr>
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The indigenous and the colonial are nice enough but they're a distant second when it comes to what really draws the tourists to Guatemala. Ancient Mayan pyramids soaring above the canopy of a sea of trees in the middle of the jungle, where you can see eye to eye with swinging monkeys and nesting toucans, is the image that is indelibly linked to Guatemala. The star of the show is undoubtedly Tikal, deep in the lowland forests of Peten. In the 5th-9th centuries AD it was the predominant Mayan city, its rulers subjugating much of the Mayan realm until it too faded into obscurity during the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Classic_Maya_collapse" target="_blank">Mayan collapse</a>. During the height of Tikal's power many towering pyramids were built, with Temple IV (archaeologists are not always the most imaginative of people) topping out at a whopping 70m. Unfortunately due to the wet weather that makes Tikal's polished, mossy, limestone structures treacherously slippery all the tall pyramids were closed off to prevent stupid tourists from falling off and dying. Despite my slight disappointment it is still one of the great ancient ruins of the world, due in part to its jungle setting that affords you the chance to see spider monkeys swinging from the vines overhead, tropical birds flitting from tree to tree, and howler monkeys grunting in the distance. Of course it also means heat, humidity and your own personal cloud of mosquitoes to follow you around, but still magical. I'm only sad I didn't have more time to spend there, because even further into the jungle, near the Mexican border, far from any road that requiring two days of hiking just to get there, lies El Mirador, a ruined city that is almost certainly larger, and significantly older, than Tikal. Excavations are still very much ongoing and every year new structures are brought to light from beneath the enveloping jungle. This is truly the daddy of of all Mayan sites, but one that will have to wait for some other time.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEEtz1mO81ILlPRZKpdWd4HVisfX4raaMHCIWzQg_QgA1urLsVoEUIRQumO2YlldMPVlxy44q4z_3ItSFA8TPa5tLIka216t_fuRr2w-CmGIS4Aw12L_SQDoveI0t608fmXGFgPA/s1600/DSCF3884.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEEtz1mO81ILlPRZKpdWd4HVisfX4raaMHCIWzQg_QgA1urLsVoEUIRQumO2YlldMPVlxy44q4z_3ItSFA8TPa5tLIka216t_fuRr2w-CmGIS4Aw12L_SQDoveI0t608fmXGFgPA/s400/DSCF3884.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the grand temples of Tikal, towering over 50m above the ground (my travel companion Julien, who is 1m85 tall, is standing by the stairs to give you an idea of the dimensions). Sadly for the past few years it has no longer been possible to climb to the very top of the tallest pyramids for the iconic jungle-view shot.</td></tr>
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*The name Antigua means <i>ancient</i>, referring to the fact that it was the capital before Guatemala City. However it was neither the first nor the second capital, and was in fact the third incarnation of Santiago de los Caballeros de Goathemalan (naturally it wasn't called Antigua when it was founded). The first Santiago had to be abandoned due to local indigenous uprisings, the second<sup>†</sup> due to a volcanic eruption and the third to an earthquake. The Spanish probably thought the name Santiago was not so lucky, or their patron saint really couldn't care loss, so called their fourth and final capital simply Guatemala City.</div>
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<sup>†</sup>Confusingly the second incarnation of Santiago is now called Ciudad Vieja, meaning <i>Old Town</i>, which I find highly confusing as, although it sounds old, doesn't sound quite as old as Antigua, despite predating it. Names are indeed complicated things.</div>
Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903199424734773952noreply@blogger.com1Guatemala15.783471 -90.23075899999997811.874477500000001 -95.394332999999975 19.6924645 -85.067184999999981tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7447699.post-15826548500696197902013-09-13T00:55:00.000+01:002013-09-22T16:42:46.816+01:00Same Same But Different<div style="text-align: justify;">
Same same but different. It's a phrase many people who've travelled through southeast Asia will be instantly familiar with, where the pidgin English of the local touts isn't nuanced enough to incorporate the word "similar". The phrase is equally applicable for travels in Hispanophone America. The common language and shared colonial history unites the 18 countries and almost 400 million people. Yet despite the very obvious similarities, there are many differences, both profound and frivolous. The profound are the subject of many a book (I'm guessing) and scholarly essays. I, instead, would like to take a closer look at the frivolous and arbitrary.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Although maize is the basis of much Latin American cuisine from Bolivia all the way up through to Mexico the way it is prepared varies significantly. As you get closer to Mexico the slap slapping sound of tortillas being moulded becomes ever more ubiquitous.</td></tr>
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The most obvious is the language, which not only unites, but divides as well. From the love-it-or-hate-it accent of Argentina (I personally loathe it), the gattling gun of Cuban, to the urban slang of Mexico City´s <i>chilangos</i>. And it isn't just a case of different accents, but of completely different vocabularies. More so it seems to me than among the standard Englishes of the anglophone world. Very often a word used to describe a certain thing has changed multiple times as I've travelled vaguely northwards or the meanings of words can change drastically. Mate (as in friend) can be anything from <i>pana</i> in Colombia, <i>marisco</i> in parts of Venezuela, <i>mahe</i> in Costa Rica or <i>mai</i> in Nicaragua. <i>Playa</i> in most of the Spanish speaking world means beach, but in Bolivia it's a parking lot (perhaps because they lost their coast to Chile and want to make up for it). <i>Coger</i> may mean "to take" (as in to take the bus) in Colombia, but if you try to <i>coger</i> the bus in Mexico you might get arrested by the police for public indecency.<br />
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When coordinating with my host in San Salvador about how to meet up I told him I would call him upon arriving in town. Although I had no local number of my own (I didn't think it worthwhile for a stay of less than a week) I wasn't worried about finding a phone to call him from. In Colombia, Venezuela and Bolivia there are whole swathes of society that earn their living by providing a cheap, streetside, mobile phone service. Costa Rica and Guatemala have extensive phonebooth networks. Making a call is never a problem. Not so in El Salvador where publicly available phones do not exist. Anywhere. Either you own a mobile or you don't, and if you want to make a phone call you had better be among the former. It took me almost half an hour of asking around, pleading, cajoling and wheedling before a kindly passer-by took pity on me and lent me their phone for a minute.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcqxfEUUXXSTzgS7nTlDpr8VQ1Ex5pYV65W9pi2uWp2bdmxF2HNyq5Rdru_wWnx0RQaImWoL-N8WjToRRZcLPxADzmmU73MlItohU_ZrVucJAVw4jZujhNqgrFFGr9pdSjS7oChA/s1600/phone+ladies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcqxfEUUXXSTzgS7nTlDpr8VQ1Ex5pYV65W9pi2uWp2bdmxF2HNyq5Rdru_wWnx0RQaImWoL-N8WjToRRZcLPxADzmmU73MlItohU_ZrVucJAVw4jZujhNqgrFFGr9pdSjS7oChA/s400/phone+ladies.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A viable career move in Colombia ' selling minutes on the street. Not in El Salvador though where, for reasons that remain obscure to me, the concept of public payphones is taboo.</td></tr>
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The pace of life also varies markedly from country to country. I remember when I first arrived in Argentina (back in 2004) in the town of Salta. It wasn't until 9pm that I had pitched my tent and made my way to the town centre. Unfortunately I was waylaid by a strategically-placed internet cafe and didn't reemerge until a couple of hours later (sadly I can't even blame Facebook as I wasn't on it at the time), more than a little worried that I might not find somewhere to procure myself a meal. I soon found a small diner where they were cleaning the floor and moving tables around. I asked if they were still serving, to which I got a strange look and a yes. Oblivious I frantically ordered the first thing on the menu and let out a sigh of relief. As I was being served my burger a lady and her two pre-teen sons entered the diner and I finally realised that I wasn't the last, but actually the first, customer of the evening. The evening in Argentina doesn't start until 11pm. Whereas yesterday at 7:30pm I was trying to catch a bus back to my host's flat in Guatemala City (Guate to its friends). In vain. It may be the capital city with a population in excess of a million, but the only way you're going to get around at that apparently ungodly hour is with your own car or by taxi. And the same goes for interurban transport from Nicaragua up through to Guatemala: if you're not on a bus by 4pm then you're not going anywhere that day.</div>
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Latin America may, at first glance, seem like an unchallenging place to travel, with its apparent uniformity of language and history, but there are plenty of little oddities just waiting to trip you up. Which is what makes it fun.</div>
Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903199424734773952noreply@blogger.com0Guatemala14.624795 -90.5328180000000214.37897 -90.855541500000015 14.87062 -90.210094500000025tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7447699.post-17645763107304234862013-09-08T07:31:00.000+01:002013-09-17T07:51:51.007+01:00Meeting The Maya<div style="text-align: justify;">
Ever since leaving Peru and its rich <a href="http://tchecossais.blogspot.com/2013/06/ignore-inca.html" target="_blank">archaeological heritage</a> the historical remains on offer have been somewhat underwhelming. All that has changed now that I've reached Honduras and El Salvador, whose western edges mark the easternmost limits of the Mayan empire. Of the "Big 3" indigenous American civilisations (from north to south the Aztec, Maya and Inca) the Maya are undoubtedly preeminent both in terms of longevity and cultural achievements. The Maya first appeared around 2000 B.C., were still around when the Spanish conquered the Americas, and are still here today (although not doing human sacrifices anymore). The Aztecs and Incas by comparison were mere flashes in the pan, existing for no more than a couple of centuries, and whose culture has almost completely disappeared today.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spotting the main temple complex of Copan through the trees.</td></tr>
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The town of Copan Ruinas was not named by the most imaginative of people, being situated as it is just beside the ancient ruins of Copan, one of the major Mayan cities of the late classic period (around 500-800 AD). Although perhaps not as grand as Tikal or Palenque, nevertheless the are the requisite pyramids, stelae and ball courts. I particularly love the jungle setting with fig trees and their enveloping roots sprouting from atop pyramids and temples. From an archaeological perspective Copan is special because of its wealth of glyphs, the most of any Mayan site, that helped decipher the complex Mayan writing system with its intricate glyphs. Not only were they the only American civilisation to develop a writing system, but they were also master astrologers and mathematicians, able to predict eclipses and even calculated the length of the year with far greater precision than their European contemporaries.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5TYAVcqHD6U6CT0KZ8Z7srdNCY1vN5nPqIFN7AjgWBanaVARPMs8BCblp59a3dzTmzHwislmBaLKiFj5Cy_C5UQa42HM4DqhRlGGlwO-DT1Kwqref7wZ4yWyO1s0DGtY5DP82aw/s1600/DSCF3505.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5TYAVcqHD6U6CT0KZ8Z7srdNCY1vN5nPqIFN7AjgWBanaVARPMs8BCblp59a3dzTmzHwislmBaLKiFj5Cy_C5UQa42HM4DqhRlGGlwO-DT1Kwqref7wZ4yWyO1s0DGtY5DP82aw/s400/DSCF3505.JPG" width="299" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The funky glyphs that comprise the Mayan writing system. Frankly I'm amazed they managed to decipher them at all.</td></tr>
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Just as important for our knowledge of the Mayan world, but for very different reasons, is the site of Joya de Ceren in El Salvador. Here there are no pyramids, opulent graves or majestic stelae. Instead Joya was a simple farming village of no particular consequence until the year 590 AD when a small, nearby volcano erupted, spewing forth copious amounts of ash, causing the populace to flee and burying the village in a preserving layer of ash several metres thick. The tourist brochure eulogises it as the Pompeii of the Americas, which is perhaps too generous, but the perfect preservation of everyday utensils, houses, food and even the duck tied to the kitchen doorpost ready for the dinner pot, has allowed scholars to piece together aspects of everyday life for ordinary Mayans, rather than just the kings and high priests.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The protected archaeological remains of Joya de Ceren with its simple houses that were wonderfully preserved by multiple layers of volcanic ash.</td></tr>
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When the Europeans came to Central America the Mayans were there, but they no longer lived in the grandiose cities that had flourished centuries earlier. For reasons that are not entirely clear, and over which there is much heated debate in the world of archaeology, (long-lasting drought, excessive human pressures on the environment leading to agricultural collapse, internal crises, or some combination of the above) the 9th and 10th centuries saw a dramatic collapse in the Mayan civilisation: the huge cities were abandoned, much of the knowledge was lost and the Maya splintered into smaller polities and had to contend with the influx of other peoples from regions of Central America.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The great Mayan cities were abandoned some time in the 10th century and were quickly reclaimed by the forest.</td></tr>
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It is these other peoples that now form the basis of the indigenous and mestizo populations of Honduras and El Salvador, having more in common to the Nahua of Central Mexico. This is most evident in the local food that has slowly transformed from the rice and beans of Nicaragua and Costa Rica to a more tortilla-based subsistence, exemplified by <i>pupusas</i>,<i> </i>the national dish of both El Salvador and Honduras (although as is common in the petty nationalisms of young, post-colonial countries, each claims it as its own - and woe betide should you suggest to a Salvadorean that his beloved <i>pupusas</i> are, in fact, Honduran), a tasty, fat tortilla filled with any combination of cheese, beans or meat and served with as much pickled vegetables as you can stomach. It remains one of the greatest mysteries to me that such young nations, created arbitrarily and having many common traits with each other, can manage to foster such enmity. Throughout Latin America there are petty state rivalries and animosities: Nicaragua and Costa Rica, Venezuela and Colombia, Bolivia and Chile, and El Salvador and Honduras. The latter pair even went to war (for 100 hours) back in 1969 after a particularly acrimonious football match, in what became known as the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/100_Hour_War" target="_blank">Football War</a>.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The growing ubiquity of tortillas, and the soft clapping as the flour is moulded into shape between deft hands, is a clear indication that you are getting ever closer to Mexico.</td></tr>
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Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903199424734773952noreply@blogger.com0Copan Ruinas, Honduras14.8468506 -89.15869320000001614.8161531 -89.199033700000015 14.8775481 -89.118352700000017tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7447699.post-6888917238280724412013-09-02T01:43:00.000+01:002013-09-14T08:47:47.346+01:00Danger Zone<div style="text-align: justify;">
Central America does not get a good press. Apart from Costa Rica there is a pervading stereotype of violent crime and gangs. some of that is justified. Honduras's economic capital San Pedro Sula has the unenviable distinction of being the <a href="http://www.seguridadjusticiaypaz.org.mx/sala-de-prensa/759-san-pedro-sula-otra-vez-la-ciudad-mas-violenta-del-mundo-acapulco-la-segunda" target="_blank">most violent city in the world</a> with a murder rate of almost 170 per hundred thousand inhabitants (to put that into perspective there are more murders in San Pedro Sula, a city of some 720,000 inhabitants, than in Germany and Italy together, with a combined population of 160 million i.e. a 220 times greater murder rate). Most of this violence is perpetrated by gangs on other gangs and so does not generally affect normal people. Nevertheless there is a level of violent crime that is of an order of magnitude more than in most other parts of the world. Why is that?</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The ubiquitous razorwire gives Central America a war zone feel.</td></tr>
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It would be too facile to simply brush it off as a product of poverty, as there are many countries where people are poorer and yet crime is very low. Inequality is perhaps a more reasonable argument, as Latin America has some of the highest <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_countries_by_Gini_coefficiency" target="_blank">rates of inequality</a> in the world. Here the rich often live in separated, gated communities, guarded by gun-toting guards, drive around in expensive cars with heavily tinted windows whilst the poor live in squalid <i>favelas</i> and are routinely ignored by the political classes. But high inequality is just one part of the problem, and doesn't explain why 40 of the 50 most violent cities in the world are in Latin America (and the only ones outside of the Americas are in South Africa). There has to be something more at work here. The only thing I can come up with that is different in, or unique to, Latin America is drugs and guns. The violence parallels the drug trafficking routes, either from the coca fields of the Andes through Central America to the United States, or via Brazil across the Atlantic to Africa and ultimately Europe (it's interesting to note that the most violent Brazilian cities are on the northeastern coast i.e. the departure point for drugs crossing the Atlantic). Tellingly the countries that are off the drugs routes - Chile, Argentina, Uruguay and Paraguay - have significantly lower rates of violent crime, despite comparable levels of poverty and inequality. And although most of these countries have strict gun control laws, all it needs is for one country to have lax ones, and porous borders do the rest. A perfect example is Mexico, where US weapons are implicated in the <a href="http://aoav.org.uk/2013/impact-of-american-guns-on-armed-violence-in-mexico/" target="_blank">majority of gun-related homicides</a>. That these weapons then trickle down to the rest of Latin America is more than probable.</div>
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I know I sometimes harp on about the Evil Empire of America, but here one can see how actions that have no intended outside consequences (drug-taking in Western societies or American gun control laws) can still profoundly impact other countries. Of course the continued refusal to accept responsibility for knock-on effects, both at a governmental and societal level, means that the forces driving the violence continue to overpower the best efforts of the affected countries. This is further compounded by the fact that, under US law, people who have been convicted of serious crimes, and have dual nationality, can be stripped of their American citizenship and deported. This happened to many Salvadorean and Honduran youths who, although born and raised in the US, grew up in poor, gang-controlled neighbourhoods of California, got caught, did time and then got sent "back" to El Salvador/Honduras (despite most of them never having set foot in their supposed home countries before). In doing so America managed to export its gang culture to countries that, following years of shattering internal conflicts, didn't have the resources to cope with an influx of hardened criminals. The <i>Maras</i>, as these gangs are known, now control large swathes of urban areas and don't flinch from enforcing their rule with excessive violence, knowing that the authorities are largely powerless to stop them.</div>
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And so you are left with a situation whereby guns, guards and paranoia are ubiquitous. Even a simple, cheap fast food restaurant can't survive without hiring shotgun-wielding guard. Guidebooks are overflowing with warnings about not going to this place alone, keeping an eye on your bag at all times, take taxis rather than public transport, don't trust anyone, to such an extent that even I, who am a very trusting and carefree traveller, am beginning to get worried. And I hate it. I don't want to be distrustful and paranoid. Of course something bad can happen, and unfortunately it does sometimes. And yes, the likelihood is somewhat higher here, but the perception of the risk seems to me far greater than the reality, and the constant emphasis on it only serves to reinforce it like a self-fulfilling prophecy. I lived in France for two years, and in that time our house was burgled twice, my bike stolen twice and I once had bags stolen on the train, and yet at no point would I tell anyone not to go to France because it's a dangerous country and you'll be robbed.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The bustling San Isidro market in Tegucigalpa is, according to the Lonely Planet "especially dodgy". Seemed like a pretty ordinary big city market in a developing country.</td></tr>
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Decades of heavy-handed approaches to the persistent problem of drugs and the violence it engenders has had no discernible effect. Perhaps alternative approaches could be attempted.</div>
Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903199424734773952noreply@blogger.com0San Pedro Sula, Honduras15.50167 -88.0277415.2568815 -88.350463499999989 15.746458500000001 -87.7050165tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7447699.post-18098779897696414022013-08-28T16:28:00.000+01:002013-09-14T08:48:18.902+01:00South America In 20 PhotosI thought I'd share with you some of my favourite photos from South America that didn't make it into a blog post. I hope you like them and don't forget that they (and many more) can be found in the country albums on the right hand side of the blog.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ladies shooting the breeze by a window in the colonial quarter of Cartagena.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A yucca-type plant in one of the many ephemeral ponds that form atop Roraima.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Views don't get much better than those from the edge of a <i>tepui</i> (table mountain) like Roraima.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A small, neighbourhood market that is a little run down, but whose architecture clearly harks back to better days. In Belen, Brazil.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The skeleton of a tree (probably cashew) among the bright white sand dunes of Lencois Maranhenses national park.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lamp and colourful houses, Salvador.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The charming colonial heart of Ouro Preto.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Statue and building in the heart of downtown Rio de Janeiro.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sound and light show among the Jesuit mission ruins of eastern Paraguay.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bolivian lady in Plaza Murillo smiles as she procures herself tonight's dinner.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Cholita</i> lady having a sly drink during the Entrada de Gran Poder in La Paz.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Farming the old fashioned way in the countryside around La Paz.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kid on the boat heading out to Isla del Sol on lake Titicaca with the snow-capped Andes in the background.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Little indigenous Peruvian girl taking one last look over her shoulder at the strange foreigners. Cordillera Blanca.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Traditional <i>totoro</i> reed fishing rafts on the beach at Trujillo.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The authorities in Quito are very inclusive, even going so far as to give thieves their own zone.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Tequendama hotel looming through the mist.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Colonial street seen through a mirror in Barrichara.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The one that got away. Hummingbirds don't stay still for long.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Plaza de la Luz in downtown Medellin.</td></tr>
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<br />Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903199424734773952noreply@blogger.com2South America-8.783195 -55.491477000000032-86.1152865 139.27414799999997 68.548896500000012 109.74289799999997tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7447699.post-25841683734813805242013-08-26T23:22:00.000+01:002013-09-08T10:15:48.604+01:00Virgins And Volcanoes*<div style="text-align: justify;">
Nicaragua is known as the country of lakes and volcanoes, as it has the latter in abundance, and although the number of lakes may be few, they make up for it in size: lakes Nicaragua and Managua are the two largest (by far) in Central America. Activities in the country revolve either around one or the other. Isla de Ometepe, with its twin volcanoes emerging from the waters of lake Nicaragua like a pair of lopsided breasts, is a popular spot for people to go and chill and do <i>nada</i>, or, if they're feeling the need for physical activity, to scale the crater rim (though in the rainy season <i>nada</i> is about all you get to see at the top). And on the shores of the respective lakes the two great colonial towns of Granada and Leon battle it out for visitors' affections.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The wonderfully named volcanoes of Momotombo and, a little smaller and to the right, cutely-named Momotombito, on the shores of lake Managua.</td></tr>
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Both Granada and Leon are set out in your typical Spanish colonial style, which is to say in a perfect grid with a big square in the middle where you can find the town hall and the cathedral/church. Addresses are also a breeze with a very logical numbering system: streets go east-west, avenues north-south. Where the main, central avenue and street cross is the zero point of the city from where each road is numbered in ascending order and given a cardinal direction. So a typical address might be street 3 NE between avenues 7 and 8. And immediately you know exactly where it is. That's the theory anyway. In practice everybody completely disregards the staid, logic of this system, with its street signs and predictability, and resorts to landmarks instead. In which case an address may become something like 3 blocks past the Church of the Assumption towards the market, opposite the pharmacy. Or, a block north of the central plaza next to where the Hotel Real <i>used to be</i>. Needless to say finding where you're looking for involves a communal game of "<i>hotter and colder</i>" with the local population.<br />
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
Seeing as the Central American
isthmus is one long chain of volcanoes I knew I would need to ascend at
least one flaming mountain, and Leon proved a good base from which to do
it, with a selection of smoking cones to choose from nearby. The most popular
is Cerro Negro, a nearby volcano that has become a mecca for the niche
activity of volcano-tobogganing. Instead I decided to visit the most
active (yet open to the public) volcano in the area, Telica, as I find
peering into a pool of lava bubbling away in a crater, this direct link
to the very core of the earth, to be a mesmerising experience. Like
waterfalls, fire and the constant oscillation of waves on a beach, there
is something about lava that touches a primal chord and I could watch
it indefinitely. The special thing about this ascent was that it was to
be a full moon so there would be enough light to climb at night, thereby
avoiding the stifling heat of the day <i>and</i> the need to pay for a
night's accommodation. My companions for the hike were a youngish
mixture of Israelis, Aussies and Brits who reminded me why I rarely do
organised tours. Still, the guides were an interesting source of
information. We reached the crater rim a little before dawn and crawled
to the edge, shielding our faces from the sulphurous smoke, to peer into
the earth's maw. And I wasn't disappointed as some 150m below the magma
hissed and churned and growled. whilst the dawn light revealed a string
of sister volcanoes stretching off into the distance on either side.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCqGBtyxwVQcby1LxFmZcry-KX_hY8o7IJWuK9f5OFTjFtN4fQMKa3LPziFlqaGPXE2SiqjQTu1-srGybmvHYp3_5iwl5YJaMhLlgltBaQgqAfV2C8CLKmb1Q1aUeUnE62eVgdmw/s1600/DSCF3145.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCqGBtyxwVQcby1LxFmZcry-KX_hY8o7IJWuK9f5OFTjFtN4fQMKa3LPziFlqaGPXE2SiqjQTu1-srGybmvHYp3_5iwl5YJaMhLlgltBaQgqAfV2C8CLKmb1Q1aUeUnE62eVgdmw/s400/DSCF3145.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The steaming crater of Telica in the pale, pre-dawn moonlight.</td></tr>
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Perhaps because of their unfortunate history Nicaraguans are probably quite thankful that they are not currently in a war, being bombed, buried under clouds of volcanic ash (read the history of any Central American town and nine times out of ten it is not where it started off, having been forced to move due to the violent rumblings of the nearby volcano), or forced to pick bananas for slave wages, and display this thankfulness in processions. Hardly a day went by when I didn't witness some sort of devotional or celebratory procession, complete with marching bands and floats: from the feast of some facet of the Virgin (Virgin of Guadalupe, Virgin of Mercy, Virgin of the Sacred Heart, Virgin of Car(a)mel, take your pick) to the 33th anniversary of the Sandinista literacy programme. Nicaraguan children must spend half their school time either rehearsing for, or participating in, these parades (you can always recognise a school in Nicaragua from the strains of marching music emanating from within).</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVfqojEt-410R2rsXxsd7xvhnfMHZaLDMfbp1ncc0rkEn64Y1jwm40rpOTnEStt9iJi2EjZIZtrksDe5kkw6Z_cGq04QXcnjiUUDxhG5fiVu7GTDB_NQzAm7kTwcD0BoG3O6UkYQ/s1600/DSCF3076.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVfqojEt-410R2rsXxsd7xvhnfMHZaLDMfbp1ncc0rkEn64Y1jwm40rpOTnEStt9iJi2EjZIZtrksDe5kkw6Z_cGq04QXcnjiUUDxhG5fiVu7GTDB_NQzAm7kTwcD0BoG3O6UkYQ/s400/DSCF3076.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Virgin being taken for a little perambulation around the streets of Leon.</td></tr>
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Or perhaps they are thankful that the buses are still running. That's one of the first things I noticed upon entering Nicaragua. In Panama and Costa Rica relatively sleek coaches ply the intercity routes; if not quickly, then at least relatively comfortably. Waiting in the bus lot on the other side of the border were a flotilla of ex-US school buses dating from around the 50's or 60's. Nobody had bothered going through the expense of repainting them, although many drivers had pimped theirs up with arrays of stickers, usually containing some expression of religious faith, such as "<i>God is with me</i>", "<i>property of Jesus Christ</i>", "<i>I drive with God</i>", or "<i>the Lord is my shepherd</i>" (although the driver of the bus below didn't seem to be as religious as many of his colleagues). Despite their age these rivet-boxes on wheels do not slouch (unless they're going uphill ... or downhill) and thunder along the country's roads with a vengeance, trailing clouds of miasmic smoke behind them. They might not be pretty, and they certainly aren't quiet, but they get the job done and keep the country moving.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkWkt_scXsB6Xtyy0JhyphenhyphenO1NXR3Mkid6PqPOULHMoBNqFD7jPfqp2Q4eDF3MLjKsUs3LlCwa_iFCMyXrkPfQGVhXoa4_2w607BC1JRl_uhC68gPfSRaZpxjAkbznOUscd6ulC-m2g/s1600/DSCF3135.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkWkt_scXsB6Xtyy0JhyphenhyphenO1NXR3Mkid6PqPOULHMoBNqFD7jPfqp2Q4eDF3MLjKsUs3LlCwa_iFCMyXrkPfQGVhXoa4_2w607BC1JRl_uhC68gPfSRaZpxjAkbznOUscd6ulC-m2g/s400/DSCF3135.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Exterminator. Not sure if that applied to the bus or the driver, but at least it made a welcome change to the religious platitudes that dominate bus decorations in Nicaragua.</td></tr>
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*Unfortunately the former are not being thrown into the latter. Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903199424734773952noreply@blogger.com0Leon, Nicaragua12.5092037 -86.66110830000002411.517289700000001 -87.952001800000019 13.5011177 -85.370214800000028tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7447699.post-42191184603792515182013-08-20T16:10:00.000+01:002013-09-14T08:48:18.905+01:00America For Americans<div style="text-align: justify;">
I did, finally, go to a national park in Costa Rica. It would have been scandalous not to. Though in the end it turned out to be neither cloud forest nor volcano, which are the usual natural suspects for tourists to Costa Rica. Instead I opted for a dry tropical forest at the Guanacaste biosphere reserve in the northwest of the country. Of course, with my knack for mistiming I of course turned up in the rainy season when the dryness of the forest is not really appreciable. The park is home to the standard roll call of mesoamerican fauna, of which, as per usual, I saw precious little. It's also an important nesting site for marine turtles, and the beaches can see thousands of females coming up to lay their eggs in the season. Instead I saw a few spider monkeys swinging directly overhead (which was pretty impressive), iguanas basking in the sun, and a whole host of crabs infesting the mangroves. I went with my host in Liberia, Laura, a young Aussie girl. A fascinating character who has the fortitude to follow through with her convictions to make the world a better place, she has spent time living in protest zones and organising activist movements. And although I don't see radical activism as a sustainable way forward, I admire her principles and how far she's prepared to go to defend them. It's perhaps fitting then that the national park is also home to the hacienda Santa Rosa, an ordinary-looking old farmstead (well, it was an old farmstead up until a decade ago when some poachers burnt it down, but since it's been lovingly rebuilt) that saw its own protest against imperialism back in 1856, in what was perhaps the most pivotal episode in Costa Rican history, when the Costa Rican army defeated the invading army of the American filibusterer William Walker. His name may not be well-known outside of Central America, but his episode is familiar to everyone here as the start of US attempts at hegemony of the region.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_J_MuVv0YPgZy_H8j-BKv7Zyyr3fFJiui8jWgbtWs-xx0bSy_OWNoxuwaNFDd5papymRSlah8G1DRnDyyf_Qu6gmhY8Ud5vPYycaUvCKFifti61Qhbstl-lteL31HxZttlgT06A/s1600/DSCF3002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_J_MuVv0YPgZy_H8j-BKv7Zyyr3fFJiui8jWgbtWs-xx0bSy_OWNoxuwaNFDd5papymRSlah8G1DRnDyyf_Qu6gmhY8Ud5vPYycaUvCKFifti61Qhbstl-lteL31HxZttlgT06A/s400/DSCF3002.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Red-legged crabs scurrying into their burrows amongst the mangroves.</td></tr>
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The small countries of Central America rarely make it into our collective consciousness in Europe, or probably anywhere else for that matter. Before coming here I knew their names and perhaps had some vague notions about guerrilla conflicts in the 90's, but that's about it. So reading up and learning about the history of the region has not only been a real eye-opener, but made me almost physically disgusted. Like most Latin American countries they have suffered the consequences of what is known as the Monroe Doctrine. The doctrine is a fundamental pillar of US foreign policy. Named after US president James Monroe who in 1823 declared that the USA would not tolerate European powers meddling in the affairs of the newly-independent American countries and would view any attempt at recolonisation as an act of aggression. Put this way that seems like a reasonable point of view: colonial empires stay away and let these people use their new-found liberty. But over time, as the United States grew into a world power, this doctrine morphed from being a tool to stop European dominance to one of asserting US dominion and right to step-in in the case of "flagrant and chronic wrongdoing by a Latin American Nation" (of course, the definition of wrongdoing is to be determined by the US and kept secret from anyone else). So, in effect, the United States set itself up as judge, jury and policeman of all of the Americas. Of course I knew of the right-wing dictatorships of Pinochet, Videla and Stroessner in Chile, Argentina and Paraguay, that were heavily supported by America, but it seems that the countries of Central America, perhaps because they are closer or that they are smaller and weaker, have found it almost impossible to pull clear of US hegemony. And despite declarations to the contrary, American intervention rarely ever turns out to be in the best interests of the civilian population.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7EBHju80RXxoMfoAnI7RCyaX3wAaXoy6qAUwAlmwkb3dpCFgIZrsHDILYNSMw8hRPNg4Th_AiBSDw0A9PbrE2gIG-jmXfqh57CJSsROW6TaWtzwT5KrkNdVXnZcw4T-YFpHbG0w/s1600/DSCF3014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7EBHju80RXxoMfoAnI7RCyaX3wAaXoy6qAUwAlmwkb3dpCFgIZrsHDILYNSMw8hRPNg4Th_AiBSDw0A9PbrE2gIG-jmXfqh57CJSsROW6TaWtzwT5KrkNdVXnZcw4T-YFpHbG0w/s400/DSCF3014.JPG" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Central American point of view on US involvement in the region (caption in the Santa Rosa museum).</td></tr>
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This blog post is going to be a little longer, and more fact-heavy than
usual, as I plan to go into some historical details. I suppose I could
just put up a link to a website with "A Concise History of Central
America", but I doubt many people would bother to read it. Learning
about the region's tormented history has been an integral part of my
time here, and without understanding it many of the things I have seen
and heard would have lost their significance. So anyway, I will take a
few episodes from Nicaragua's history (although, to be honest, I could
pick any country here and the litany of cases of popular hope and
progress dashed at the altar of short-term US expediency) to illustrate
how US involvement in Nicaragua has been lengthy, and rarely anything
but negative for Nicaragua(ns). I'll start in the 1850's, some 30 years
after independence with ongoing struggles between Liberals and
Conservatives. (Liberals and Conservatives are the labels given to the
two major, antagonistic
political movements that existed throughout the newly-independent
Spanish colonies, but are not exactly equivalent to what we may
understand by those terms today.) The Liberal faction hired an American
mercenary, William Walker, to help them in their struggle against the
Conservatives. After helping the Liberals win he made himself head of
the army and then president in quick succession. Although acting
independently of official US sanction, the American government was quick
to recognise the legitimacy of this usurpation of power. Walker then
set about trying to Americanise the country by introducing slavery and
making English the official language before biting off more than he
could chew by trying to conquer the whole of Central America, before
being defeated by the Costa Ricans.*</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyorwfsjiwb5_SatMOlayQQEA8hMOl9bP38yaT9OJK7xc1HDDVdNeRk4xi3VaKoXsWNZfziPr6mDNarsbrfZkH3vh1ASxdZ1bjJT2i5fRw-tOAqfOgPnzV4VM7-0go0vt4IKixkA/s1600/DSCF3013.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyorwfsjiwb5_SatMOlayQQEA8hMOl9bP38yaT9OJK7xc1HDDVdNeRk4xi3VaKoXsWNZfziPr6mDNarsbrfZkH3vh1ASxdZ1bjJT2i5fRw-tOAqfOgPnzV4VM7-0go0vt4IKixkA/s400/DSCF3013.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Santa Rosa hacienda, site of William Walker's defeat at the hands of Costa Rican forces.</td></tr>
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The American Civil War decreased US intervention in Nicaragua until 1909, when the country started looking for foreign countries to invest in undertaking the construction of a trans-isthmian canal. The United States was in the process of building its own in Panama and did not take too kindly to competition. In 1909 a pretext (the death of a couple of American mercenaries) was found for sending in US marines. The US maintained a military presence in the country until 1933, during which it was the power behind the throne whose support determined the rise and fall of presidents. The United States got what it came for though, with American fruit companies consolidating their vast landholdings in the east of the country to quench the new thirst for bananas, and the signing of a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bryan%E2%80%93Chamorro_Treaty" target="_blank">treaty</a> that gave it exclusive rights in perpetuity to build a canal across Nicaragua - a canal it had no intention of building, but that it didn't anyone else to build either. The meddling inevitably riled a few people, including one Augusto Sandino who started up his own little guerrilla army to try and get the <i>Yanquis</i> out. Sandino was a continual thorn in the side of the marines stationed in Nicaragua, although militarily he didn't achieve that much (except perhaps provide the opportunity for the US air force to become the second<sup>†</sup> country to attack a civilian population with airplanes, when they bombed the town of Esteli in 1927. In the end the Depression and economics proved a more effective weapon, and in 1933 the Americans pulled out the last of their troops. Now that Sandino has no <i>cassus belli</i> he agreed to hold talks about a cessation of hostilities. Whilst attending peace talks with the president, Sandino, despite being guaranteed safe passage, was kidnapped and executed by the US-trained national guard run by Anastasio Somoza. Within two years Somoza had made himself president and set about instigating Latin America's longest-serving dictatorship that only fell 44 years later with the toppling of his son in 1979. The brutal Somoza regime has the full backing of the United States pretty much from the get go and Anastasio was FDR's famous bastard (<i><a href="http://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Talk:Franklin_D._Roosevelt" target="_blank">"he may be a bastard, but he's our bastard"</a></i>).<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjBi0qjpK7bo00kI857T_-LGJBqv74jKkK8BgDaAlur0CeuT0x1ChdAwcoXeV_FR5YbiWg1WfUt0IL7vkUhJMuht2YRcBbLJk_gXAZE3zp4gRr1Wtt7cktBWGZc71lgZQq9Rq4oA/s1600/DSCF3103.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjBi0qjpK7bo00kI857T_-LGJBqv74jKkK8BgDaAlur0CeuT0x1ChdAwcoXeV_FR5YbiWg1WfUt0IL7vkUhJMuht2YRcBbLJk_gXAZE3zp4gRr1Wtt7cktBWGZc71lgZQq9Rq4oA/s400/DSCF3103.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My guide in the museum of the revolution in Leon showing me his veteran's card. This being a relatively recent conflict there are many people around who remember it well, and he told me about his training in Cuba as well as the liberation of Leon.</td></tr>
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The Sandinista resistance movement was founded in the 60's and started limited operations against the Somoza regime. In 1972 a massive earthquake flattened Managua, and Somoza Jnr embezzled almost all of the aid money for reconstruction. This was the straw that broke the camel's back and definitively put most of the population in the Sandinista camp. The insurrection escalated until 1979 when Somoza Jnr finally fled the country, getting on a plane for Miami, where the US authorities decided to refuse entry to their erstwhile pawn seeing that he was now an international pariah (Somoza Jnr eventually ended up in Paraguay where fellow dictator Stroessner gave him asylum). The incoming Reagan administration couldn't tolerate any non-right-wing-dictatorships in Latin America and so started funding and arming the ex-national guard, the so-called Contras, on the pretext that the Sandinistas were receiving help from Cuba (which, although true, is no reason to start a full-blown proxy war in someone else's country).Congress was not so gung-ho as Reagan in arming the Contras, so a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Iran-Contra_Affair" target="_blank">complex system</a> was set up whereby arms were illicitly sold to Iran (despite the US's own embargo) and the profits used to fund the Contras. Of course the CIA made some extra money with some drug smuggling on the side. The Contra War lasted until 1989, cost some 30,000 lives, and sent the country back decades. (For those of you who have found my little history too superficial and want some more in depth reading - you masochists you - the library of congress has a <a href="http://countrystudies.us/nicaragua/" target="_blank">detailed country study</a> online that you can peruse at your leisure.)</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYnK5OxjyTA3FWgFKsz3v7Fqbh5Qyci8Ei3x7dt4SZqQ6N4reKKND14w5S99_IBYL2wcVzT87EozCCts3y_tSGdp3TMGUIYIAXVrLCiYPb8kvAgsAgYXs7cIiYpHT3yoqUUOsd-w/s1600/DSCF3225.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYnK5OxjyTA3FWgFKsz3v7Fqbh5Qyci8Ei3x7dt4SZqQ6N4reKKND14w5S99_IBYL2wcVzT87EozCCts3y_tSGdp3TMGUIYIAXVrLCiYPb8kvAgsAgYXs7cIiYpHT3yoqUUOsd-w/s400/DSCF3225.JPG" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Sandinista (<i>Frente Sandinisata de Liberacion Nacional</i>) colours of red and black can be seen prominently displayed throughout Nicaragua. The party is currently in power since 2006 (having lost the first three elections after the war) and is undeniably popular.</td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
All in all not a very flattering report card for US foreign policy in its "near abroad". However, not wanting this post to be a completely pessimistic piece, I want to share a recent revelation that lit up like a eureka moment for me when I compared an English Wikipedia page with its Spanish counterpart (although I was not that surprised to see that I was far from the first person to come to the same realisation). When travelling around Latin America and talking to locals you will inevitably be confronted by a variation on "I hate it when people of the USA are referred to as Americans. I'm American too!" When asked what term should be used instead they will often say <i>Norteamericano</i> (North American) or <i>Estadounidense</i> (United Statesian - it also sounds unwieldy in Spanish, but not as bad as the English translation). But borth of these terms are just as problematic when viewed objectively: North America starts at Panama's border with Colombia and ends at Canada's Arctic shores, whereas there are two United States in North America, those of America, and those of Mexico (the official name of Mexico is the United States of Mexico, which makes it even more strange when this suggestion is proposed by Mexicans). The root of the problem though lies in a difference of definitions. for anglophones there are two continents, North America and South America divided by the Darien gap, and together they can be referred to as <i>the</i> Americas. For hispanophones there is only one, indivisible continent called America that stretches all the way from Alaska to the southernmost tip of Tierra del Fuego. So in English there is actually no real, defined entity America, which makes it alright to apply it to people from the USA, whereas in Spanish America applies to everyone in the western hemisphere, hence their, understandable, disgruntlement. It just goes to show that in any argument it's important to agree on terms and definitions before you start slinging mud.</div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
*The footnote to the story is that Walker managed to make his way back to the States
where he was lauded as a hero for trying to bring the American Dream to
the uninitiated. He then regrouped, rearmed and tried to invade again
in 1860, though this time setting his sights initially on Honduras where
he was caught by the British, handed over to the Hondurans and
summarily executed.<br />
<br />
<sup>†</sup>First place though goes to the British who, in 1920, bombed Taleh in northern Somalia. (Ah, the interesting, yet completely useless nuggets of information that get unearthed as I research the facts for my blog - because, believe it or not, I try and make sure that what I write is as factually accurate as possible, so a lot of time is spent trawling the net to try and get the facts straight.)</div>
Erikhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903199424734773952noreply@blogger.com2Liberia6.428055 -9.42949899999996432.3920135 -14.593072999999965 10.4640965 -4.2659249999999647