mah-keenah

capitol of the island that shall remain nameless
sunday is a swell day to walk around the city. seems like everyone is enjoying a mellow day.

kids are playing baseball.

grandmas are gossiping together in the park. knives are being sharpened on a bicycle.

dogs are lolling.

teen girls are showing off their silly bandz.

 

there are mini carnivals, complete with carnies and rides that look like death traps.

to ride the "mortifica" or not?

yes, it's a swell day to be out and about.

c decided we would take a machina (pronounced mah-keenah), one of the vintage cars used as local public transportation, to vedado, a neighborhood inhabited by spanish colonial mansions that have been converted into a sort of tenement housing.
i took a gazillion photos, but the sun was so bright, most ended up being a bit blown out, i am sad to say. i wished i had used my filters - rookie mistake!

the machina are beautiful. the cars are mostly beat up and being held together with rubber bands, spit and pride, but they are still gorgeous - maybe even more than the mint condition ones you see in car shows because they are still being used every day, all day long. mostly they run on specific routes, kind of like buses. you stick out your hand, they pull over, you say where you are going and usually you hop in. they are not meant for tourists. you pay with the cuban money meant only for cubans. i don’t know if it is legal to ride in them. i don’t know if it is legal to have the pesos nationales. but when i am with c, i live on the edge.
we flagged down a real cherry - it was red with just a touch of sparkle and appeared to be in perfect condition. the young man behind the wheel looked like he ought to be going to a hot rod convention. c and i climbed in the back and e got in front. we drove about two blocks when the driver decided to negotiate for cucs instead of pesos nationales. the ride should cost around 40 cents each. he wanted $3 each. c said no, he kicked us to the curb. undaunted, c flagged down another. this car was blue and had been repainted numerous times with paint that has no business being anywhere near metal. it looked beaten down by the life it had led. i was thrilled.
noisy, rumbly, spacious, old. i love vintage. i love the machina!

jamaica time

portland, maine to montego bay, jamaica

caribbean from the air

i had been planning to fly to cancun, but circumstances forced me in a different direction - jamaica. had i done a bit more research, i probably would have flown to the cayman islands, but i wouldn't have wanted to miss this lush place!
when the plane landed, i suddenly realized i hadn't checked to see what this island's requirements were for travelers - good gravy, talk about rookie mistakes! fortunately i got a very kind immigration agent. he understood my predicament (re: island that shall remain nameless), and he waived the entry requirement of a departure ticket in hand. phew!

when i stepped out into the wonderful sunshine, i saw a handsome young man holding a little sign with my name on it. the hostel had indeed sent someone to pick me up! never had i gotten such grand treatment from a hostel.
gregory and his mother, arlene, run the cedar ridge hostel, a lovely villa high up on bogue hill, with help from eddy, the philosophical rasta driver and miss madge, the housekeeper/cook.

a corner of the veranda

the place was mostly a dream come true - the rooms were nice and airy, the beds comfortable, the veranda was vintage luxury, there was free wi-fi, they offered fluffy towels and delicious home cooked meals for a modest fee, and of course the airport pickup. the flip side - no hot water, remote location, limited light at night and no toilet paper.
i brought my own toilet paper, so okay.
i can live with one small lamp at night, especially if i am spending half my time on my computer.
remote location can actually feel like a blessing when you've been stressed to the max for weeks.
but no hot water? zoikes!

i tried to take a shower the first morning anyway. but i am no katharine hepburn, cold showers just don't work for my pansy ass. i'd rather be dirty.
however, the folks who run the hostel were so swell i found i didn't care. i can't stress enough what fine people they are. welcoming, kind and helpful are just the tip of the iceberg.

i went into town with miss madge, to the market and watched her pick out the good veggies and haggle for the best price. i helped carry her bags. she 'saved' me from buying packets of tang, little did she know i'd go back and buy them later!

miss madge showed me where to go to get back up the hill and we parted ways.
taxis are shared, and you flag them down, tell them where you want to go and they say yes or no. i caught a cab from downtown to the local cemetery.
there were some sketchy fellows looking at me from inside and i decided to go get myself some jerk pork for lunch, hoping they would be gone by the time i got back.

'strictly staff only' furniture store

but alas, they were still there and more determined than ever to befriend me. rupert, the parks crew supervisor (sketchy guys were just a work crew, miss paranoid!), took it upon himself to walk me around. he brought me to shelley haydyn, a lovely 50's headstone relief that was a dead ringer for barbie. i was grateful. we walked through to the oldest corner, but it was treacherous, and i decided against wandering off the main path.
rupert told me he wanted to take me out that night, to where the tourists gather. aside from my rabid dislike of tourist haunts, i thought it best to just say no. he seemed friendly enough, but my first impression, sketchy, was still nibbling at my insides.
i headed off for the hill, flagging the taxis left and right.

crumbled bus stop maintained by the optimist club

none of the taxis that came along were willing to take me up the hill to cedar ridge, so i began walking, occasionally trying to flag the red license plate vehicles.
i eventually walked up the hill - i felt like super woman, and could not wait to take that cold, cold shower!

CANADIANS

galway, ireland to cork, ireland
i stayed in a hostel in galway one night before heading off to my next destination. while checking in, i met a fellow californian. we got to chatting about home and found we had similar political views - loved our country, but didn't care for the lack of consideration/respect of others. when we walked into the dorm room that we would be sharing with 16 others, it was only about five, so as we got settled in we talked about going and scrounging up some food.

crazy canadians

there was a huge canadian flag covering one of the bunks (a privacy barrier), and i found i couldn't help myself - i started mocking the canadian traveler's need to make sure they didn't get mistook for american, putting those maple leaves on every available surface. i said some outrageous stuff that i didn't believe at all, like canada was really just the 51st state, mainly to make my new friend laugh. we were being loud and having a great time, but then someone behind the flag groaned a little, and we realized we had disturbed their sleep. we slipped out of the room so as not to further annoy them.
in hostels you get folks from all over who sleep at irregular times depending on where they've just come from and what they'd been doing there. i hated when other hostelers would come in drunk and loud, with no regard for the people trying to sleep, and was abashed that i had just done that - granted it was still light out and they had hidden themselves behind the flag, but still, i felt bad.

the next morning, as i got myself ready to bus down to dingle, i noticed the canadian was already gone.

dingle was stunning. the name sounds silly, but the place is just absolutely beautiful. so green. that shade of kelly that seems just a wee bit too bright for nature. rolling hills, super narrow roads, quaint little village, and a lovely hostel that used to be a manor house.
it was divine.

the first night at the hostel, i met the staff and the only other guest, a canadian gal, k. we made dinner together and talked long into the night. at one point, which often happens to me, we fell into a political conversation. i can't stress enough how much i love my country, but i am also deeply respectful of other cultures and i think assimilation is a terrible thing.
k seemed to get where i was coming from and liked what i was saying, and then started telling an 'ugly american' story. seems she had been in a hostel, sleeping and these two loud americans had come in and woken her up with their obnoxious pro-america blather, dissing canadians -
uh oh.

ballentaggart hostel

i asked if she had been in galway the night before.
'yes, how did you know?'
i somewhat shamefacedly admitted that that had been me and quickly pointed out that i had been kidding, which now that she knew me a little, she could see.
even though we all got a big laugh out of it, i was mortified and decided that i would try to mind my tongue a little closer going forward. jokes out of context can be very bad news!

dingle was amazing, and life was so fine just then, i ended up staying for days, giving up a couple nights in blarney to do so. i hung out with fungi, a local dingle citizen who happens to be a dolphin, went for long rambling hikes, the whole group of us would cook together and watch football on the telly, it was lovely. but eventually i knew i needed to head out.
when i did, k decided she would tag along with me for a little, and since we had completely gotten past my mockery, i was open to the company.

a two way road with room for one car...

we just missed our morning bus to cork. there wouldn't be another one until the following day. we were told that hitch hiking was commonplace and completely safe; feeling brave because we numbered two, out the thumbs went. the first car that passed stopped to pick us up. it was a tiny battered little thing being driven by an eccentric millionaire sheep farmer, johnny dingle. he was very friendly and chatty, and said he could drive us as far as blarney and assured us we'd be able to hitch a ride from there onto cork. i, thankfully, was sitting in the backseat, so was able to ignore the fact that he drove like a demon.
i could see k's white knuckle grip and resolved not to look at the road - if i was going to die, i didn't want to see it coming. but there was no head on collision, seemed some sort of miracle!
he was really very nice, but i learned my lesson, no more hitch hiking for me. when we got out of the car, we both agreed that the bus (which we were now way ahead of, thanks to johnny's lead foot) was the way to proceed.

oh, and i did visit the blarney stone, but i didn't kiss it - i am already cursed with a gabby tongue, i didn't see any need to increase that!

SECURITY

dublin, ireland
at the beginning of my first big adventure, i was a nervous nelly about my stuff, and jeez, i had so much of it! but this was before the world of electronic books, the internet, cell phones and bank cards, so you can hardly blame me.

aside from the 70lb backpack that was mentioned in an earlier post, i also had on my person, that first week of travel, my passport, $1,000 in travelers checks, 2,000 american dollars, 2,500 british pounds, a eurail pass and a trans siberian train ticket. all of this could be stuffed into a plastic pouch meant to be worn around the neck. it was waterproof, so it could be taken into the shower, perfect for the kid who is staying in youth hostels that offer no privacy or security.
well, talk about rookie mistakes - my first night i dumped my pack on the floor by my bunk and prepared to take a shower. i pulled out the waterproof pouch and put all of the money, etc. in it, grabbed some clothes to change into, toiletries and my travel towel and headed to the communal showers. as i washed my hair i thought about the safety issue and was glad i had that pouch -
wait, where was the pouch?
through the shampoo suds i madly searched the shower stall and looked through the tiny pile of clothes, no pouch. without taking the time to rinse my hair, i grabbed the insignificant towel and ran back to my room, a room i shared with fifteen others. folks looked at me queerly, and why not, but all i had eyes for was that damn pouch! i ran to the bunk, and there it sat, on top of the bed, waiting for some kind soul to take a shine to it! i grabbed it and ran back to the showers.
i couldn't believe my luck. my trip could have ended right then and there, at my very first stop. that particular fear induced rush of adrenaline was so unpleasant (i can still remember the roiling of my stomach) i never left that pouch anywhere again.

one of the hardest parts about backpacking is feeling like your possessions are never really safe, that you aren't ever really safe. there are opportunists, pickpockets and nasty, bolder thieves, thugs who like to hit things, rapists and murderers - just like at home! but at home you have your home, and it provides an illusion of safety that gives you peace of mind. you also have accumulated knowledge of what parts of town are especially dodgy and even if you live in that neighborhood, you know, roughly, how to avoid being a victim.
when on the road, i don't really think you are in more danger, but when you don't know your surroundings very well, you are more likely to accidentally wander into a dead end alley or a part of town that the locals refer to as 'murder city' (or, as in the case with my belfast experience, not realize that a place you want to go presents dangers to the ignorant) and without the safety net of the known, you find yourself operating on a higher level of alert which is stressful and exhausting.
rookie mistakes still get made all these years later, but accumulated knowledge means they happen less often and usually come with less painful consequences. touch wood - let's see what happens this first time of traveling with my computer...

FAITH

london, england to belfast, ireland
so i left london with not much of a plan. i had a little over six weeks to get to my first destination, if i was going to stick to the 'itinerary'.
i took the train to holyhead, wales, caught a ferry across the irish sea and found a hostel in dublin. the first thing on my to do list was get my visa for russia. i don't remember now why i didn't get it before i left, but i am guessing it had something to do with poor planning on my part. russia had an embassy in dublin, and it would take several weeks for them to process my transit visa, so i left my passport with them, always a little nerve racking, and headed off to begin a loop around the island. at the hostel i met two aussies who had rented a car and were heading up to belfast, so i caught a lift with them and headed north, hoping that border patrols would accept my passport photocopy and let me in, and out - they did.

belfast is a fascinating place. there is a wall that separates one half of the city. it is a big cement thing with additional fencing and razor wire. it starts near downtown and goes straight up the hill and seems to go on and on. there are several breaks in the wall, allowing passage from one side to the other, checkpoints, manned by serious looking soldiers. once you are somewhere towards the middle of this so called peace wall, there is a sense of martial law and of being protected from political terrorism. but the thing that made the wall seem completely absurd was that at the bottom of the hill, where the wall began, you could cross over onto the other side completely unchecked. if i were up to no good, why would i try to smuggle anything through a checkpoint, when i could walk 10 blocks to the bottom of the hill and walk up the other side relatively unnoticed?
so, the divide, which i had difficulty understanding as a physical thing, and my ignorance of the religious animosity got me into a little bit of trouble, but nothing unmanageable.

i walked up the hill on the catholic side, thinking of it as nothing more than a touristy ramble. as i was rummaging through my bag, looking for the map that would show me where i could crossover to the protestant side, i was startled by a vision of british soldiers, in full combat gear streaming into the street - it seemed like they appeared right out of the brick wall! i realized one of the soldiers was pointing his gun at me and i froze, hands still in the bag. apparently this was considered suspicious behavior (seems the locals just ignore them and continue with the business of living), and he kept his gun pointed at me until all of the other soldiers had passed out of my 'danger' range and then he followed them. having the rifle pointed at me kind of freaked me out, and even though i probably had never been in any danger, i decided to take this divided city a little more seriously - but i was still going to crossover and walk down the protestant side. a couple of teenaged ne'er-do-wells saw me pass through the checkpoint and decided to follow me. when we neared the bottom of the hill, they thought it would be funny to chuck some rocks in my direction.
i began to feel like my lack of understanding could get me into real trouble and i pledged to do more reading about cultural biases down the line. i turned on the teens with my best crazy new yorker look and ran at them shouting gibberish at the top of my lungs. i am not sure what i expected to happen, but they took off, and i resumed my walk down the hill, though at a slightly faster clip.

this part of the city is peppered with political murals and the martyrs are remembered everywhere. it is equal parts disconcerting, emotional and beautiful.

i talked my new aussie friends into going to giants causeway, an awesome natural wonder and then we headed for londonderry and the border.

giant's causeway

as we crossed from one ireland to the other i snapped a few pictures of the soldiers. only after i put the camera back in my lap did i see the sign that said NO PHOTOGRAPHY. while they let me pass with my illegal photos i pledged to be a little more mindful of the local rules and regulations!

all in all, northern ireland proved to be a great place to cut my vagabonding teeth. i realized that my lack of cultural awareness could get me into real trouble and i found myself excited about delving into the personality of the countries i was going to visit. i would still go on to make some rookie mistakes, but i was miles ahead of where i had been just weeks earlier!

EQUATOR

san francisco, ca to esmeraldas, ecuador.
ten years old carrying a snoopy suitcase with my name in big letters across it, i got on an airplane that was supposed to fly nonstop to quito, ecuador. my mom told me not to get off the plane for any reason until i got to quito, she was very clear about this. we landed in bogotá, colombia and everyone deplaned. no one was speaking english, including the flight attendant talking on the pa system. i was savvy enough to understand that we weren’t in quito, so i didn’t budge. eventually i was persuaded to get off by the family sitting behind me - they explained that there had been technical difficulties and our plane was not going anywhere. standing in the middle of the largest airport in south america, clutching my monikered suitcase, i tried to figure out what to do. i didn’t speak a lick of spanish. i was stymied but not smart enough yet to be terrified. a little man, just slightly taller than myself came running up to me, puffing out my name. i foolishly figured if he knew my name it was safe to go with him - i had forgotten about my snoopy suitcase advertising who i was. luckily for myself, braniff airlines and my mother’s sanity, he turned out to work for the airport and he eventually got me on a plane bound for quito. the stress did catch up with me and i vomited on the descent into quito airport. it has been thirty years without a repeat performance, but i still make sure there is a barf bag in the magazine holder when i buckle in for a flight.
ecuador was amazing and provided many novel experiences. people loved to pet my head and comment on my blue eyes. i was forced to hitch hike with one of my aunt's friends - even at ten i knew this was reckless, and told her so, but i did it anyway. i got to swim in an ocean that was as warm as bathwater. i ate things that should have been familiar, like chicken and hamburgers, that were completely foreign and foreign things, like café con leche and local biscuits that felt familiar. i got a paintbrush stuck in my ear and had to get emergency care (kids, never put anything smaller than your elbow into your ear, seriously). i got a thousand and one mosquito bites because i always ended up sleeping pressed against the mosquito net. i saw six feet long iguanas and house spiders the size of my fist. i developed an unholy love of street side oj - an orange with just the zest removed and a hole cut out of the top (you squeeze it and drink the juice as it comes out of the hole). but the thing that made the biggest impact on me was that poverty meant something very different in third world countries and that people could be happy without tvs, their own rooms and big wheels.

the return flight should have been eventless, considering the letters my mother had exchanged with the airline. but no, and i can’t entirely blame braniff. for some reason we made an unscheduled stop at lax to go through customs. right before i got on the flight, my aunt had given me a couple of those awesome street side ojs for the journey. i had one right away and was saving the other for later - needless to say, it lay forgotten at the bottom of my bag. the customs agent asked me if i had any fruits or vegetables and i said no. big mistake. huge. they found that orange and put me in a little green room for several hours. eventually they decided that i wasn’t an eco terrorist, but in the meantime i missed my connecting flight and no one on the s.f. end thought to inform my mother that i was being held for suspicion of trying to bring down california’s agricultural economy with an orange. more letters were written but i had a bonafide adventure story under my belt.
other than the valuable barf bag lesson and an enlightened perspective on poverty, i also learned that not knowing the language, angry customs agents and unscheduled stops do not impede the trip, but rather enhance the stories that will follow. i believe this was where my insatiable wanderlust was born.