Aging Adventurer

I arrived in Casablanca, feeling unbelievably terrible but managed to exchange money and find the train to take into the city. When I disembarked I was both confused and befuddled. My shivers offered a slight distraction from the throbbing pains that flooded my entire being. I wandered around the station for a few minutes trying to gather a sense of direction and balance. The anxiety of the moment seemed overwhelming and I forgot my conviction of sticking to public transportation. I hopped in the first taxi I saw and simply gave him the address of my hotel.

Moments later I regretted that decision as he honked at every other cab and put his fingers to his lips with a gesture that implied “Boy, do I have a sucker as my fare; she didn’t ask about the meter, the cost, rien (nothing).”I paid more for that ride than I did for the round-trip train ticket.

Upon arrival at the hotel reception desk I asked for a map and directions to a Doctor. Unfortunately it was somewhere around noon and most of the city was closed for a few hours. I bravely set forth and think I saw the old medina, some parks and some buildings. I was in a fog and had to concentrate on not getting run over as I walked across the streets. Traffic was not nearly as difficult as my wandering mind.

Finally I found a pharmacy, described my symptoms with sign language and traveler’s French and gratefully accepted whatever the pills were he dispensed. Practically crawling back to the hotel I attempted a shower and a nap. Since I did not have the strength to turn on the faucet, I crawled into bed fully clad with all the clean clothes in my suitcase, the blankets from both beds, and when I was still shivering I attempted to get the curtains down as well. I could not warm up. For the first time in years I was hot flash free for 48 hours.

Years later, I returned to Morocco, this time using Marrakesh as the starting point for a journey that would take me through the Atlas Mountains out to the Sahara.  It was a well-traveled route and one that should be so.  Incredible vistas everywhere. The highlight was to be the mini camel caravan into the dunes to eat dinner and sleep in a “true nomad bivouac”.

Unfortunately, before leaving I ate a voracious lunch of fresh vegetables, cheese and zaalouk, an incredibly tasty combination of eggplant and tomatoes. I knew better.

After stuffing my small overnight bag into the saddle of the beast I think they called Whiskey, my stomach started gurgling and cramping. It is not an easy gait on the back of a camel and thus with each stride I was offending it with my smell.

It was off-season with reduced rates so I was not surprised that there were no toilets, not even out-houses.  But that didn’t stop me from wishing. When I could wait no longer I ran behind the closest dune.  Somehow I managed to appear in the dinner tent attempting to enjoy the lovely tanjine and musical talents of the cook.

That night when the candles burnt down allowing total darkness and frigid temperatures to envelope the flowing blankets, I was hoping to pass out; but instead I had to crawl to the perimeter of the compound too many times to count.

I was depleted, cold and elated to see the sunrise that next morning. The ride back was made more pleasant by the promise of a warm shower.

We drove through the Jordan River Valley on a slow, single-lane road for an hour or so before coming into Amman. The drive to Petra took an additional five hours; the darkness hid its secret for one more day. We stayed in a beautiful hotel, and enjoyed the local food and wine in a setting straight out of Arabian nights.

Due to the early cold weather, my daughter and I waited until 9 am to visit the ancient site of Petra, which spans more than 100 kilometers and was shockingly reminiscent of the Grand Canyon and Zion National Park.

The city, carved intricately into the rocks, is over 2000 years old, has been lived in or visited throughout the centuries by Bedouins, Romans, and the Crusaders.
After a short ride on horses we walked through the Siq, the official entrance into Petra, and immediately were awed by the  Khazneh, or the Treasury, a 40 meter high elaborately carved façade over a huge simple cave. The pink hue was overwhelming and soon we were seeing browns and blues as well. This site was popularized in the movie, Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.

It is believed that while this city’s largest temples and impressive fronts were built as tombs, there were as many as 30,000 people living here in the first century A.D.

After exploring the valley of this canyon we decided to hike to the High Place of the Sacrifice, an arduous trek. We were greeted at the top by two local Bedouin women who were impressed with our grit. They were trying to capitalize on the meager tourism industry and offered to sell us some small pieces of the local rocks. In turn they pointed out the Tomb of Aaron, Moses’ son, showed us the site of the sacrifice, and recommended an alternate route back down.

WARNING: GO NO FURTHER WITHOUT A GUIDE

This posted sign almost deterred us. Soon enough though, we regretted our decision as we found ourselves up on a very steep rock face with no apparent way down. My daughter  spied some steps on the other side of this  expanse that looked like a giant pregnant woman’s stomach. Without any discussion she scampered over the upper portion of the stone belly and then looked at me to follow.

Unfortunately, I glanced down first AND there was no ledge, only a 100 foot drop!
Panic set in and with each heavy beat of my heart I slowly slipped over the bulge. My legs started to shake and I envisioned one of these tombs becoming my own. Thankfully, my daughter understood my dilemma and calmly talked me through this attack of nerves.

Once I alit on the other side I blurted out that I had literally been “petra-fied”. My elation at survival added even more sunshine, color, and beauty to our surroundings.

I published this a few years back and it was considered one of the more controversial stories on Boots n All Travel.  That said, this is how I saw Tibet.

At close to 12,000 feet, oxygen or Chinese herbs are helpful if you hope to sleep, eat or visit the incredible Potola palace and various temples. And after a day or two the odors will have permeated your clothes and lungs making you immune to your smell.The abundance of barren mountains surrounding the valley are home to both the kaleidoscope of fluttering prayer flags and old plastic bags tossed out with other refuse.

The white-faced monasteries present themselves majestically with their red and gold accessories as they protrude from the side of the sunburned hills. Their semi-hidden sky burial sites rest above the valleys below offering a beauty that contrasts with the seemingly brutal tools used to “break up” the deceased before submitting the body parts to the birds.Numerous monks, dressed in auburn robes and yellow scarves add even more color to this simple portrait of a land that is literally translated as “the place of the gods.” Catching the monks on cell phones certainly complicated this vision of innocence.

The village adobe homes that hug the countryside are rudely interrupted by looming government edifices that speak loudly without any words. Workers, both male and female, exhibit a happy attitude while performing their manual labor, sometimes singing and dancing. Westerners are usually greeted by them with a big “hello” followed by giggles and delight with their multilingualism.

The traders bring their wares to markets near and far, and are eager to barter or bargain. The phrase “just lookee” is politely hurled at passerbys. As I was in need of a new watch featuring an alarm, I struggled with my communication. Settling on a “ding, ding, ding” as I pointed to my wrist, I both amused and confused the salesman.Frustrated by my inability to convey my needs, I smiled and walked away. Within a minute, I felt a tug at my sleeve, had a plastic wrapped watch thrust at me and we agreed upon a price. I was most enchanted with my purchase as not only did it cock-a-doodle-doo on command, but when pressed, it would say the time in Chinese. Unfortunately, it broke before I returned home.

In Lhasa, the Barkhor market surrounds the Jokhang Temple creating another conflicting cultural experience as many of the locals spend their time walking clockwise around the temple, meditating and praying while others utilize the same space to sell their products. On one side of the temple, people are prostrating themselves causing the shoppers to step over or around them. Everything is on sale here from prayer wheels to jewelry, from cheap tennis shoes to real leopard skinned coats.

Years ago this country was peopled with fierce warriors and they were a dominant force in Asia. As early as the 8th century however, Buddhism was introduced. In spite of opposition to this practice, it still defines Tibet today.

Three of the most spectacular monasteries of the predominant Gelugpa lineage are in the Lhasa area.Sera is the site of the monks debating each afternoon in the courtyard. Gandan was completely destroyed during the Chinese invasion but has been rebuilt on a smaller scale. Drepung, was known as the largest monastery of any religion in the world and housed the Dalai Lama. It was the foremost educational center with probably more than 15,000 monks before 1959.

Tourism is progressing from the usual backpackers to sightseeing groups arriving by plane from Chengdu or by the new train that now crosses China. More hotels are opening and upgrading and there are restaurants that cater to the Western palate, even though the burgers and steaks are Yak meat.

The last hour of a long red-eye flight, attendants came by and asked what I would prefer for breakfast, “sweet or savory”?  Please, airline food in coach? I laughed when I should have smiled. She was not particularly amused with my somewhat snide response.  I chose the fruit and yogurt; sweet, I presume.

A half hour later, I was holding my tray with a barely touched bowl of runny yogurt awaiting its  retrieval  when the lady in front of me suddenly declined her seat  knocking the left-overs out of my hands and into my lap. My last clean outfit, black no less, was dripping with white pasty muck from my chest to my knees. A few choice “” curse words””  emanated out of my mouth.  I quickly became see-sawed between two flight attendants, each hoping the other would help me as this was a BUSY time and people were to stay out of the aisle.  I lucked out with Martha who washed my clothes with me in them.  I smelled like a sick baby and was sticky as well.  However, when I landed in AMS I took a shower and put on yesterday’s dirty clothes with a pretty scarf to hide that fact.

Myanmar was amazing, hot, intensive and complex when I visited Yangon, Bagan, Mt. Popa, Mandalay and Lake Inle. It is one of the last frontiers proven by the locals who are still somewhat smitten by tourists.  The country and its people are another story.  Today it’s about hazards and happenstance.

A friend and I were staying in a bed and breakfast of sorts the night before an early flight to Bagan. We were on the third floor of an old house with its own staircase, peculiar plumbing and bars on all the windows.

Unaccustomed to the time zone and the barking dogs, the alarm clock was turned off.  Up, dressed and ready to go until we tried the door.  It would not open, not with a key, not with a push, not even with attempted unhinging.   The windows and the bars were also immobilized.

Daylight was beginning to break and all was quiet, including the hounds, giving me a chance of a boisterous soliloquy.  I was a little frightened, mostly about missing my flight, but claustrophobia was lurking.  I yelled “help” and then “fire” because  people  sometimes don’t like your danger.   My roommate hissed at me for waking up the neighborhood!  Thank goodness I ignored the  plea for politeness .

In what seemed like hours, a young woman climbed the steps to check on the racket.  She tried opening it from the outside with the key I pushed through the bars. Nothing. She then awoke the innkeeper who managed to take off the doorknob; to no avail. Finally her robust husband appeared and wasted no time in throwing his half-naked body against the door thereby creating a passable hole for us to get out with our bags and eat breakfast before the cab appeared.

Coincidently, the lock at a hotel in Mandalay also failed; luckily I was outside the room and could get help.

The last night of the incredible journey found me in Yangon again, this time, however, at a fancy hotel. My daughter, who travels globally for business was in town!  A small world indeed.

I keep a suitcase semi-packed. Travel is my passion and when queried I say my favorite place is the one I’m still dreaming about. The realities, when they come to pass, are always exciting, memorable and sated with stories. I hope to share some of those with you.