Nov302022November 30, 2022June 16, 2023by Glitterchicken

AFRICAN SAFARI

Posted in Nature, Travel

IT SUCKS TO BE A CHEETAH

You may have known that the cheetah is the fastest land animal, capable of going from zero to sixty miles per hour in three seconds. But did you know that the cheetah is considered “vulnerable,” meaning that the cheetah population has declined to the point where it’s on the verge of being added to the endangered species list? [1] Why? Despite their lightning speed, cheetahs are not the strongest animals; they’re preyed upon by lions, leopards, and hyenas. Unlike leopards, cheetahs do not have retractable claws so they can’t climb trees to escape their predators’ attacks; their defenseless cubs are especially likely to be devoured. And if that’s not trouble enough, after cheetahs make a kill, they’ve got to gulp down their dinner as quickly as possible before other animals—even vultures—show up and try to steal their meal. Because cheetahs have relatively small jaws compared with other big cats, it’s not uncommon for cheetahs to abandon their food in the face of aggressive bullies, forcing them to expend the energy to hunt again without adequate nutritional refueling. No wonder why cheetahs are finding it so hard to survive.

Sucks to be a cheetah, right? I had no idea until Kristina Tao told me the facts I just imparted to you. I had always thought it would be sexy to be a cheetah, whizzing around like a bitchin’ Camaro, sinking my claws into flesh, luxuriating in my fabulous coat, the envy of the savanna. But as it turns out, there’s no glamour in being a cheetah; the only thing cheetahs have in common with supermodels is the eternal hunger part! It was Kristina who enlightened me and totally changed my perspective, and not just about cheetahs, but about the entire African safari experience. Hopefully, Kristina’s story will not only open your eyes and your heart and give you a fresh new perspective too.

CHOOSEYOUR OWN ADVENTURE

Kristina Tao’s fascination with cheetahs and leopards started the way it does for most people—from watching spectacular BBC nature programs. But while most people are content to commune with nature without leaving the comfort of their couches, Kristina had the desire to immerse herself in the Animal Kingdom, “where the animals were in charge, not the humans.” A recently retired anesthesiologist and empty-nester, Kristina seized the opportunity to cross the African safari experience off her bucket list in 2019. Her husband, Brian, was totally on board, and he hadn’t even watched any of the BBC shows!

A financial engineer by profession, Brian adopted the role of “travel agent,” researching flight and lodging information and communicating with tour companies. The Taos eventually selected a tour operator based out of Nairobi, Kenya, called Asili Adventure Safaris, that flexibly accommodated the Taos’ atypical requests.[2] Whilethe standard safari is 7 days long, the Taos extended their trip to 10 days in order to increase their chances of animal sightings. Instead of just traveling to one country like most safari-goers, the Taos opted to visit two countries; specifically, Maasai Mara National Reserve in Kenya and Serengeti National Park in Tanzania[3]because different types of animals live in these distinct habitats, thereby boosting the probability of viewing a greater variety of animals. Following similar logic, the Taos deliberately chose to go on safari in August when it is “the peak of Spring, the greenest time, when the grass isn’t too high yet, so you can see the animals better.”

SCOUT’S MOTTO – “BE PREPARED”

Kristina emphasized important health and safety precautions you should take before going on safari, including a mandatory yellow fever shot, and a physician-recommended regimen of antimalarial antibiotics starting 2 days before departure and ending one week after return. Essential travel items in their suitcase were sunblock, brimmed hats, and plenty of mosquito repellent. But there’s one item no one advised them to bring that Kristina highly recommends—a face mask to prevent inhalation of tiny particles while driving along dusty roads![4]

Airfare wasn’t included in Asili’s package, requiring the Taos to arrange their flight well in advance of their tour dates. Brian booked a flight with a Zurich layover because there were no direct flights from the U.S. He also reserved an Airbnb that offered transportation to and from the Nairobi airport. This way, they got a good night’s sleep before their driver picked them up the next morning to begin their great adventure!

GLAMPING SAFARI STYLE

Safari tourists typically behave like gypsies, moving from one tent village to another in pursuit of animals, and the Taos were no exception. Kristina and Brian usually only stayed one night at each tent village, but occasionally, they stayed for 2 or 3 nights in order to increase their chances of spotting certain creatures that were known to frequent a particular area. “But you don’t have to pick up your tent and move it with you.” Kristina said. “The tents are permanent structures and although they have canvas walls, you would never know it.” Canvas is an ideal material for blocking the sun and providing air flow; the zip-up entrance keeps out the mosquitos and pesky monkeys who wouldn’t hesitate to “trash your belongings in search of food!”

Their swanky living accommodations defied Kristina’s expectations. Roughly the size of a 2-car garage, each tent was equipped with modern amenities, including a king-sized bed, double sinks, and a tile shower! “Mosquito nets over the bed were VERY important,” she emphasized.  Sanitary conditions were much better than Kristina had expected too. Everything was clean and they were provided with fresh towels and linens upon request. The Taos made sure to leave a few dollars for their housekeepers each time they checked out of a tent village as they would do in a hotel.

Initially concerned about what the food would be like, Kristina and Brian were pleasantly surprised to find nutritious, flavorful meals made with fresh organic local ingredients. First, you were served a tasty pumpkin or vegetable soup, which was Kristina’s favorite part of the meal. Next, you could go to the buffet, where you could choose free-range poultry or grass-fed meat (occasionally, there was fish or lamb), a staple such as rice, potatoes, or bread, and root vegetables. Brian was particularly fond of the “wonderful honey on fresh bread.” Their diet was so well balanced that Kristina never had to open the beef jerky from Costco she had packed just in case they didn’t get enough protein. The food on Safari “was the ideal healthy diet people strive to achieve.” Plus, they never sufferedfrom any food poisoning or digestive troubles!

Kristina admitted that at first she was scared to go to sleep at night surrounded by noisy wild animals! “You can hear hyenas howling in the distance and feel the heavy vibration of a male lion’s roar. What happens if they crash into your tent?” she wondered. But after a while, she got used to the creature chorus, acknowledging that the animals were not intruders. “It was we humans who were intruding upon their territory.” Eventually, Kristina and Brian got used to living with their animalneighbors so much that they actually enjoyed it. One morning, “we woke up to find 3 gazelles grazing right beside our tent,” and another time, while walking to the dining hall for breakfast, “we were ambushed by a monkey gang looking for food, which we found amusing.”

BABY, WON’T YOU DRIVE MY JEEP?

Jeep drivers for safari tour companies hold high social status in Kenya and Tanzania, not only because they cater to tourists who support the local economy, but also because they’ve got to be good at wearing many hats. Besides being able to handle tank-like vehicles in difficult driving conditions, they’ve got to be resourceful mechanics, tour guides who can communicate with guests from all over the world, experts in animal behavior, and medics in emergency situations.

In Kristina’s opinion, the success of your Safari experience is largely dependent on the competency of your driver. [5]  But it is also important that you clearly state your priorities, hopes, and fears from the outset so that your driver will be better able to customize your adventure according to your individual preferences. Asili provided the Taos with one driver for the Kenyan portion of their tripand a different driver for the Tanzanian portion. Kristina wasn’t shy about informing both drivers that their number one priority was to see the greatest variety of animals they possibly could, and that they were especially hoping to see cheetahs and leopards. Her Kenyan driver knew she was dead serious when Kristina offered to get up as early as 3:00 am and skip the dining room entirely to get a jump start on spotting nocturnal hunters (especially leopards) and migrators who preferred coming out of hiding in the silent hours before the swarming jeep traffic. Her driver told Kristina that it was too dangerous to drive into the park that early in the morning because the roads aren’t lit and they’re terribly bumpy. But he offered to give them the earliest possible departure time each morning, which necessitated talking to the kitchen staff to make take-out breakfast and lunch arrangements.

So while most travelers were still snoozing, Kristina and Brian jumped into their jeep barely before sunrise at 6:00 am, with 2 small paper bags each (one for breakfast and one for lunch) and a thermos filled with coffee or tea. Kristina usually opted for tea, but one morning she chose coffee, which went through her system faster; when she anxiously told her driver she needed him to stop, he was sensitive to her situation, saying: “We must all answer nature’s call!” and found a parking spot that offered Kristina some privacy, or so she thought, until she realized an ostrich was standing a few yards behind her! “If there had been a group of ostriches there, that would have been dangerous,” says Kristina, “but only one ostrich, that was fine,” she laughed. So the moral of the story is: choose tea!

THE PAYOFF IS WORTH THE PRICE

Kristina’s driver wasn’t joking when he said that the condition of the roads leading in and out of the national parks and the road system within the parks present challenges for drivers and passengers alike. Whirlwinds of dust make for poor visibility and can create respiratory difficulties if you inhale too much dust when your windows are rolled down; hence, Kristina’s recommendation to wear a face mask!  Huge ruts in the road created by hundreds of intersecting jeep tire tracks get filled in by tiny stones, requiring jeep drivers to cut their wheels at an angle to traverse the rough surface, producing a jarring “bump, bump, bump” effect on the passengers, especially at faster speeds. Admittedly, it’s the polar opposite of a smooth ride, but it’s well worth it, Kristina says. Jeep drivers talk to each other on the radio all day, communicating intelligence on animals’ exact locations. “Sometimes you have to drive fast in order to get up close to them before they move on,” says Kristina. “And you’re grateful your driver got you there in time.” Witnessing the great migration[6], Kristina poked her head out of the roof of her jeep so that she could get a 360 degree view, and was shocked to see thousands of animals surrounding their jeep! Awestruck, she realized: “We’re like ants to them, barely even noticeable. Because this is THEIR KINGDOM. They have their own lifestyle and social order and we humans have no control over it. We don’t matter here.”

THE HUMAN CONDITION

The Maasai are a semi-nomadic pastoral tribe inhabiting the African Great Lakes region whose lives revolve around their cattle herds, which they believe are a gift from God.[7]Watching Maasai herdsmen by the roadside grazing their cattle in volcanic ash-enriched soils piqued Kristina and Brian’s curiosity, and they decided to visit a Maasai village. Their driver told them that lions were the greatest enemy of the Maasai because lions killed their cattle, and traditionally, a Maasai boy had to prove his manhood by killing a lion and wearing its teeth around his neck; only then could he marry as many wives as he could afford to keep. Now, Maasai elders discourage this coming-of-age ritual due to laws prohibiting lion hunting, but polygamy is still alive and well in Maasai country because a man’s success is not only based on how many head of cattle he has, but also how many children he fathers. Multiple wives guarantee the likelihood of more children and greater social status. Ironically, the Maasai hierarchy resembles that of their nemesis, the lion, where each male rules over a pride of females and cubs.

After making a donation to the chief, whom Kristina suspected of “swallowing their money,” the Taos were allowed to enter a typical Maasai house. At first, it was so dark inside that at first Kristina could not see a thing! After her eyes adjusted, Kristina suddenly she realized there was a mother nursing a baby right next to her! “It was such a tiny room,” Kristina recalled, “maybe 5 by 6 feet across, with no windows or ventilation except for a mug-sized open hole in the roof.” There was no furniture, just an open fire with an aluminum pot, and 2 pieces of clothon the ground that served as a bed. Kristina felt “very sad” to witness such austere living conditions. Kristina explained that when a Maasai woman is ready to marry, she must build her own home by digging a ditch, setting up a circle of sticks in the ground, adding mud to the walls, and lashing it all together. Then, she’s got to wait around hoping for a man to show up! I’m thinking I’d rather be a cheetah.

WHY DON’T WE DO IT IN THE ROAD?

On the Tanzanian portion of their tour, Brian and Kristina opted for take-out breakfast and lunch too. One morning, their driver parked so that they could enjoy a bounce-free breakfast, and while Kristina was peacefully drinking her tea, she suddenly noticed a male lion standing right next to their rear window! A lioness was standing behind their jeep like a lookout! Kristina explained that only lionesses hunt as a team; the male’s job is to ward off potential threats to the safety of the pride; that’s why grazing prey animals like gazelles and wildebeest don’t run scared from roving male lions.

As it turns out, most safari tourists see lots of lions because they’reeverywhere, “like deer,” says Kristina. They really do “act like kings” and they have no problem having sex like no one is looking!  Near the Ngorongoro Crater, Kristina and Brian saw a pair of lions “make love” 7 times by the roadside, after which they took their sweet old time crossing the road, completely stopping traffic. Apparently, the average lion copulates 30-40 times a day during mating season.[8] “Lions rest a lot to conserve energy,” Kristina told me. No wonder they would need to rest if they’re that busy getting busy!

SHE PERSISTED

Another day in Tanzania, while driving along a low section of road that had been flooded due to heavy rains the previous evening, their jeep got stuck in the mud! Kristina worried that they would have to get out of the vehicle, giving the animals an opportunity to attack. Discouraged, Kristina wouldn’t have minded returning to camp if their driver would have suggested it. But what seemed like a big deal to her was only a minor setback to their experienced driver, who convinced Kristina to keep on going, “luckily for us!” Soon after another jeep arrived and helped them out of the ditch, they spotted 2 beautiful cheetahs! And these were not the first cheetahs she saw, Kristina reminded me. First, there was the “feeding cheetah” she saw in Kenya. From 15 feet away, Kristina could hear the sound of bonescrunching as the cheetah chowed down. I guess the lesson here is that you’ve got to be persistent like the cheetah to enjoy the payoff.

YOU DON’T WANT TO MEET A HIPPO IN A DARK ALLEY

Driving past Zebras grazing on a wide flat plain at the foot of Mt. Kilimanjaro, with its snow-capped peak, they came to a riverbed lush with palm trees overhanging the banks. Here, white birds that looked like “kind of like pelicans, and kind of like cranes[9]” were fishing while hippopotami were bathing nearby. Kristina explained that the reason why hippos are always in the water during the day is that they can get sunburned, and they use mud as their sunscreen! Hippopotami hang out in a group called a “bloat” consisting of one male, several females, and their babies. Although this scene was placid enough from a distance, Kristina and Brian didn’t get too close because they had already been warned that hippos can get aggressive towards humans who invade their territory. “Once, we camped by a lake where hippos grazed in the common area between the tents. In every tent, there was a phone so that guests could call security to escort them through the common area at night,” which Kristina found very reassuring, because getting attacked by a hippo is no bueno.[10]

DEAF LEOPARD

On one memorable occasion, while waiting for a herd of gazelles to show up and cross the river, their driver heard some radio intel that prompted him to suddenly turn around and drive so fast that Kristina and Brian had to stand up hold onto their seatbelts. ”Brace for impact!” Kristina warned Brian,” but then they abruptly slowed down. “Look!” said their driver, pointing to a tree about 30 feet away where a leopard was sleeping like a baby on a branch. Their jeep pulled up even closer until they were only 10 feet away! Kristina worried that the sound of the engine would startle the leopard, but their driver reassured her that leopards are so accustomed to jeeps that he won’t feel threatened. Spellbound, Kristina and Brian watched the leopard for 15 minutes, and sure enough, he didn’t seem to notice that they were there. He barely moved, except for a little leg twitch. He didn’t even open his eyes. But Kristina’s eyes were full of “tears of joy thatwent streaming down her cheeks.” Leopards are THE most difficult animals tospot in the savanna. Because they hunt nocturnally, you rarely see them by day and when you do, their spotted coats blend into the grasses so that you can barely get a glimpse of them. Kristina was struck with the realization that she was witnessing something incredibly rare. Her greatest wish for her safari adventure had been fulfilled and she felt fortunate indeed!

HURRY BOY, SHE’S WAITING THERE FOR YOU

If you think you’ll never get to go on safari because it’s prohibitively expensive, think again! Remember that both Kenya and Tanzania are trying hard to attract tourists and the cash they pump into the regional economy, so bargain hunters can definitely find good deals. Kristina notes that the cost of a safari tour package can vary widely, depending on the travelers’ priorities and the level of luxury they desire. For example, the cost of Kristina and Brian’s package was $3,720 per person, which included food and lodging, as well as daily jeep tours. Kristina’s friend paid $20,000 more for her posh package, where “they set up a table with white linens and chilled wine,” Kristina said, “but she didn’t see any leopards or cheetahs.”

Kristina passionately believes that “everyone who loves nature” should go on an African safari adventure at least once in their lives. “I highly recommend it. There’s no place else on earth where the animals are in charge and you are just an observer,” she says. “It’s a life-changing experience that humbles you. It’s unique. There’s nothing comparable.” Kristina made me promise that I would go someday. Now, all I’ve got to do is find a way to turn that promise into a reality. Easier said than done, but so much easier than being a cheetah!

[1] For facts about cheetahs and the survival challenges they face, see https://education.nationalgeographic.org/resource/cheetahs-brink-extinction-again/

[2] For more information about Asili Adventure Safaris, see https://www.asiliadventuresafaris.com/

[3] To learn more about Maasai Mara and Serengeti, see https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maasai_Mara and https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Serengeti_National_Park

[4] Remember, Kristina &Brian went on safari in pre-COVID days, before face masks for travelers becameubiquitous.

[5] Itis customary for safari tourists to offer a minimum gratuity of $100 to theirdrivers at the conclusion of their tour. The Taos were so pleased with theirdrivers that they gave each of them $200.

[6]Thousands of wildebeests, eland, zebras, and gazelles migrate from the Serengetiinto Maasai Mara from July through October, which, are the most popular monthsfor the tourists herds too. https://www.masaimara.com/great-migration-kenya.php

[7]For detailed information about the Maasai people, see https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maasai_people.

[8] Thiswebpage from the San Diego Zoo contains fascinating scientific data about lions,including their reproductive and child-rearing behavior. https://ielc.libguides.com/sdzg/factsheets/lions/reproduction

[9] Justspeculating, but I think these birds were yellow-billed storks. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yellow-billed_stork

[10]Ok, so maybe its sensationalized, but you won’t be able to stop reading thisarticle about a canoe safari guide who was unlucky enough to get attacked by ahippo. https://nypost.com/2022/03/14/a-hippo-ripped-off-my-arm-and-threw-me-around-like-a-rag-doll/


Jul112021July 11, 2021June 17, 2023by Glitterchicken

CALAVERA BAR & GRILL

Posted in Culture, Food & Drink, Music, Travel
Mexican legend VICENTE FERNANDEZ photo courtesy of Sony Music

“You guys look like somebody sold you a sandwich without any meat,” the dude behind the Fox Rental Car counter at the Phoenix airport said to us. My brother Brian shook his head and laughed: “Yep, you nailed it. Exactly.” It had been that kind of day.

The start of our epic Southwestern road trip had gotten delayed by 4-5 hours because our hotel had decided to stop running its free airport shuttle due to the COVID pandemic, but had not bothered to update its blurb on Hotels.com to let the world know they were no longer running the shuttle, and so we got stranded in the hotel lobby because no taxi cabs would come and pick us up, despite the fact our hotel was only 10 mins away from the airport.[1]

After the most expensive Lyft ride in history, we finally arrived at the airport but it took us forever to find the rental car counter; we mistakenly boarded a bus headed back to the terminals and if a kind passenger had not warned us to jump off, we might have just said “Screw it,” and hopped on a plane to Mexico.

Maybe because he had only been at the job for 2 weeks and had not become jaded and cynical yet, or maybe just because he was just a righteous dude (his main job was running sound systems for raves, this was just his side gig), the rental car guy totally hooked us up by waiving the additional driver fee, and our luck started to change.

After brief pitstops in Apache Junction (Goldfield Ghost Town and Superstition Mountain Museum) and Arcosanti, we headed north on I-17 and made a left onto AZ-260, entering the Verde Valley. Although we had booked a Sedona Vortex tour[2] for 9:00 am the next morning, if you’ve ever travelled to Sedona, you’ll know that reasonably priced hotels are a rare find, so we had decided to stay in Cottonwood for the night.

Upon checking into the Lux Verde Hotel[3] ataround 9:00 pm, the front desk lady informed us that restaurants in downtown Cottonwood had already closed at 8:00 pm. On a Saturday night. My brother and I just stood there staring at each other in shocked disbelief. If she would have told us a UFO just landed in the parking lot, we would have been like, “ok, cool, thanks for letting us know,” but we could not wrap our heads around the concept of restaurants closing their doors at 8:00 pm on a Saturday night. Inconceivable! But true! Maybe it was a residual of the pandemic wreaking havoc on the restaurant industry or maybe it was just the way they did things in Cottonwood, AZ, but whatever it was, we had just gotten slapped in the face by hard cold reality for what seemed like the millionth time today. “What do we do now?” I asked, trying not to sound as dismal as I felt.

Fortunately, while I had been driving, Brian had glimpsed out the passenger door window a roadside bar called the Calavera Bar &Grill. “Maybe the kitchen will still be open,” I said, with a glimmer of hope, “because it’s a REAL bar, which would naturally respect the commandment that bars shalt not chase away hungry customers on a Saturday night.” Silently praying to the gods of weary travelers, I called (928) 634-9618, took a deep breath and asked the nice lady who answered the phone if the kitchen was still open and to my delight she said “YES!!” And it was going to remain open until the wee hour of 10:00 pm!! My prayers had been answered.

When we walked through the door, we saw hundreds of skeletons and very few living, breathing human beings. True to its name, “La Calavera” was inundated with Día de los Muertos imagery. Brightly colored smiling skulls were carved into the tall chairs, dancing skeletons swayed from the ceiling, and the walls were covered with paintings of folks wearing the distinctive sugar skull makeup traditionally worn during Day of the Dead parades.[4]  When our charming hostess appeared, we eschewed the cavernous dining area that had already emptied out except for a few lonely leftover tortilla chips, and asked to sit at a table in the bar area, which still showed signs of life.

We did not ponder the menu for long because we were famished and we knew the kitchen was closing soon. Within minutes of placing our order, we were sipping on margaritas as big as a baby’s head and wolfing down chips and salsa like there was no tomorrow.   Then our meals arrived piping hot on enormous platters. We immediately started taking pictures of everything–the drinks, the food, the décor, ourselves–out of the special kind of gratitude that can only come from a day that starts out shitty and appears to be ending on a high note. I wish I could tell you exactly what note that was on the scale, but whatever it was, we were tuned into the Universal frequency and we heard it LOUD and CLEAR! It was coming out of the impressive sound system hooked up to the enormous TV behind the bar. We stood up in our seats and craned our necks to try to see who was singing.  

He was a mustachioed man wearing a sombrero almost as enormous as the TV. He was dressed in the kind of suit and tie and cowboy boots typically worn by Mariachi musicians, but he wasn’t playing an instrument–not in his hands, anyway–this guy’s instrument was his voice! And what a uniquelygifted voice it was! He wasn’t exactly a spring chicken–he had some years on him–but he could belt out high notes with the strength and vibrato of a young operatic tenor but with the richness of tone that comes from maturity and with the lyric expressiveness of a troubadour. Knowing we were in the presence of greatness (albeit televised), we both started talking at once: “Who the hell IS this guy?” asked Brian. “He’s got to be a superstar,” I said. “Yeah, he isn’t just anybody.” “Oh no, I said, “He’s somebody alright! Who can sing like that? And at his age?” “INCREDIBLE!!”

Brian stood up. “I’m going to go find out who this dude is,” and as he walked over to ask the owner of the restaurant, I munched on the fruit that garnished my margarita and watched the crooning vaquero in stunned amazement. Brian returned to our table and excitedly informed me the dude’sname is Vicente Fernández and he’s a Mexican cultural icon. “Like the Mexican Frank Sinatra,” I said. “Exactly,” said Brian. Known affectionately as El Ídolo de Mexico and El Rey del Música Mexicana, Fernandez has won 3 Grammy awards, 8 Latin Grammy awards, 14 Lo Nuestra awards, and his records have sold over 50 million copies worldwide, making him one of the most famous Mexican artists ever. And he started out as abusker. Unbelievable! But even more unbelievable was that we had never heard of him until now.

Our meals were tasty and satisfying enough, but not nearly as extraordinary as Vicente Fernández, who by this point, had become the focal point of our attention–Brian was literally making a video of the televised concert with his phone. Some of the bar patrons must have noticed our new obsession because they would turn around in their stools every so often and tell us little facts about Fernández and his music; for example, his genre is known as ranchera, a traditional form of Mexican music originating from rural folk music that pre-dates the Mexican revolution. The most common themes of ranchera are love, nature, patriotism, and honor and a recognizable feature of many ranchera songs is the grito Mexicano, a shouting cry that punctuates the verses. Most of Fernandez’s greatest hits evoke sorrowful pining over lost love, which heexpresses with a vocal style that sounds like he’s sobbing while he’s singing.[5]

As we finished eating the last morsels of our dinner and waited for the check, we noticed that the music had changed. El Ídolo de Mexico had been replaced by two younger artists who had traded in their sombreros for cowboy hats and their mariachi suits for jeans and button-down printed shirts. Their musical style was different too. Their songs were structured more like pop tunes with verses separated by musical interludes but this was not rock music; nothing even close. This was unapologetically country music sung with a swagger. Sometimes, the musical accompaniment was sparse, consisting of an acoustic guitar, an accordion and a tuba,[6] and sometimes there was an entire horn section, but what all these songs had in common were their pared-down simplicity; they lacked electrified instruments, electronic sounds, and elaborate arrangements.Another similarity between these two young cowboy singers is that they bothplayed starring roles in melodramatic music videos with plots like telenovelas, wherein the star got into an argument with a dolled-up sexy woman (presumably his wife or girlfriend) that always involved a cell phone as well as plenty of temper tantrums, tears, boozing, and maybe some horses and cattle thrown in for effect.

In terms of sheer vocal talent, no one could beat Vicente Fernández, but these tunes were so catchy and the videos were so wildly entertaining, Brian and I remained transfixed to the TV after we had paid the bill. We looked up the names of the two young cowboys, who both wore full beards to mask their baby faces so they could appear more macho. The one with the dramatic tenor voice and the roaring lion logo was Carin Léon, or just “Léon” for short.[7] The one with the booming baritone with a penchant for leather jackets went by the stage name El Fantasma, or “The Ghost.[8]”  Their genre, known as Regional Mexican music, is broader than ranchera, although it is rooted in traditional folk music and incorporates ranchera elements, it also includes the corrido–anarrative tale about history, oppression, criminal lifestyles, or other pertinent social issues that first became popular during the Mexican Revolution and remain popular today.[9] Both Léon and El Fantasma have achieved pop star status due to the widespread semination of their music on social media outlets.

Begrudgingly, Brian and I started mumbling about how we should really get going so that the server could clear our table, but neither of us got up. We simply did not want to leave; we were having too damn good of a time. Suddenly, one of the bar patrons swiveled around on his stool and invited us to sit next to him. “Come on, the party’s just getting started,” he said as he waved us over. Judging from his shirt, he looked like he worked for a landscaping company. Brian and I looked at each other incredulously, not just because this random landscaping dude had just read our minds like a psychic, but also because it was well after 11:00 pm. “Whynot?” I shrugged and Brian agreed. We sidled up to the bar and ordered Pacifica beers, curious as hell to see what was going to happen next. A few more guys entered from a side room that I didn’t even know existed, sat down at the bar and ordered a pitcher of beer. I noticed one of them was carrying a microphone. I nudged Brian. “I think there’s going to be some audience participation here soon.”

Occasionally, instead of videos, song lyrics would appear on the TV screen and the microphone would get passed around from one brave and/or borracho[10] soul to another, including the adorable girl tending the bar, whom everyone applauded vigorously.  Nowhere near as egocentric and annoying as karaoke, this practice felt like it was bonding all of us seated around the circular bar together in our shared appreciation ofthe music, rather than providing a stage for individuals to compete forattention. I felt like a participant in an ancient ritual that pre-datedChristianity, like Native America was rising up from the red earth and embracing us.[11]

If we didn’t believe things could possibly get better, they wouldn’t have. Because nobody got up to leave, our hosts interjected some energetic dance music into the video show to keep the fiesta going into the morning. Highlights included Mi Matamoros Querido by Rigo Tovar, a cumbia with an infectious rhythm and a good old early-70’s organ sound reminiscent of The Doors,[12] and the dance mix by Banda El Mexicano, the spunkiest old geezers you’ve ever seen wearing sparkly space suits, busting out riffs that hook you and beats that make it impossible for you to sit still in your chair.[13]

But the all-time favorite video with the Calavera crowd that they played no less than 3 times during our visit was the song Yo Ya No Vuelvo Contigo by El Grupo Firme. Set in a large wooden pavilion, 4 vocalists passed the microphone to one another (not unlike our buddies at the bar) while a large band of musicians (accordion, guitars, horns, woodwinds, and percussion) backed them up and mouthed the lyrics. When not singing or playing, they ate tacos and drank copious amounts of beer and tequila straight from the bottle. The guy sitting next to me explained that this musical style is called Banda, which means “band” in English. Banda is yet another form of Mexican Regional music characterized by the large size of the group (generally 10 to 20 members) and the breadth of the repertoire, which can include dance music such as cumbias, boleros, bachatas, salsas, sambas, polkas, and waltzes, as well as rancheras and corridos. Often bandas have more than 1 vocalist and often employ 3-part harmonies as well as the ubiquitous grito Mexicano.[14]

Our buddy at the bar explained that El Grupo Firme is not your traditional run of the mill banda group. They emerged out of the midst of the COVID pandemic via social media to become one of the hottest acts out of Mexico and are now immensely popular among Mexicans and Mexican-Americans living in the U.S. Upon further research, we learned that El Grupo Firme is smaller than typical banda groups and as they hail from Tijuana, the instrumentation they employ and their resulting sound is closer to the norteño genre from Northern Mexico, that relies heavily on the accordion and the rhythm of the polka.[15]

Perhaps the most accurate way to characterize El Grupo Firme’s repertoire is to say that they’re expertly crafted drinking songs and while they may lack the melodic grace of Irish drinking songs, El Grupo Firme makes up for it in the raw, unbridled emotion they convey as they pour the tequila into their mouths and they pour their hearts out of their mouths, like an inhale and an exhale. This is Zen, Mexican style. And their fans, many of them laborers separated from their loved ones back in Mexico, can relate wholeheartedly. Finally, someone is speaking directly to them and creating art out of their everyday experiences and this undoubtedly has an empowering effect.

The good times rolled on until we closed down the place, paid our tab, said our goodbyes to our new friends, and sauntered back to our rental car under the light of the full Worm Moon.[16]

“What happened back there? What was THAT?” we asked ourselves, shaking our heads, trying to process it all as we drove back to our hotel. THAT was a situation that would not have occurred if things had gone according to plan. THAT was a situation that occurred organically precisely because things did NOT go according to plan.  Instead of letting ourselves get thrown off course by the bumps in the road, we opened ourselves up to what the Universe might have in store for us instead of what we had envisioned, which brought us to the right place at the right time with the right people.

We learned more about Mexican music that Saturday night at the Calavera Bar & Grill than we had ever learned from multiple visits to Mexico. Had we taken a college course on Mexican Regional music, we wouldn’t have had nearly as much fun. And we didn’t have to pass an exam to prove our knowledge. Our only requirements were observant awareness of our surroundings, appreciative engagement with our fellow humans, and active participation in the present moment that was unfolding. These are theonly essential items you need to bring with you when you travel. You can always buy water and sunscreen when you get there.

[1] We think the reason for the dearth of taxis in Tempe is that they all went to Scottsdale because hundreds of tourists had just arrived for MBA spring training and the cab drivers figured it would be more lucrative, but this is just speculation.

[2] Read our Trip Advisor review of Dynamic Journey Tours at https://en.tripadvisor.com.hk/ShowUserReviews-g31352-d21504638-r794278514-Dynamic_Journey_Tours-Sedona_Arizona.html

[3]The Lux Verde was a totally decent play to stay at a good value in a convenient location. There are flat screen TVs, microwaves, and refrigerators in every room as well as free breakfast and a nice outdoor pool and hot tub that we did not get a chance to enjoy due to our hectic travel schedule. https://www.booking.com/hotel/us/hotel-w-sr-a-cottonwood.html

[4] Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead) is a 2-day holiday celebrated in Mexico and many regions of the U.S. with vibrant Mexican American communities, such as San Francisco, San Antonio, and Alberquerque, on Nov. 1st and 2ndto honor deceased family members by making altars called ofrendas and sharing their favorite foods that they would have enjoyed in life. The ofrendas, typically placed on the gravesites, are decorated with marigolds (Flor de Muerto) that are believed to attract the souls of the departed to join the party and smiling sugar skulls (calaveras) that not only mock death but remind the living that death is the great equalizer. Candlelight processions of peopledressed in colorful attire wearing calavera face paint is another traditional feature of the holiday that has its roots in Aztec culture. https://dayofthedead.holiday/  For some of the largest Day of the Dead celebrations in the U.S., see https://www.afar.com/magazine/the-most-spirited-day-of-the-dead-celebrations-in-the-united-states

[5] I hope you take the time to listen to the songs, but even if don’t, you’ve got to click on this link just to see thepix of Fernandez dressed in red, holding a red rose, with rose petals falling down from the sky. VICENTE FERNANDEZ LO MEJOR DE LO MEJOR SUS GRANDES CANCIONES - YouTube For more about Vicente Fernandez and the ranchera as a Mexican National symbol, see https://www.panoramas.pitt.edu/art-and-culture/ranchera-music-mexican-national-symbol

[6] Yes, that’s right, a tuba. The quintessential instrument that supplies the bass in Mexican music. And in New Orleans Second Line music too, for that matter. https://www.frenchquarter.com/secondline/ Have you ever heard of a rock band with a tuba player in it? If so, please write to us. Seriously.

[7] Carin Léon is the multi-talented singer,songwriter, musician and leader of the charting Mexican Regional band GrupoArranke. https://www.allmusic.com/artist/carin-leon-mn0003902290/biography Here’s our favorite Léon video they played for us at la Calavarera. Carin Leon - ME LA AVENTE (Video Oficial) - YouTube

[8] Known affectionately as “The King of the Underground,” the mystery surrounding El Fantasma’s identity is part of his allure. Believe it or not, this chart-topping artist for the Afinarte label is in reality a humble gardener named Alexander Garcia. See http://elfantasma.tm-g.org/bio/ We watched his video for the song Palabra de Hombre at the Calavera. And we loved it. You absolutely must watch it! You will love it too. But beware – this song will get stuck in your head! El Fantasma - Palabra DeHombre (Video Oficial) - YouTube

[9] Derived from the romance (a literary genre popular in medieval Europe), the structure of the corrido consists of thegreeting, the prologue, the plot of the narrative, and then closes with themoral and the farewell. In terms of subject matter and poetic lyricism, it can be compared with the blues and rap/hip-hop/spoken word in the U.S. although it is altogether different melodically and rhythmically due to its lack of African origins.

[10] Spanish for drunk, inebriated, shit-faced, however you want to call it.

[11] It was an unusual feeling to feel so comfortable in a place where I had never set foot before. While I’ve often felt like a foreigner in the cities where I’ve lived, worked, and paid taxes, I felt right at home on that barstool with the smiling skull carved into it, clapping for each singer. While it was the first time I felt this way in Arizona, it would not be the last. It has everything to do with how genuinely welcoming and inclusive people are, so that the distinction between “you” and “me” and “us” and “them” ceases to exist.

[12] The cumbia is a form of popular dancemusic that originated in Colombia and spread to Peru, Mexico, and other Latin American countries. This excellent NPR article includes some wonderful audio selections of cumbia music and explains why it can thought of as the backbone of Latin American culture. https://www.npr.org/sections/altlatino/2013/09/30/227834004/cumbia-the-musical-backbone-of-latin-america Maybe it was Ray Manzarek’s brother from a Mexican mother playing the organ on this track. MATAMOROS QUERIDO - YouTube

[13] After watching this video at the Calavera, Brian and I wanted to catch the next plane to Mazatlan. This is honestly the happiest music I’ve ever heard and most fun video I’ve ever watched.  MIX BANDA EL MEXICANO PARA BAILAR 2021 - YouTube You’ll note the young dude who doesn’t play an instrument and doesn’t sing and whose sole purpose is to dance; that’s the band leader’s son. If you’re unhappy after watching this video, you need antidepressants. Unless you’re unhappy because you’re not the band leader’s son. Then you’re totally fine.

[14] Banda music started in the middle ofthe 19th century when villagers, trying to imitate military bands, formed their own brass bands to entertain their communities. German and Czech immigrants to Mexico had a profound influence on banda music, with polka music interlapping with Mexican dance music. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Banda_music

[15]  For more about the phenomenon that is El Grupo Firme, see https://www.billboard.com/articles/columns/latin/9529898/grupo-firme-strategy-regional-mexican-group/ and for more about the norteño genre,see https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Norte%C3%B1o_(music). Here’s the video of the Calaveracrowd’s favorite song: Yo Ya No Vuelvo Contigo -(Video Oficial) - Lenin Ramirez ft. Grupo Firme - YouTube. Andhere’s my favorite El Grup Firme video: Grupo Firme - La Estoy Pasando Mal - (Official Music Video) - YouTube Similar in its narrative style to the Léon and El Fantasma videos, it’s much more polished and culturally refined, including a visit to a beautiful art museum at the center of the melodrama between the band leader, Eduin Caz, and his mamacita.  

[16] The full moon in March was so named byNative Americans because it coincides with the time earthworms come wriggling out of the ground because the frost has thawed and the earth is softening to make way for the Spring plants to shoot up. For more about the Worm moon and other Native American names for the full moons in other months, see Full moon in March 2021: When to seethe 'Worm' moon - CNN


Jan262020January 26, 2020June 19, 2023by Glitterchicken

THE BRUCE

Posted in Food & Drink, Nature, Sports & Leisure, Travel

Like most kids, I loved games of make-believe. One of my favorites was playing spy. Whether it was lying prostrate in the back of my parents’ station wagon imagining myself being chased by Russians (seatbelts were optional then), jotting down quirky observations ofpeople in a little green notebook, hiding at the top of the stairs to eavesdrop on the grown-ups, or donning my mom’s dresses and heels to form a disguise, I was always pretending. Commonplace events took a sinister turn. No one was who they seemed, and every thing was a mystery I was determined to solve. In other words, I wanted to be Nancy Drew!

For those of you who their cut their teeth on those books, you’ll remember the girl detective was adept at managing watercraft and many of the stories took place near lakes or involved water sports. Nancy Drew would have been right at home in a place I visited last June - the Bruce Peninsula.[1]

In every good mystery story the setting, whether it be exotic or mundane, is as important as the protagonists. So let’s start with the basics of the Bruce Peninsula - location. “The Bruce,” as it’s known in local vernacular, juts out like an index finger into the crystal cool waters of Lake Huron, approximately 250 km northwest of Toronto. It’s part of Bruce County, Ontario and hosts two national parks; Bruce Peninsula NP and Fathom Five National Marine Park. Some of what makes the area geologically unique is that is contains part of the Niagara Escarpment[2] on the east side along the Georgian Bay. This contributes to an unusual phenomenon botanists find interesting in that the hardiness zones on the peninsula change from east to west rather than north to south as in most places, with the cooler side being on the east as elevations rise. (More about plants later).

The Bruce is an important part of the migratory bird flyway and a unique natural area, being home to the largest remaining untouched forest in Southern Ontario, otherwise known as a “mega-woodland” where you can find some of the oldest trees in North America and many other plant and animal species like black bear and Eastern Massasauga rattlesnake. While there may be plenty of wild creatures, there isn’t much on the Bruce in terms of creature comforts. That’s part of its allure, but it also means you need to go prepared. (Nancy was always infinitely prepared, you’ll recall.)

As you head north from Toronto, you’ll find quaint little towns like Orangeville and Owen Sound where the activity is centered along main streets flanked by funky shops and restaurants. Eventually this gives way to the more sparsely populated Highway 6, an evergreen-lined, two-lane road which transects The Bruce vertically from northto south. Along it, you’ll find a few hardware stores, the ubiquitous Tim Horton’s, a grocery store, and a few mom-and-pop fish ‘n chips stands, where you can gear up and have a snack.

The Bruce is a goldmine of outdoor activities. In fact, if you’re not partial to fishing, hiking, camping, kayaking, or boating, there’s little else to attract you – unless you consider pure, unadulterated nature insignificant. I wasn’t there to do any of those things, though. I was part of a convocation known as the Native Orchid Conference,[3] and the Bruce Peninsula (specifically, the town of Tobermory) was the locale for the organization’s annual symposium. In case you were wondering … the Native Orchid Conference or NOC is a non-profit group focused on the study and conservation of native, mainly terrestrial orchids of North America. Consisting of members from around the globe, the organization’s primary activity is hosting a yearly conference, where participants listen to scientific lectures before heading off into the bush to find and photograph flowers.

Tobermory is a like a shining pot of gold waiting for you at the end of Route 6. It sits at the northernmost point of the peninsula where two harbors, Big Tub and Little Tub, carve themselves into the landscape. Most of the activity centers on Little Tub Harbor and its marina. There you’ll find The Tobermory Princess, a modest, family-run hotel with restaurant. You’ll also find eclectic boutiques focused on all things nautical and outdoorsy, quaint coffee shops, and restaurants like the Tobermory Brewing Company and Grill, which serves up hefty burgers, a healthy pumpkin and sunflower seed hummus and some tasty brews. But you can’t leave the Bruce without having at least one fish n’ chips meal complete with vinegar in a spray bottle! Lee’s was touted as the place to get it, but unfortunately our limited schedule precluded us from having the full Tobermory experience. A good excuse to go back!

At the heart of Tobermory is narrow Little Tub Harbor. Here is where you can park your boat or charter one for a snorkel tour or a dive. Tobermory happens to be the “freshwater scuba diving capital” of the world with 24 shipwrecks and a unique underwater topography that divers find appealing. From Little Tub Harbor one can also get on board the MS Chi-Cheemaun (Ojibwe for “Big Canoe”), a ferry providing daily passenger/vehicle service between Tobermory and the town of South Baymouth on Manatoulin Island, the world’s largest freshwater island.  But our group of conference members were on a special mission, so we opted for the jet boat via Blue Heron Cruises[4] to take us to Flowerpot Island. Some housekeeping here: Joining the cruise takes a bit of maneuvering. The ticket office is in one location, car parking in another. A short but steep walk through town takes you to where your tickets are validated before gathering at the embarkation point.

This is where the plot, and pardon the pun, the fog thickens. Although the Great Lakes have an overall moderating effect on climate, if you’ve spent any time there, you know how mercurial the weather can be, particularly in summer. The morning we set out for Flowerpot Island was rainy and cool. As we boarded, our skipper passed out blue plastic ponchos – more to keep our bums from getting damp than to mitigate the rain and mist. We settled into our seats and off we went on the Flowerpot Express!

The unique rock formations that lend the island its name are formally known as sea stacks.[5] These formed thousands of years ago when the last glaciers retreated. Flower Pot Island is composed of dolomite, which was strong enough to survive the grinding of the glaciers. After the last ice age, when the glaciers retreated, surface water filtered through cracks in the earth and eroded “softer” rock behind the formations. Wind, rain, and wave action did the rest, resulting in the towers of rock we see today.

Remember, the objective of our visit was to observe the plethora of orchid species which occur naturally and in abundance on The Bruce. Yellow Lady’s Slippers, elusive Coral Roots, and ethereal Listera cordata with their millimeter-sized blossoms were our targets. But the gems of the Bruce are Calypso bulbosa or the Fairy Slipper orchid. Calypso are diminutive, rare, and quite beautiful, which puts them at the top of most orchid hunters’ checklists.

As in any good novel, there are plot twists to follow and problems to overcome. It was cool and wet like everywhere else in the eastern half of North America last year. Want to see a grown man cry? Tell him the bloom time of the orchids is a week or two behind schedule because of below normal temperatures. But don’t fear – orchid hunters are perennial optimists. So what if the plants aren’t in bloom? We can still look at leaves and inflorescences in spike. So what if it’s raining and the ground is saturated? We can still writhe on our bellies to find just the right angle to point our macro lenses. However, Calypso are an entirely different animal. They’re the Holy Grail, and some people will stop at nothing to find them.

With wooded trails, hidden coves, mist, and place names like Devil’s Monument, Old Woman’s River, Singing Sands, Cave Point, and Spirit Rock, The Bruce is an ideal place for nature lovers who like a little intrigue mixed in with their botanizing. And yes, orchid hunters are not immune to some minor subterfuge in order to have the plants all to themselves. Sleuths refer to them as “red herrings,” but in the orchid world it’s known as the vague direction, the slip, or failure to divulge. Some of this has merit. Unscrupulous people with heavy feet can cause damage – or even worse, dig up plants. When a few people in our group got wind of the exact location of a few Calypso, they sent the majority of us off on a wildgoose chase culminating in a dead-end trail. Said scofflaws surreptitiously went off trail, found the plants, and returned gleefully boasting to the rest of us about their “good luck.” Criminal!

Orchid hunting is a lot like spy work. There are clues given by fellow explorers. There are hazards – black flies, mosquitoes, bogs of uncertain depth, ticks, chiggers – all must be overcome to reach your goal. You sometimes have to “trespass.” You frequently rely on cryptic messages to get to the final prize. You get help on where to look fromclues like companion plants – in this case, false Solomon’s seal, trillium, and Indian cucumber root. But in the end, just as Nancy always solves the case and the bad guys get exposed and all is well with the world, the same was true for us. We found the orchids, took our photos, and reveled in nature’s mysteries and the beauty of the Bruce Peninsula. Although I’m pretty sure Nancy Drew would have gotten those fish n’ chips!

Travel Notes:

Bruce Peninsula essentials: (1) Apassport (if you’re not Canadian); (2) Rain gear; (3) Insect repellent; (4) Hiking shoes; (5) Dress in layers; (6) Camera

Other Notes:

*If you’re really adventurous you can volunteer to man oneof the Flowerpot Island Lighthouse. It’s a 3 week gig. Caretaker duties include performing light maintenance and greeting visitors. 

*Parking: The biggest mystery on The Bruce is the obsessionwith parking. In Tobermory and surrounds you’ll find parking kiosks throughout the park, even along wooded roads.

[1] The Bruce Peninsula wasnamed for James Bruce, 8th Earl of Elgin and Governor General of Canada from 1847-1854. One of his less savory claims to fame is the burning of the Old Summer Palace in Beijing during the Second Opium War while holding the position of High Commissioner and Plenipotentiary of China and the Far East.

[2] The Niagara Escarpment is essentially a steep slope running in an east/west direction from New York and Ontario through Michigan and Wisconsin into Illinois. The area holds a UNESCO World Biosphere Reserve designation as it has some of the oldest forest ecosystem in North America. As its name implies, the escarpment is best known as the cliff over which Niagara Falls descends.

[3]Native Orchid Conference: https://www.nativeorchidconference.info/

[4] Blue Heron Cruises: https://www.cruisetobermory.com/

[5] Point of clarification. SeaStacks can be found on the Bruce, not Sleestaks, which are only known to exist on The Land of the Lost. See https://landofthelost.fandom.com/wiki/Sleestak


Feb282019February 28, 2019June 23, 2023by Glitterchicken

Thai Market Tour

Posted in Culture, Food & Drink, Travel

Bird watchers are a strange breed. I should know. I’m one of them. The good news is this avian hobby takes you to some far-flung, rugged, and exotic locations. The bad news is (if you travel with a group) many bird watchers (or twitchers if you’re of the British persuasion) are singular in…shall we say…focus. This is not a criticism, but rather an observation expressed in admiration for their passion. But if I’ve got to sit in a pressurized aluminum tube for 22 hours at 35,000 feet to get half-way across the globe, I want to do more than chase tiny feathered creatures flying through the forest! It was with that thought in mind, armed with a pair of binoculars, a well-stocked toiletry kit, and some drab safari clothes that I made my way to Thailand.

First stop, Bangkok. Most people who go to Bangkok are lured by tales of the colorful commercial traffic on the khlongs (narrow canals), where vendors paddle along selling their wares from sampans (long, low, wooden boats). Commonly known as floating markets, they’re a “must-see” stop on every tourist itinerary.[1] I like to think I’m not a typical commercial traveler. I eschew tacky souvenir shops full of key chains and cheap t-shirts, but I am a sucker for cultural experiences, regardless of how trite. Fortunately, our guide who went simply by “Wat,” had pre-arranged that prior to the “birdy” part of our trip, we would spend a day along the Mae Klong River approximately 90 kilometers outside of Bangkok at the touristy but better known Damnoen Saduak floating market in Ratchaburi Province and the more authentic Amphawa floating market and nearby Maeklong Railway Market in Samut Sonkhram Province.

Many localities are characterized by their street food to the point where it becomes caricature. Think cheese steaks and soft pretzels in Philadelphia or poutine in Montreal; there are better things to eat in those places in my opinion. Bangkok, on the other hand, is defined by its street food and for good reason. The iconic Thai dishes that you read about before you visit turn out to be really, really good once you actually get to try them! Case in point - bamboo rice (more on this later). Thai chefs, as a general rule, are particular about their cuisine and fastidious in their kitchens. They’re careful to wash fruits and vegetables in filtered water and wear gloves during food prep. I’m not recommending that you eat mayonaisy salads (which are few and far between) or undercooked seafood (also rare, pardon the pun) to your stomach’s content, but if you use a little discretion, your digestive system will be safe.

Existing literally on the river and so close to the Gulf of Thailand, it came as no surprise that seafood was the menu item du jour on the floating markets, but I was struck by the enormous quantities and wide varieties of critters available. It would be impossible to inventory all the treats available in the floating markets because as they say: “One night in Bangkok and the world’s your oyster.” The MTV Generation will recognize this line from Murray Head’s one-hit wonder.[2] Sadly, as a teen growing up in a sheltered corner of rural southeastern Pennsylvania, my only mental image of Bangkok came from that song. Inevitably, it became an earworm as I travelled around Thailand, but truth be told, the lyric was on point. Any visit to a Thai market will prove that the world is not only your oyster - it’s your dried shrimp, crab, red snapper, green mussels, and prawns! prawns! prawns! Whole, shelled, steamed, or stir-fried, prawns are arguably the quintessential food of Thailand, more ubiquitous than pad thai or green curry.

Besides seafood, staples of the Thai kitchen abound at the Damnoen Saduak market. Chilies, kaffir limes, rice, banana leaves for steaming, fish sauce, noodles, rose apples (fruits that look like malformed Red Delicious apples but have a mildly floral taste and the texture of under-ripe pears), garlic, mangoes, and coconut in all forms overflow from stalls along the canal banks and from baskets in the sampans. And there are other things you can buy besides food, such as Thai elephant pants, which are all the rage and can be purchased for as little as 100 baht ($3 US). These unisex harem pants with elephant print or paisley designs come in all colors and are styled either with banded cuffs or hanging loose like pajama bottoms. Grungy hitchhikers, groups of school high school kids, and gray-haired pensioners were all sporting elephant pants after visiting the markets.

Next came the harrowing experience when our group tumbled into a boat that Wat had hired. As our small vessel began pushing its way onto the crowded canal, our fingers were in danger of being crushed between neighboring sampans with long propellers of their improvised outdoor motors jabbing at us right and left. After a sharp right turn onto an adjoining khlong, the busy boat traffic at the heart of the market soon gave way to wooden houses on stilts and then an alley of “shops” reminiscent of a carnival midway where we were confronted with what I feared most - cheap souvenirs probably made in China. Peddlers displayed everything from collapsible bamboo hats, stuffed animals, and wooden figurines to tarantulas and scorpions mounted under glass. Before long, all of their goods looked identical and indistinguishable, which did not go unnoticed by the merchants who had invented clever ways to attract our attention, like the ingenious woman who had fashioned a long, wooden pole into a hook and deftly snagged our boat to pull us in just like a fisherman hauls in his catch. There was no pressure to buy, however. With a wave of the hand or a shake of the head, we easily brushed off the vendors who seemed quite used to being declined and took it in stride.

Back to the food. To our delight, Wat had surreptitiously purchased snacks for our cruise. We were treated to small plastic sacks filled with semi-sweet bananas, fried to a golden brown and coated in sesame seeds, and little trays of meticulously peeled pomelo slices. Pomelo, the large grapefruit-like citrus, are plentiful throughout Thailand and are far larger, less acidic and less juicy, and much better than those I’ve tasted in the U.S.

It soon became apparent that our guide had a hidden agenda. After disembarking from our vessel, Wat made a beeline for a certain set of sampans whose inhabitants were furiously packing plastic take-out containers with mango slices and pastel blue, green, and pink rice. Aaahh! There it was - that fabled Thai dessert - Mango and Sticky Rice! The glutinous rice is colored naturally with various plant extracts and is served with ripe yellow mango topped with a creamy, sweet coconut syrup. It’s a feast for both the eyes and the palate. But that was not all Wat had up his sleeve. With some haste, he whisked us to our next destination, but not before stopping for a brief and much-welcomed sip of coconut water. After a short drive, we found ourselves packed into the tight quarters of the Maeklong Railway Market. Located in Samut Songkhram Province at the mouth of the Mae Klong River where it empties into the Gulf of Thailand, this market sits about 60 km south of Bangkok (an area which also happens to be the birthplace of Chang and Eng, the famous Siamese twins). The phoneticized name of the market is Talat Rom Hup which translates to “umbrella pull down market,” and we would soon learn why.

At Wat’s urgent insistence, we wormed our way to the vendor stalls, back to back or belly to belly with local shoppers and a smattering of fellow tourists (mostly British or Italian), involuntarily pushed along at the whims of the crowd to an uncertain destination. Suddenly, we were thrust into a constricted opening with train tracks at our feet, and that’s when it struck me: “Watch the tram car, please. Please, watch the tram car.” For those of you who spent any time at the Jersey Shore, that’s a familiar refrain, which is also kind of a joke, because with the combination of the wide boardwalk and glacial speed of the tram, it’s hardly likely that anyone walking the boards would be in jeopardy of being of being run down by the bright yellow, rambling train. But Talat Rom Hup is no joke.

After a few curt blasts of warning and a disembodied voice announcing its arrival, we caught sight of the train. After that, it was too late for us to do anything but scramble to either side of the narrow rails. While we were in a state of mild panic, juggling between getting out our cameras and jostling for space, the merchants were calmly pulling in their dusty blue canopies overhanging the tracks and covering their wares with cloths and broad sheets of paper. Although it didn’t move any faster than the Jersey Shore tram, the Maeklong train snaked through the market with mere inches to spare. We saw the side body of the train sticking out past the wheels and go gliding right over top of the fish and produce for sale! The passengers on the train were waving and taking pictures; we waved back and took pictures of them. And then, as if nothing extraordinary had just happened, the vendors pulled down their canopies (hence the name “umbrella pull down market”), uncovered their goods, and continued business as usual. Wat delighted in our expressed surprise.

For me, the best part of the entire experience was the bamboo rice. It’s probably one of the most unusual things I’ve eaten. Although comprised of the most common ingredients - rice, sweet coconut milk, and red mung beans - what makes it so unique and fun is the way it’s prepared and eaten. Away from the train track, outside of the market on the street side, stood a handful of vendors with umbrella-covered metal carts like you’d see in any city. Piled on top of one another in neat little rows were roasted bamboo tubes about 18 inches long that looked troublingly like pipe bombs. Having read about the bamboo rice, I begged to try one on the spot. The seller hacked open one of the bamboo canes and Wat, ever-prepared, carefully sliced the “log” of rice into tidy bite-size pieces with his pocket knife. The closest comparison to bamboo rice is solid rice pudding with bits of sweetness from the mung beans. The tastiest part is where the coconut milk condenses at the top. (Make sure you get that bit!)

While touring the fascinating markets of Thailand, I felt like a kid being led through a carnival wonderland. At every turn, there was a new and unusual sight or smell that filled me with astonishment. Every step stopped me in my tracks to ask childlike questions such as: “What is that?” “How is it made?” “Can we try some?” “Can we buy some?” And finally, “Point your bins this way, twitchers! See what you’re missing!”

If you go:

Thailand is often called the “Land of Smiles.” The people are genuinely friendly, but how they maintain their cheery demeanor while navigating Bangkok traffic should be the subject of scientific study. Due to the congestion, give yourself about 2 hours to make the 90 km drive. Taxis are readily available and reasonably inexpensive. Larger hotels will often make arrangements for you. Public transportation is also available.

Bangkok is HOT and humid, even in winter. Carry plenty of sunscreen, a hat, and water. Once you arrive at the markets, be sure to hydrate with fresh coconut water straight from the source.

And don’t forget your baht - you simply can’t go home without a pair or two of those elephant pants!

[1] The other 2 “must-see” stops on the typical tourist trip to Bangkok are the Grand Palace and the Temple of the Emerald Buddha (Wat Phra Kaew), which are easy enough to accomplish because the Temple is situated on the Grand Palace grounds. See https://www.tripadvisor.com/ShowUserReviews-g293916-d311044-r554346306-Temple_of_the_Emerald_Buddha_Wat_Phra_Kaew-Bangkok.html

[2] Little known fact: in 1985, the song was banned from a Thai Government-run radio station and TV channel because it was believed that the lyrics alluding to prostitution would "cause misunderstanding about Thai society and show disrespect towards Buddhism." See https://www.apnews.com/451e4f90b173c58f64cb70e9ed432af6


Nov302018November 30, 2018July 9, 2023by Glitterchicken

Bruges Christmas Market

Posted in Culture, Food & Drink, Travel

Sweet and spicy aromas emanate from the dainty little huts shaped like gingerbread houses festooned with seemingly endless strings of twinkling lights. Ice skaters glide past couples sipping hot chocolate. Cheerful music fills the air. Did you step inside a snow globe? Are you starring in a Hallmark movie? No, you’re at the Christmas market in Bruges, Belgium.[1]

Although it looks like Snow White and the Seven Dwarves might live in these huts, they are actually temporary shops set up by vendors offering a wide selection of tasty treats and holiday gift items.  You can find Christmas decorations, handmade figurines, hats and scarves and other accessories next to local produce. Food and beverage options are plentiful. Burgers, smoked wurst, and fried coconut are big sellers as well as the stuff Belgians are famous for - waffles, beer and chocolate! You can’t miss the vendor huts surrounding the spectacular ice rink in the Grote Markt (known as Market Square in English) but don’t forget that there are more huts in Simon Stevinplein.  This is also where you will find the restaurant Poules Moules, which consistently serves up the best mussels in town.[2]  It’s traditional to eat them straight out of the pot with a side of frites, known to Americans as French fries although the Belgians claim to have invented them.[3]

Christmas markets are not uniquely Belgian though. They can be found all over Europe and even in the U.S., but they originated in Germany, the country that pretty much invented Christmas as we know it back in the 1300s.[4]  The Holy Roman Empire, which included the eastern borders of France, quickly got into the spirit. Christmas markets were traditionally set up at the start of advent and lasted for the duration of the 4 weeks of advent to bring some much-needed cheer to villagers laboring through the long dark winter nights.[5] They evolved into gift shops after Martin Luther suggested that children should receive presents from “The Christ Child” or Christkindl. That’s why Christmas markets are called Christkindlmarkt.[6]

While most of the Austrian and German Christmas markets still close a day or two before Christmas, the Bruges Christmas market lasts from November 23, 2018 all the way through January 1, 2019, which is an ideal time span for American tourists. It’s a popular pastime among European tourists to check out Christmas Markets in other nations and compare them to their own with everyone competing for the unofficial title of best market.[7]

What’s so special about the Bruges Christmas market? Certainly not its size or the quality of its items, which are average, not remarkable. Definitely not its prices, which are high. The magic is in the location – Bruge’s cobblestone streets and picturesque medieval architecture with the towering belfry at its southern tip looks like something straight out of the pages of a fairy tale. The exuberant Flemish culture is a lesser known delight. When evening rolls around, the Christmas market transforms into an outdoor party scene, with DJ’s spinning tunes and locals and tourists mingling and dancing up a storm. When we visited, local young people were playing a drinking game called Nallen that involves hammering nails into a tree stump.[8]  They took a break to form a conga line when they discovered a British couple was celebrating a birthday, snaking through the tables scattered around the square close to the food trucks serving beer, hot chocolate, and my personal favorite – Glühwein!!

The Romans were the first people in recorded history to heat up red wine and add spices. As the legions traveled across Europe conquering and trading, they brought their viticulture and recipes with them so now every European country has its own version of this winter warmer that's sold outdoors in the colder months and has become a staple in Christmas markets around the world. In Germany, it's called glühwein. In France, it's vin chaud. It’s gløgg in Norwegian and Danish, glögg in Swedish and Icelandic, and glögi in Finnish and Estonian. In the U.K., it's simply known as mulled wine. Each version uses a slightly different combination of spices but the most commonly used ones are orange peel, lemon peel, cinnamon, nutmeg, star anise, cloves, cardamom, and ginger. In some countries, they boil the combined spices in a sugar syrup before red wine is added and heated.  Sometimes orange slices are thrown in before the heating occurs or the drink is served with orange slices as a garnish. Variations include the addition of brandy or ginger wine. Mulled wine is traditionally served in small porcelain or glass mugs. At the Bruges Christmas market, they serve glühwein in little souvenir mugs. For an extra 2 euro, you can keep the mug. I highly recommend that you do this. Mine says “Brugge Christmas Market” along with a drawing of Santa’s sleigh guided by swans instead of reindeer.[9] Every time I cozy up by the fire with mulled wine in this little mug, I’m transported back to this glorious place. I guarantee you’ll feel the same way too.[10]

[1] Locals call the town by its Flemish name Brugge but the French name Bruges is more widely known.

[2] Poules Moules literally means “Hens and Mussels.” Check out the glowing reviews from locals and tourists alike at https://www.tripadvisor.com/ShowUserReviews-g188671-d1058117-r147104881-Poules_Moules-Bruges_West_Flanders_Province.html

[3] The Belgians take this claim so seriously that they have petitioned UNESCO to endorse the fry as an icon of Belgian cultural heritage. https://nypost.com/2018/08/06/france-belgium-argue-over-who-really-invented-french-fries/

[4] For more about the Germanic origins of our Christmas traditions, see https://www.irishtimes.com/news/world/europe/santa-claus-is-real-and-he-s-as-german-as-christmas-itself-1.2476673

[5] The precursor to Christmas Markets was Vienna’s Dezembermarkt dating from 1296 when Emperor Albrecht I allowed shopkeepers the right to set up open-air markets so that villagers could stock up on supplies to last them through the bitter cold months but it is widely believed that Dresden’s Strietzelmarkt was the first real Christmas Market, dating from 1434. Although Dresden was reduced to rubble when the Allies bombed it during WWII, it boasts a lovely Christmas market once again. See http://www.dresden.de/en/tourism/attractions/events/dresden-christmas-markets.php

[6] If you’ve ever wondered where the tradition of giving gifts to children at Christmas comes from, look now you know). https://christkindlmarktleavenworth.com/about/

[7] Condé Nast published this list of the best Christmas Markets in Europe https://www.cntraveler.com/gallery/best-christmas-markets-in-europe  but it does not include the market in the city of Bath, England, which ranks high on most lists. See  https://bathchristmasmarket.co.uk/

[8] I’m not sure if its spelled Nallen, Naalen, or Nahellen. I tried looking it up but can’t find it anywhere. I did discover that a similar game called Hammerschlagen is played in Germany, which is called Stump in the U.S., where it's popular among college students in rural areas like Penn State. I won't insert a link telling you how to play it because I wouldn’t want to encourage you to do something so ridiculously dangerously idiotic. But I must admit it did look fun.

[9] Bruges is pretty much overrun by swans, so the birds have become symbolic of the town. Better than pigeons, I guess.

[10] This recipe for mulled wine comes from an enthusiastic American who is instantly transported back to the Christmas market in France where she had her first sip of vin chaud. https://www.wellplated.com/spiced-wine/. No need to go through all that trouble, though. You can purchase a lovely blend of mulling spices from a trusted source such as Halladay’s Harvest Barn in Vermont. See https://www.halladays.com/cider-mulling-263/

 


Aug312018August 31, 2018July 9, 2023by Glitterchicken

White Witch of Rose Hall

Posted in Culture, History, Travel

The White Witch of Rose Hall

In Jamaica, long before soap operas and reality TV, people entertained themselves by telling “duppy” stories that that evolved into legends after generations of retelling. Duppy is the Jamaican word for ghost[1] and the most notorious duppy ever to haunt Montego Bay is the spirit of Annie Palmer, known as the White Witch of Rose Hall. Her legend overflows with more treachery, love triangles, violence, and scandal than the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, and it’s even more dramatic when it’s told Jamaican style, mon!

Set on a great big hill overlooking MoBay, the stately mansion called Rose Hall was built in the 1700’s on one of the oldest and largest sugar plantations in Jamaica. While Great House Home & Garden tours are offered daily, by far the main attraction is the Great House Haunted Night tour that draws throngs of visitors hoping to catch a glimpse of Annie Palmer’s ghost.[2] While vacationing in Jamaica with my extended family, I took the Great House Haunted Night tour with my brother-in-law, my 18-year-old niece, and my 11-year-old son. My 14-year-old daughter and my in-laws chickened out and thank goodness they did because this tour is not for the faint of heart! I won’t spoil the surprises but you’ll learn about 1800’s Jamaican history and culture (with a Jamaican flair) and you’ll walk away scared with some unforgettable memories.

Although there are several versions of the legend of "Annee Palmer," our guide told us that she was born in Haiti to an English mother and Irish father and she spent most of her life in Haiti.[3] After her parents died of yellow fever, Annie was adopted by a nanny who taught her witchcraft and voodoo. At the age of 18, Annie moved to Jamaica in search of a rich husband and married John Palmer, owner of Rose Hall plantation. A cruel mistress, Annie ruled with an iron fist and was feared by her slaves not just because of her extensive knowledge of voodoo but also because she sadistically whipped, tortured, or put to death anyone who disobeyed her orders – it’s even been said that Annie had her basement refurbished into a dungeon where she tortured her prisoners.[4]

Brazenly unafraid of committing cold-blooded murder, Annie reportedly killed her slaves’ infants to harvest their bones for black magic.  And her bloodthirstiness didn’t stop there; Annie allegedly murdered John Palmer,[5] her 2 subsequent husbands, and numerous male slaves rumored to have been her lovers. Suffice it to say, Annie was extraordinarily cunning and hid her tracks very well, often with the assistance of her slave/lover named Takoo.

Although versions of Annie’s death vary, they’re similar in that a slave (or group of slaves) murdered Annie out of revenge; many of these stories name Takoo as her killer. Annie‘s body was purportedly buried in a tomb on the Rose Hall property that you will see on the House Haunted Night tour. Legend has it that when Annie’s body was interred, a Voodoo ritual was performed to try to prevent her spirit from rising from the grave, but someone botched the procedure because her tomb has crucifixes marked on only 3 sides; whenever Annie’s ghost wants to get up and take a midnight stroll around the grounds, it can always hop right back into the grave by entering the 4th unmarked side.[6]

While considerable debate abounds on the validity of the legend of the White Witch of Rose Hall,[7] there’s no debating that the Great House Haunted Night tour is a heart-pounding adventure full of excitement and surprises that’s well worth the cost of admission.

[1] Originating in Central Africa, the duppy is part of Bantu folklore. A duppy can be either the manifestation (in human or animal form) of the soul of a dead person, or a malevolent supernatural being. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Duppy

[2]  The 45-minute Great House Haunted Night tour is offered nightly from 6:30 pm to 9:00 pm and costs $25 USD per person. Not recommended for children under 10 years old. For more information, see  https://rosehall.com/tours/rose-hall-great-house-night-tour

[3] There’s also a Parisian origin version of the legend that’s noted, among other lurid details, in this Paranormal Folklore blog at https://ghostlyaspectsfolklore.wordpress.com/2012/07/11/the-white-witch-of-rose-hall-montego-bay-jamaica/

[4] Here are some fun facts for all the music fans out there! The owner of Rose Hall estate, John Rollins, converted Annie’s old dungeon into a tavern where his good buddy Johnny Cash used to hang out with Bob Marley (our tour guide showed us a picture to prove it). In 1973, Cash wrote and recorded a song called "The Ballad of Annie Palmer" inspired by the legend of the White Witch. Enamored with Jamaica, Cash bought a home called Cinnamon Hill on the former Rose Hall plantation grounds that turned out to be haunted (you can take a separate tour of Cinnamon Hill). In his autobiography, Cash wrote candidly about his benign paranormal experiences: “We’ve never had any trouble with these souls. They mean us no harm, I believe, and we’re certainly not scared of them; they just don’t produce that kind of emotion.” http://mysteriousdestinationsmagazine.com/close-encounters-at-the-johnny-cash-house

[5] Annie allegedly murdered John Palmer by poisoning his coffee. Makes you think twice before taking that first sip of morning Joe. For a first-hand account and great pix from a visitor spooked by her tour of Rose Hall, see https://maryloudriedger2.wordpress.com/2014/02/10/a-great-house-haunts-me/

[6] Researchers doubt whether Annie’s remains were ever buried in the tomb on the Rose Hall plantation grounds. For gory details on various accounts of Annie Palmer’s death and burial, read this post on the intriguing blog That Hoodoo You Do,  http://www.jesterbear.com/Hoodoo/WhiteWitch.html

[7]  See paranormal blogger Stephen Barnes’s well-written post on the creation of the White Witch legend, which appears to have been partially based on H.G. de Lisser's 1928 novel The White Witch of Rose Hall, https://exemplore.com/paranormal/The-White-Witch-of-Rose-Hall-A-Jamaican-Ghost-Story  

 

 


Nov302017November 30, 2017July 9, 2023by Glitterchicken

Flanders Fields

Posted in History, Travel

On Thanksgiving, the national holiday when Americans are supposed to express gratitude for their prosperity (but what they really do is watch football and gorge themselves on turkey and pumpkin pie) I decided to take a tour of the World War I battlefields in Belgium and to remind myself of how fortunate I am to have been born in the U.S.A. I reserved a seat on the Flanders Fields tour led by Quasimodo Tours, a small business run by a husband (Belgian) and wife (Australian) team that have been earning consistently excellent customer reviews since they began operating in 1990.

Billed as a day-long tour of battlegrounds, cemeteries, monuments, and memorials to the brave young men from the far corners of the globe who fought (and died) along the Ypres Salient during the Great War, I could only imagine the magnitude of our tour guide’s task. How do you deliver the somber facts of war so that they enrich the mind and expand the heart without pushing people down a spiral staircase of depression that would spoil their holiday?

Our tour guide, Philippe, was up to the challenge. He’s as jaded as you would expect a local guy to be whose job it is to talk about the senseless death and destruction of his people at the hand of invading neighbors. But I couldn’t help feeling that there had to be a wellspring of hope for humanity flowing deep within him somewhere, or Phillipe would have chosen to do something else with his life.[1]

We departed Bruges early in the morning on a tour van holding maybe 10 people, and ideal number, which afforded everyone the opportunity to personalize, converse, and ask questions. I was the only American in our group, which was comprised mainly of British chaps, with some Canadians and Aussies mixed in.[2]  Our first stop was the German war cemetery of Langemark, which was the scene of the first gas attacks by the German army, marking the beginning of the Second Battle of Ypres in April 1915. More than 44,000 soldiers were buried at this site; four life-size bronze statues of “mourning soldiers” watch over them from the cemetery’s border. I didn’t think that anything could have possibly made this scene any sadder until Philippe told us that he rarely, if ever, takes any German visitors here.

Next, we visited the St. Julien Canadian memorial at Vancouver Corner, also known as “The Brooding Soldier,” which was carved from a single piece of granite and stands an imposing 11 meters tall. It commemorates the Canadian 1st Division in action on April 22nd to 24th, 1915, which held its position on the left flank of the British Army after the German Army launched the first ever large-scale gas attack against 2 French divisions to the left of the Canadians. For these 3 days, the Canadians kept fighting in the face of the most horrible method of biological warfare ever invented, and lost 2,000 casualties before reinforcements arrived.

While traversing the ridge of Passchendaele, infamous for thousands of soldiers dying in mud-filled trenches without gaining barely a meter of territory, I reflected on British Prime Minister David Lloyd George’s candid admission that it was “one of the greatest disasters of the war . . . No soldier of any intelligence now defends this senseless campaign . . ." [3] What I failed to comprehend was why no one had the sense to speak out in protest at the time.

A highlight of the tour in terms of sheer beauty was the Tyne Cot Commonwealth War Graves Cemetery and Memorial to the Missing, assigned to the UK in perpetuity by King Albert I of Belgium in recognition of the sacrifices made by the British Empire in the defense and liberation of Belgium during the war. The largest cemetery for Commonwealth forces in the world, 11,956 Commonwealth soldiers are buried there along with some German POWs. Artfully designed by Sir Herbert Baker, Tyne Cot is perfectly situated on a rise overlooking the pastoral landscape, making it the most visually stunning soldiers’ resting place I have ever seen, with scarlet rose bushes dotted against the uniform markers carved from white Portland stone.

Our visit to the Hooge Crater Museum on the Ypres-Menin Road was full of surprises. Who would ever think that such a fascinating collection of First World War uniforms, displays, and artifacts as well as an interesting film would find their home in a renovated chapel? [4] For lunch, we had the pleasure of dining on delectable pâté sandwiches at the café adjoining the museum, where my British companions delighted in their red wine and I delighted in my Diet Coke, which isn’t easy to find in Europe.

Next, we walked around the preserved battlefield at Hill 60, where only a few eerie concrete bunkers still remain. The Germans made this steep hill impregnable during the war, so a steadfast division of crazy stubborn Australians decided to build a network of tunnels beneath it, where they planted a bunch of land mines that were eventually detonated under German lines, creating one of the largest explosions in history reportedly heard in London and Dublin.[5]

Our next destination was the Medical Station and adjoining cemetery nearby Essex Farm, which is believed to be the location where Major John McCrae wrote his famous poem In Flanders Fields after burying his friend, Lieutenant Alexis Helmer, who was killed by a German artillery shell during the 2nd battle of Ypres on May 3rd, 1915.

During our visit to the Yorkshire Trench, which was hidden beneath the shadow of a wind energy/biofuel plant, we learned that this original British trench was discovered in 1992 by a group of amateur archaeologists called “The Diggers," who have devoted countless hours to unearthing and analyzing hundreds of artifacts as well as the remains of 155 soldiers from the UK, France, and Germany, who were lost in battle for 70 years. An arduous and grisly task, no doubt, but hopefully one that brought a feeling of peace to the families of the fallen.

The final stop on our tour was the City of Ypres, which, after having been reduced to rubble during the Great War, was miraculously reconstructed in the Flemish medieval and renaissance styles to resemble the original pre-war city at the behest of King Albert and other far-sighted dignitaries. Unfortunately, our day trip from Bruges did not allow enough time to tour the reputable In Flanders Fields Museum, but Philippe encouraged us to come back and visit it on another occasion.[6] We did have plenty of time, however, to wander around the impressive Menin Gate Memorial to the Missing, a gargantuan archway overlooking the river that was built by the Commonwealth War Graves Commission (CWGC) to commemorate soldiers from all the Commonwealth nations (except New Zealand) who died in the Ypres Salient and have no known grave.[7] Incredibly, every night at 8:00 pm since July 2, 1928, buglers from the Ypres fire brigade have conducted a “Last Post” tribute to the warriors who died defending their city.[8]

For me, the most unforgettable moment of the Flanders Fields tour was not a formal battle site, burial ground, or memorial, but a brief pit-stop at a farmer’s field, where a black swan was swimming in a pond in the foreground and a windmill was spinning on the distant flat-line horizon. It looked just like a scene out of a Flemish painting except for the huge artillery casing protruding up out of the soil. Philippe told us there isn’t a day that goes by without a farmer turning up artillery shells or other potentially explosive materials with his tractor. Although most of them have been destroyed by a special Belgian bomb squad, these 100-year-old buried explosives still cause injuries and even death. In May, 2014, two men were killed from an artillery shell or grenade that detonated while they were laying the foundation for a new factory being constructed in Ypres.[9] While the history books say that World War I officially ended with the signing of the Armistice in 1918, if people are still dying as a result of it, did it ever really end? I don’t think so.

A multitude of thoughts popped into my mind as I stood there watching the swan glide gracefully across the pond. My Uncle Donald is a farmer who doesn’t have to worry about getting blown to bits on the off-chance that his John Deere tractor hits a grenade. What’s more, the U.S. has never been invaded or occupied by other nations. We haven’t endured that kind of oppression.[10] We’ve never been refugees huddled together on a raft on the open sea with a 50% chance of survival.[11] Maybe if we had been, we would spend less time complaining about everything that’s wrong with the world and spend more time counting our blessings when we ask for another helping of mashed potatoes at Thanksgiving.

[1] At first, you might think this is total projection on my part until you zoom in for a closer look. Sure, it’s entirely possible that Philippe wasn’t any good at making chocolate or beer or any other Belgian specialty that keep the tourists flocking to Bruges, and that he just so happens to excel at memorizing and recounting historical facts. Because tourism is a huge chunk of the economy in Bruges, Phillipe gives historical tours because he’s good at it and it brings in bucks. This doesn’t require any faith in humanity . . . or does it? Quasimodo Tours will not continue to operate with empty vans. Its success depends entirely upon people caring about other people who died over 100 years ago-and not just care enough to offer a passing thought or prayer-but care enough to sacrifice hours of their holiday that they could have spent eating or drinking or shopping! Now, that takes some firm faith in humanity.

[2] This ratio is what I expected in light of the fact that the Commonwealth nations did the bulk of the fighting for the Allies in this region, suffered massive amounts of casualties, and built the majority of the monuments and memorials.

[3] Lloyd George, David. War Memoirs of David Lloyd George, Vols. I-VI. London: Ivor Nicholson & Watson (1933).

[4] For more detail on exhibits at the Hooge Crater Museum, see http://www.hoogecrater.com/en/museum/

[5] If you’re into spelunking, Australians, or both, check out the film “Beneath Hill 60” that came out about it in 2010, https://www.rottentomatoes.com/m/beneath_hill_60/

[6] For more information on the In Flanders Fields Museum, see http://www.inflandersfields.be/en

[7] Only UK casualties that occurred before August 16, 1917 are commemorated on the Menin Gate Memorial to the Missing. UK servicemen who died after that date and New Zealand servicemen are named on the Tyne Cot Memorial. Other memorials to fallen New Zealanders can be found at Messines and Polygon Wood.

[8] The only exception to this daily ritual was during the four years of the German occupation of Ypres from May 20th, 1940 to September 6th, 1944.

[9] For more on this sad story, see http://www.bbc.com/news/world-europe-26654314

[10] I’m not saying Americans don’t oppress each other, all the while claiming to be more tolerant than everyone else. We’re internationally recognized experts at that great hypocrisy, and ridiculed for it all over the globe.

[11] In the four years since October 2013, the Mediterranean crossing has claimed the lives of at least 15,000 refugees and migrants, accounting for more than half of the 22,500 refugees and migrants who have died or gone missing globally. See http://www.aljazeera.com/indepth/features/2017/09/iom-refugees-dying-quicker-rate-mediterranean-170917035605080.html


Aug302017August 30, 2017July 10, 2023by Glitterchicken

Pizzas Ron

Posted in Food & Drink, Travel

 

If you ever find yourself in Sayulita, the old fishing village-turned-surfer’s hangout in Nayarit, Mexico, and you’re sick and tired of fish tacos[1] and craving a hot and tasty slice of pizza, look no further than Pizzas Ron, the locals’ favorite spot since 1995. No sad looking pies melting under a heat lamp here. At Ron's, each pizza is made to order with fresh ingredients and hefty handfuls of toppings. I highly recommend the house specialty, pizza de camarón (shrimp pizza). The Hawaiian pie is excellent too. Just to manage your expectations, you’re not going to find a thick and bready, olive-oily deep dish Chicago style pie loaded with thick tomato sauce. What you will find is a thin, crispy-crusted New York style pie that doesn’t sag at the tip when you pick up a slice to take a bite. You'll also notice the cheese has a different texture – it’s more melty and less stringy than mozzarella. That’s because Ron’s uses Mexican quesadilla cheese, which is closer to American cheese. Somehow, it works, though, trust me. You just have to keep an open mind.[2] If you prefer a picante pie, add a few squirts from the bottle of hot sauce on your table. It’s especially good on the Hawaiian pizza because the heat of the cayenne pepper balances perfectly with the sweetness of the pineapple.

In an emergency (when your butt and the couch have become inseparable), Pizzas Ron delivers! Their phone number is 01 (329) 291-3149. But if you have time, you’ve got to go check out the restaurant. It’s got such a fun quirky vibe, you could totally picture the Dude from the Big Lebowski eating there.  The address is Calle Pelicanos, 39 (Centro), which isn’t one of the main roads, but it’s easy to find if you follow these simple directions. Walk along the beach until you get to the North end that’s closest to the river and you’ll get to the pier where public restrooms and showers are located. Start walking down the street leading up to that pier, and you'll find Pizzas Ron about halfway down the block. You can't miss the bright signs and the painting of Popeye the Sailor Man on the wall above the door. (I don’t know what Popeye has to do with pizza, I thought he was more of a spinach guy, but why quibble with artistic license?)

It’s not until you step inside the door that you come face to face with the pièce de résistance  - a massive clay oven shaped like Ron's head topped with a gigantic sombrero that’s dripping with Christmas lights (I’m not making this up). Cheerful pizza chefs sling the pies onto wooden paddles, and shove them into Ron's "mouth,“ creating the optical illusion that the oven is gobbling up all the pies but if you cock your head sideways just a bit, you can see the pizzas resting on top of glowing embers deep inside the oven. Splendiferous odors fill the cozy room. You will have a tough time stopping yourself from drooling all over your placemat like a puppy dog.

If I haven’t talked you into going to this restaurant, you are probably a robot, but for all the human life forms booking flights to Sayulita now, here are some final words of advice. Pizzas Ron is only open from Wednesday through Sunday, so don't make the mistake of going there on a Monday or Tuesday, or you'll be sadly disappointed. You just might cry. Hours are from 2 pm to 10 pm, but remember - this is Mexico, where posted hours serve as approximate guidelines for what’s likely to happen, not what’s guaranteed to happen. When business is slow, proprietors sometimes close up shop to go the market, take a smoke break, or whatever. So if you knock on the door of Pizzas Ron during posted business hours and no one answers, just take a look around. Ron lives right above the restaurant. You’ll probably find him puttering around in the backyard tending to his chickens or hanging out on the pier watching the surfers. He’s always happy to open his doors for hungry customers, but it will take "una hora" for his psychedelic oven to get hot enough to bake the perfect pizza. So crack open a cerveza, sit back in your beach chair, and relax - you're on Mexican time now - and waiting never felt so wonderful.

 

[1] Yes, it is humanly possible to get sick of eating tacos, but apparently not for this guy. https://onsizzle.com/i/dont-you-ever-get-tired-of-eating-tacos-me-there-4269237.

[2] A student’s perspective on the importance of keeping an open mind when you’re traveling abroad. https://www.goabroad.com/articles/intern-abroad/don-t-forget-to-pack-your-relativism-keeping-an-open-mind-when-traveling-abroad

 

 


Jul072017July 7, 2017July 8, 2017by Glitterchicken

California Zephyr

Posted in Music, Travel

Here's a song for you to listen to while you read this post, The Train Kept-a-Rollin' by Johnny Burnette:

 

Why drive when you can fly like the West wind aboard the California Zephyr? This Superliner passenger train runs daily along Amtrak’s 2nd longest, most stunningly scenic route from Emeryville (an Oakland suburb) to Chicago and back. Intermediate stops include Sacramento, Reno, Salt Lake City, and Denver. While the length of each train varies, the train we rode was comprised of eleven cars. First came the two engines, followed by one crew car and three coach cars where the majority of passengers (including us) had reserved reclining seats that doubled as beds. Smack dab in the middle was the lounge car, aka the observation deck. Strategically designed to maximize passengers’ simultaneous drinking and sightseeing experiences, it featured immovable chairs and beverage tables, which eliminated any possibility of passengers knocking them over due to the train’s jarring motion or their own sloppy drunkenness. Enclosed with glass walls and ceilings, there's never a bad seat in the lounge car. Only if you were totally passed out would you miss the spectacular vistas for which the California Zephyr is celebrated by railway enthusiasts. Next came the dining car, where each white linen-covered table was graced by porcelain place settings, metal cutlery, and a red rose in a silver vase.  For breakfast, lunch, and dinner, passengers were served freshly prepared entrees and beverages by bow-tie-wearing servers. Bringing up the rear of the train were three sleeper cars. You may think of the sleeper car passengers as VIPs who can afford to travel in luxury and style or hedonists who can afford to pay for the temporary license to engage in discreet sexual activities while traveling cross-country by rail. Both perspectives contain a kernel of truth.

The original California Zephyr, known as "the most talked about train in America" was jointly operated by the Chicago, Burlington & Quincy (CB&Q), Denver & Rio Grande Western (D&RGW), and Western Pacific railroads. Nicknamed “CZ” or “Silver Lady,” it first started running in March, 1949, and ceased operation in 1970.

Amtrak appropriated the name California Zephyr in 1983 and applied it to its newly-designated daily route that was a hybrid of the original train and its former rival, the City of San Francisco. At Denver Union Station, on July 17, 1983, Beulah Bauman officially christened the new train with a bottle of California sparkling wine, thereby securing its rightful place in heaven. Ms. Bauman was given this honor due to her former career as a Zephyrette. Another former Zephyrette, Julie Ann Lyman, called her fellow train hostesses “the railroad's answer to the airline stewardess." The Zephyrettes performed a wide variety of duties from first aid responder to babysitter to tour guide. But partying was strictly forbidden. The Zephyrettes were required to conduct themselves with "dignity and poise" at all times, to “refrain from smoking or imbibing alcoholic beverages while in uniform,” and to avoid socializing with boozing passengers. Worse yet, Zephyrettes were not permitted to receive tips (although they could accept cards and gifts). Ms. Lyman once remarked that her greatest cravings after completing her shift were for a glass of wine and a cigarette.

Tragic, we know, but Amtrak’s modern revival of the California Zephyr does not feature Zephyrettes gone wild. The highlight of our trip was the historical narrative periodically provided by personable conductors in the lounge car/observation deck. When the train winds its way up through the Sierra Nevadas, make sure you wear your hats and scarves because the lounge car's glass walls won’t insulate you from outdoor temperatures colder than a witch’s teat.[1] At first glance, we saw a deceptively serene picture-postcard image of frosted forests, but after 20 minutes of observation, the destructive effects of the invisible merciless wind had become terrifyingly obvious: Towering trunks with their crowning branches shorn off. Snowbanks so deep that baby trees were buried alive inside. Branches bending under the weight of their load, dumping icy piles of snow that pelted the roof of the lounge car and slid down the glass walls into oblivion. No wonder the Donner Party resorted to cannibalism in order to survive out there.

Particularly fascinating was the ghost town of Boca, nestled in a Sierra canyon and cursed with the lowest recorded temperatures in California (the record low was 45 degrees below zero). The resourceful citizens of Boca turned their curse into a blessing back in the 1800s by developing a successful ice-producing enterprise, which shipped thousands of quarts of ice into Eastern markets from the years immediately preceding the turn of the century until 1929, when technological advancements in the commercial ice production industry eliminated the need for the natural stuff. Demonstrating a resilience, stubbornness, or some combination of both that undoubtedly stemmed from their pioneer spirit, the Boca folks switched gears and ramped up their burgeoning beer industry. Boca beer was so popular that it was sampled at the 1888 world’s fair in Paris. Oo-la-la! Way ahead of its time, with no craft beer industry to speak of for another 100 years, the brewery could not sustain the town and Boca officially “died” when the post office was shut down in 1945. We shed real tears as we imagined the postmaster downing a bottle of Boca beer before turning the key in the lock for the last time.[2]

Leaving California, our train entered Nevada through the Truckee River Canyon and Washoe Valley, where the elevation was 4,920 feet. The historical narrative concluded when we arrived in Reno, where passengers departed in droves to go to the casinos, leaving Close Encounters of the 3rd Kind mountains of rubbish behind. “I guess the trash can was too far away for these people?” quipped a steward sarcastically as he tossed bottles into a bin within arm’s reach of the tables where the thirsty hordes had been sitting just moments ago. Karmic justice prevailed in the end because the gamblers missed the most incredible part of the trip where the Zephyr zooms through the depths of the Utah canyons flanked by steep mesas, and then follows the flow of the mighty Colorado through the Rockies. (we'll tell you all about if you keep on reading).

The conductor resumed his narrative 5 minutes after the mass exodus, glowing with local pride as we passed through the towns of Helper and Wellington where a notorious cohort of outlaws used to wreak havoc. Among them were Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid. Like the conductor, Butch was born and raised in Utah. His real name was Robert Larry Parker but people called him “Butch” because he had been trained as a butcher and “Butch” was a common nickname for butchers at that time. Point of interest: Butch Cassidy never killed anyone, a fact of which he was proud. He was a “Robin Hood” figure who stole from banks and railroads to assist the locals in their attempts to retain their lands, which were being stolen by none other than those very same banks and railroads. Ah, the Circle of Life! We didn’t learn much about The Sundance Kid – only that his first name was Henry and that he was originally from the East Coast. Why he went gallivanting through Utah with Butch giving rich dudes a pain in the keister remains a mystery.

Keep your eyes peeled for a classic photo op at the Utah/Colorado border where some lunatic painted the words “Utah” and “Colorado” right next to each other on the mesa. Equally photo-worthy are the “Book Cliffs,” a long stretch of coral colored mesas that resemble a celestial bookshelf.  If you look carefully, you’ll see crumbly looking crags between the mesas. The Anasazi Indians, aka “The Cliff Dwellers,” used to climb these crags to reach their farms on top of the mesas. An ancient agrarian people, the Anasazi cleverly engineered a method of irrigating their bountiful crops of corn, beans, and squash with water from the Colorado River. Suddenly, the Anasazi vanished and their disappearance remains one of the greatest unsolved mysteries of all time. Anasazi petroglyphs (rock carvings) and petrographs (cave paintings) depict bizarre looking creatures, which has led people to postulate that the Anasazi were in contact with extraterrestrials who absconded with them to their planet. Go ahead and laugh, but it’s just as plausible as any of the explanations proposed by scientists.[3]

Then came the Rockies. Words cannot describe how awesome these mountains are but their psychoactive effect on the individual is easy to explain. First, the Rockies will make you deliriously giddy like a little kid. You will jump up out of your seat gleefully trying (and failing) to capture their sublime magnificence with your camera. Then, after mile after mile of evergreen trees mixed with red clay mixed with white snow drift by, you will lose track of time completely and humbly acknowledge your insignificance.

Hundreds of miles of spectacular natural scenery flew past our faces before we saw a house. It was constructed of wood with a grand front porch and a spacious garage. A multitude of vehicles were parked in the driveway as if a meeting or social gathering were taking place inside. (Was it possible that the inhabitants of the house owned all those vehicles?) Then, the house disappeared from view like a mirage, and we didn’t see another house for at least half an hour. We didn’t see any stores or gas stations either. We wondered where the closest hospital was and surmised that if you were to suffer from a heart attack out there, you would just die and the animals would clean your bones, which is what happened for centuries before modern medicine. But this posed an interesting question: Despite the avalanche of complaints we hear about our health care system (it costs too much, it doesn’t allow doctors enough time with patients, it’s driven by insurance companies’ agendas, etc.) do you know anyone who has rejected it outright as superfluous? We don’t. The inhabitants of the house with no neighbors and a multitude of vehicles in the driveway essentially said: “Nah, we don’t need health care. We don’t need anything except ourselves.” These human beings must possess a brand of ferocious independence that we, entangled in our web of urbanity, have never before encountered but would relish the opportunity if the occasion should arise.

[1] Just how cold is that exactly? “Usually, when someone says it’s ‘colder than a witch’s teat,’ you can assume the temperature is less than ten degrees Farenheit,” says University of Maine climatologist Jeff Churchill.  “But there are variations, depending on whether the person was simply going out to get the mail, or was maybe trying to chop frozen firewood.” See https://sardinereport.wordpress.com/2012/02/11/exact-temperature-of-witchs-teat-eludes-scientists/.

[2] We’re not as depressed that the town of Boca died so much as that it died before we had the chance to try Boca beer. It’s not only totally impractical but it’s the epitome of arrogance to think that humans have any business living in temperatures fit for polar bears. But that’s precisely the type of “I don’t care if I fall into this vat, I’ll die drunk and happy” dogged persistence required to create the perfect beer. Thus, it is our sincere wish that the former inhabitants of Boca did not give up hope and that they eventually found a suitable clime for brewing. If you have any information on the subject, please send an email including your sources to GlitterchickenEditor@gmail.com and your name will be enshrined upon our Wall of Fame for all eternity.

[3] For more information about the alleged connection between The Anasazi and extraterrestrials, see http://www.theuforeportcenter.com/anasazi-disappearance/.