Constantinople

The Wednesday weather was chilly in Istanbul, but lack of a winter coat did not hold me back. A decent breakfast at the hotel, scanning the guides I had was enough to get me going for the Grand Bazaar. Busy as expected with all that was marketable and much that wasn’t, my initial interest was pages of old Arabic books in gold leaf and a great script. Like most souvenirs, there is much fun in bargaining, but the price will be of no significance by the time you get home. The bathing harem girls are the treasure, and the other was just to help the bargaining process. Sat back and enjoyed a tea while watching passers-by. It was apparent the Muslim Berka was not in vogue here. Babushkas were everywhere on the older ladies, but the young ladies seemed quite western. None were enticing to my eyes.
The ceramic work was noteworthy, and a good one should make it collectible. I was drawn in by a hustler after wandering into a shop. I was whisked off to his treasure trove. There were three rooms full, and the decision/bidding process began. The large platter was essential, and the bowls were just adders.
The next stop was the Spice Market. This commodity was more fitting for caravan trade, and the variety was complete. Who needs anything more than pepper? I got a variety, along with some tea fresh off a camel’s back. The dried fruit was abundant. Also, many gelled or candied mixes of foodstuffs indeed stemmed from an ancient means of preservation.
On Thursday I got a late start to avoid the rain. I dedicated this day to museums. The Hague Sophia was a waste of time. It was just a barren old mosque whose significance escapes me. In the area was a government carpet sales outlet that seemed like a good idea, but prices were beyond what I wanted to spend. I must have shown my aimless wandering face as a Turk from Dallas struck up a conversation on my way to the Blue Mosque. I knew he was leading me on to some sort of scam and beyond the Mosque was his family’s Kurdish carpet store. Of course, I did not get out without dropping $800.00 on an antique rug. Duped as I may have been, the excess expense is lost once it is possession at home.
Carpet in hand, I snaked my way through the maze of Sultanahmet, unsure of a way to my hotel. A downhill direction was enough when I came upon the trolley cars seen from my hotel restaurant. Such a coward I was when an English Style Pub lies before me. Warmth, Tetley’s Ale, and Fish ‘n Chips gave my wandering soul a bit of repose. Regenerated, the journey back to the hotel drew a wealth of sightings along the way. If it were not for the shop keepers trying to draw me in, the local people had little response to strangers like me. None the less, walking my way through was best. Weary legs on an early evening return gave me a chance to read up on where I was.
Topkapi Palace, a tourist highlight, was on my list and waiting for my Friday. I was not going sour on Constantinople and the Ottoman Empire, but I fail to see the Devine Providence in a bunch of fat ugly turban headed Turks ruling half the known world. This Palace, built in the 1400s, in all of its regalias, did more to deny them my reverence. Pavilions for harems, eunuchs, and slaves assembled around a library, kitchen, armory, and treasury gave my Western mind guilt for my new found prejudice. Slaughter, murder, and mayhem in the Western colonialism bore little difference to barbarism, slavery, and rape from Arabic people. Yes, I am unsettled over the later. Perhaps, my notions were slighted by recent readings in books of early African exploration To the Heart of the Nile by Pat Shipman, and The White Nile by Alan Moorehead revealed significant atrocities of the Arabs. So allow me a little contempt.
My discontent waned in a brisk walk back to the hotel. There, a mature lady in the lobby was offering various tourist venues. Her sophisticated approach gave credence to the new Istanbul I had yet to explore. I held a modern gravurier piece of contemporary art picked up along the way. She was quick to inform me of the Istanbul Museum of Modern Art on the Asian side that my art vendor had so informed. From there, her enthusiasm for Taksim and a scenic walk through Beyoğlu would pay reverence for my stay. The fare for such advice was to purchase tickets for dinner and a show at the Galata Tower on Saturday night, which seemed fair for her courtesy and means of commission.
The Saturday setup worked well for my first stop at the Museum. The original features were what it should be, the Turkish talent. My kudos was to see the originality of work that was virtually void of Western influence. It was very pleasing to see my prior purchase by Tekcam had a presence.
From there, a taxi seemed a better mode to get to Taksim, and once there, the shops had little appeal to me. From this vantage point, it was two miles downhill and the bridge to the European side of Istanbul. By the time I got there, it may have been twice that. Fishing off the bridge was a popular pastime, but over such significant shipping traffic, I could only imagine the lost lines. Once crossed, the familiar Bazaar Quarter had much-needed restaurants and a place to ease my aching feet. At mid-afternoon, I notice good activity in a third-floor dining place. A bit posh, but my concern was rest and good food. The entertaining clientele of affluent tourists and local socials made for a pleasant diversion. I would have been content to retire early, but my early flight back home meant I had to leave for the airport by three am. Our prior plan was to party all night at the Galata Tower. Ugh, this had all the makings of a tourist extravaganza much unlike my typical modus operandi. Yeah, a tour bus picked me up on the rounds of all local hotels.
About twenty of us arrived at the Tower to be elevated to the sixth floor for the eight o’clock show, joining another group of twenty. Being the solitary figure from the Armada Hotel, I had a prime table near the bar and the door. The food fare was Turkish traditional with chicken or lamb kebab. The following entertainment was a variety show of belly-dancers, singers, traditional dancers, a Tony Bennett kind of emcee, and more belly-dancers. I was content with the diversion that kept me occupied well into the evening. This role as a tourist worked for me. I returned to the hotel after midnight with time for a shower, last-minute Internet check, stuffed my suitcase with Turkish memorabilia and caught a taxi to the airport.

DTW-NRT-PEK
On the final three of an eighteen-hour journey to Beijing, I have been upgraded to NWA’s World Business Class. I am not one to pay for added comfort as I go comatose during air travel and look to the destination. My Gold Elite status normally gets an upgrade in the States. I made Gold after 103,000 air miles last year. At thirty-six thousand feet above the Sea of Japan, I think of Leonard, where I spent the first eighteen years of my life. The dandy in the row ahead would never have come from a Midwest town of 391. His Gucci shoes and glasses border a matching green with silver striped shirt and pants outfit. The silver coordinates with the bouffant curls of his charcoal hairdo. He probably earned every sawbuck it took to don his overweight frame.
The airline food was quite good. Onboard from Tokyo, the skewered beef and egg rolls of rice paper had the presentation factor given with Japanese cuisine. In business class, you get real utensils. Years ago I would have hidden the stainless and added to my hors d’oeuvre collection at home. I haven’t matured but just have enough.
At least I am free from the screaming Japanese kids that traumatized the area around row twenty-seven from Detroit to Tokyo. I am not into in-flight movies but to seek sanction from the tirades of the four-year-old behind me, I put on the headset to seal my ears. “Freedom Writers” was showing. It may have been a bit melodramatic but it sure gave light to the plight of inner-city kids. I was emotionally drained but inspired to find miracles within us.

An attempt to get to my blog has been suppressed by the Chinese but I will try to launch this post but apparently not be able to view it.

Time Capsule 1978

A couple years ago my former wife called to say she was finally getting the basement cleared of all the junk and I should take care of my remnants. Taking her seriously I went over to view my clutter two weeks later. I remember that cleanup being a common wish since before our divorce eighteen years ago.

Through the dimly lit cellar, a Brazilian batik on the far wall marked my old territory. A shelf unit of old National Geographic’s, obsolete darkroom equipment, and a metal footlocker from my Navy days marked my isolated corner. Under the Bessler Enlarger and an Ektachrome processing tank was my large instrument shipping chest with an air cargo label from Brazil. Unveiled, I had to force it away from the wall to get it unlatched. Once opened, I was too overwhelmed at my initial sightings to dig deeply into this myriad of papers, objects, and articles. I would need many solace, leisure moments to look through such treasures. Four large grocery bags were overloaded with the loose papers. With a couple armloads of larger folders and sketch pads filled the trunk of my car and I was on my way home. I brought everything into my house and set it aside for the right time.

My friend was over for an artist-date a couple days later. I was quick to point out the batik and a gifted piece of art by Odete Finadi of Madonna and Child. We cajoled in going over my old darkroom efforts of black and white prints. The sketch pads had many charcoal drawings given in a classroom setting. Many had significant memories for me but we only perused an old talent.

I came upon the large instrument chest at the close of my work in Ghana in 1976. Some German technicians received the container with some instrumentation and thirty dollars made it mine. Let’s call it “Gauss” for the sake of this story. It was necessary to ship the multitude of artifacts that I had acquired during my stay. Sometime later I used Gauss to send my personal effects on my emigration to Brazil. While there, it was my footlocker. For my return to the States, Gauss contained my world.

The coming weekend was ideal to dig into those grocery bags of memorabilia. Most significant were the many letters from friends and family. Having worked out of a suitcase for eight years, many acquaintances along the way were held dearly, as my worldly family. Christmas cards were a definite keep-in-touch media. When I was in faraway places, letters had a better connection. The old stamp and envelope contents held messages that today would have been long ago lost as email from hard-drive crashes or technology upgrades. Letters from mother are very dear, never one to hide her concern my well-being. She, of course, would never have been so impersonal to write other than in articulated cursive. Sandy filled both sides of an eighteen by five inch yellow construction paper with her whimsical prose. Ann’s calligraphic script could never be found in any custom font selection today. How did we ever get through a handwritten letter without a cut, paste, backspace, or delete? There were a few decorative note-cards that needed to be concluded by writing up the margins. Many from Ghana and Europe wrote on feather-weight envelopes to properly save postage handling.

Memorabilia took many forms. A ticket stub recalled the concert at Neuschwanstein Castle following my work in Ghana 4 September 1976. I had several calendars that I picked up at Photokina exhibition in Cologne Germany on 10 September 1976. Hotel bills, baggage claims, and airline tickets marked a major series of adventures from Europe, Africa, South America, and home. If it mattered, I could rebuild those calendar events.

I am thinking that Gauss should be saved and brought to my basement. Grocery bags are not fit for such treasures. I will put everything back as I found it. When memories start to dissipate, I will know where to find them.

Laos Trek Day 2 Hmong

Day two of Laos’s hill tribe trekking began in a clearing mist with our trail in the shadow of adjacent hills. The plan was a modest one hour walk from the Khmu village of Hua Phi to the Hmong settlement called Xiang Pha. From there a four hour downhill journey to a riverfront town of Xiang Ngeun where we could summon a canoe to return to our base camp an hour upstream.
Bamboo, bananas, and butterflies were continuous features on narrow, well-traveled paths connecting settlements and access to productive fields. Teak trees grew everywhere. It was the main structural component of their huts. I saw no signs of commercial logging deforestation. In a small way, locals dragged individual timbers via streams to the main rivers for trade.
The Hmong differed from Khmu subsistent farming with individual family farms in a confined area rather than an encompassing village. Livestock was raised for sale. Pigs and goats were kept in corrals rather than beneath the family abode. I was told Hmong spirits dwelled in the earth and sleeping on the ground maintained better contact. Fields of rice and corn had fencing signifying property rights, in contrast to a Mother Earth provider concept of Khmu.
We came across an elderly Hmong lady foot-levering a pestle to hull rice grains while a young lad threshed the chaff with a basket. The lady characterized satisfaction for duty-driven results of her toil. At no time did I see idle behavior nor think such allowance could exist in this society. Beyond, a man-made swamp appeared to yield some form of marine life for harvesting. Textile art was used for their known ceremonial wear plus another cash item for the marketplace. I walked away with a deep respect for these highland peoples.
The next four hours were gruesome. The sun was now high overhead. Our downhill path was less than surefooted from erosion. My leg muscles soon felt stressed by the constant downward step. I was more apt now to stop for a butterfly photo to break the routine.
The river town of Xiang Ngeun was far more advanced than villages we had passed. Galvanized metal roofs and concrete structures failed to have much allure. At the river’s edge, I found fascination in the bustling commerce. Young boys with windowed masks and small spears waded to catch small fish. Many young girls harvested natural weeds on the river bottom. A teenage girl piloted a canoe to ferry people across the river. A middle-aged woman washed house mats near the shore. A family towed small teak logs from a stream outlet.
Over the past two days, my guide Sathith related his story. He grew up in a remote village near the Thai border. As a young man, he came to Luang Prabang for work, adventure, and support to his parents back home. Starting as a dishwasher in a bar-restaurant, he took English classes. Good work and English got him transferred to the tending bar. From behind the bar, he was able to relate well with tourists and chose tour guiding to expand his horizon. Two years ago, his adeptness won the respect of a Finnish girl on holiday. Their short time together led to romance. His hopes were dim as the girl’s father disapproved of their intent. Last spring she was secretly able to return to Laos for a month. Poor Sathith has little chance to get a visa to leave and much less of a chance to save enough money for airfare to Finland.
Our motorized canoe arrived for returning to our base-camp.

Khmu Village Trek in Laos

Flying from Bangkok to Luang Prabang in a twin-engine plane was reminiscent of the dirty little Fokker in Ethiopia. The airport in Luang Prabang was of little difference than Lalibela. The arrival Lao visa will be a feature page in my passport. There was an excessive amount of Germans grouped for a package tour. Outside a few guides greeted arrivers with paper signs. There were Tiger Trails seeking Roger Rowley. Satith Sengvilay was to be my guide and companion for the next two days. I felt certain Laos was the right choice once I viewed the rugged fertile landscape from the air. From the airport, we bounced around in our van with lush vegetation heaving over the dusty dirt road. I beamed inside assured Laos was a good selection.
A twenty-minute ride brought us to a launch point at the Nam Khan River. Here other groups were assembling to or ending an adventure. In eighty-something heat and humidity, I gathered the ‘cool’ highlands were merely relative to ninety-something lowlands. Here I could take essentials which by now I am thinking minimal and stash my luggage. A modest buffet was offered but having had lunch on the plane I opted for a cold beer, the bad choice before trekking, add heavy Levis and you are dragging most of the way.
We tipped into a shaft-propeller driven canoe for a twenty-minute sight experience of activity on the riverfront. Fishing, gardening, bathing, water buffalo, and commerce bought the locals out to wave our passing. Along the way, torrents of water were gushing from the thick forest ahead without a usual tributary stream. We pulled in beyond to a seasonal cascading waterfall and pool setting. It was the weekend and several people gathered to enjoy the cool waters, we tourists as well. Tad Xe Falls may have been a refreshing destination but our day was just beginning so I prompted Satith to continue.
The two of us ventured off. Satith was well conditioned to handle the heavy load of provisions and essentials in his backpack as I trudged behind with my oversized fanny-pack. A two-hour struggle along well-used footpaths took us ever upward. A few breaks along the way as my consumption emanated through my pores.
The day-one destination village of Hua Phi is home to the Khmu people. Local natural materials were used for their structures. Bamboo, banana, palm, reed, and teak made mostly two-level dwellings for animals below and people above. Chickens and pigs ranged freely. Dogs and cats were, I guess you could say, domestic. Assured of my free reign, I wandered about in awe of their subsistent ways. Several children had a push-toy made with a long stick in the neck of a plastic bottle with crude wheels and axles at the base. Childhood ended at about seven when able to work the fields or handle household chores. I don’t recall the exact statistics but the village has over four hundred people in twelve families. Planting, sowing, and reaping were I expect a continuous cycle. Given a rain and dry season, a convention must have given crop cycles.
Their end of the day brought in people from the fields. Teens played volleyball of sorts with a beanbag ball and soccer rules lobbing over a head-high bamboo pole. It was a spirited competition.
My evening bath was reminiscent of a mandi during my Volunteer days in Java. An open cistern of water is ladled over your body in breath-taking ice-cold shock. The cool-down was most welcome as my recovery in such heat was slow in coming. Their running water was gifted from NCO, an organization not known to me. Cleanliness proved important here as all seemed to have their time in the mandi or an open faucet.
An affiliated family to host Tiger Trails ran an enterprising commercial store and trade outlet. A widow of two years and four daughters would hold their own in any marketplace. They handled the distribution of goods for locals to market. Toting fifty kilos of goods rivaled any task a man could or would do.
The vegetables Satith carried were turned over to the ladies who relayed it to others for cleaning and slicing. Satith was keen on performing his cooking task over a wood fire, preparing a stir-fry and soup for our evening meal. Here I found sticky rice to be a paste form in which to sandwich mouthfuls of vegetables by hand -- finger-food utensils.
These enterprising ladies had a television and music videos that turned their store into a mini theatre. Thanks to a generator with a two hour evening cycle beyond the seven o’clock sunset. Satith was enthused about music but my weary bones needed repose. Comfort was a matter of need and I found the bamboo mat as inviting as any five star accommodation. My next conscious moment was first rooster call. Sometime latter with the second rooster call I turned on my ineffectual iPhone to focus on three-thirty. Shouldn’t this activity be coming at dawn? I stumbled out in total darkness with my flashlight for a nature call under billions of stars and millions of galaxies overhead in a crystal clear night. I estimated the calling roosters to be eight. The one outside my bamboo curtain had lost some bravado lauded by others in the village. His cock-a-doodle-doo barely fostered a weak doodle-doo. For sure he had his day.
Dawn gave birth to a busy village life. Washing, sweeping, and duties in line, the locals were engaged with a new day. Satith came with omelet and bread for me and I watched passers by eat sticky rice on their way to the fields. The Enterprising Ladies were receiving fifty kilo sacks of cash-crops for their commissioned mass deployment to market. An entrepreneurial man with a two-wheeled, gas driven, tractor of sorts pulled up with cart in tow to transport the goods to town.
It was good for me to be an ineffectual visitor, passing by for a moment of their daily lives. We traded appreciable smiles. No one looked for a handout. My picture taking went unnoticed. If they showed curiosity, I would respond with a digital picture review which was met with smiling eyes of approval.

Euphoric Moments

In review of one of my favorite movies Stealing Beauty, I am cast into the artistry of Bernardo Bertolucci. Not to discount the allure of Liv Tyler but I want to point to the projection given to us by Bertolucci and another favorite Federico Fellini. Such visionaries can bring us into their fantasies. Perhaps not a total gift from the Italians but they have an edge to expressions of beauty and desire. In this vortex I tend to reel back into moments that I have experienced. We cannot dwell in their imagination but reflect on our own.
Many trivial moments stay with us eternally. Other instances may transform our character for how we judge other such events. I have documented various lists but the following are significant whether trivial or transforming.

I was very young and impressionable while being part of a party of a Michigan fashioned New England Lobster Fest. We retired to the garden of our benefactor. In the party of beautiful people, a golden retriever and I played catch with a stick and I drew apart from the crowd. (transforming)
Again so young, a company business dinner found me and a bunch of coworkers surrounding three airline stewardesses at the bar. The loveliest looked to me and said, “Are you married?” I stuttered, “Who me?” Everyone laughed. (trivial)
Trapped in New Haven Connecticut on business for the weekend, after dinner and alone, a combo was playing a lovely song at the Motor Inn. I walked over to a table of where three had been. The most beautiful girl was left alone. I asked if she would like to dance. She said, “No. But would you like to sit down.” (transforming)
Bettina on the plane was a long conversation on a flight from Detroit to Frankfort. She sent me a bar of chocolate on the following Christmas but I could not distinguish the return address to send thanks. (trivial)
Idle conversation at the Copacabana Palace Hotel on my first day in Rio, a lovely Australian lady rose to leave. I asked if she would have dinner with me. She said, “I’ll pick you up at nine.” (trivial)
At sixteen, I stopped at Hollywood Market on Auburn Road to get some snacks for the road. As I rounded the aisle near the veggie counter a lovely goddess tending the lettuces met my glance. Both of us were awestruck but could not say a word. Heart pounding, I left with a coke and some chips. As I went to my car she was standing near the window – another glance and I returned to the store. Within her reach the manager came between us, she hung her head, so I walked away. I returned to that store when thoughts arose but never saw her again. (trivial)
On the first curve while riding a bus up a mountain road in Puerto Rico the driver avoided a collision with an out-of-control vehicle and we ended up in a ditch. They called for another bus but said we could walk and be picked up along the way. This was my first time in the tropics as a young sailor, of course, I chose to walk. The sight of such flora and fauna along the way stays with me today. (transforming)

Less preemptive events are first sightings: Taj Mahal, Chichen Itza, Borobador Java, Pyramids at Giza, Macho Pichu, Cristo in Rio, Statue of Liberty, Arlington National Cemetery, Pointe du Hoc and Omaha Beach, Neuschwanstein, Stonehenge, Cape of Good Hope, Kilauea Volcano, Ganges River, Mount Etna, Rock of Gibraltar, Istanbul, Grand Canyon, The Forum, Opera House in Sydney, The Great Wall, Angkor Wat, Mount Fuji, Vatican in Rome, Niagara Falls, Hadrian’s Wall, my Buddhist Bell, Terra Cotta Warriors, Fatima in Portugal, Death Valley, Bali, Coptic Churches in Ethiopia, Temple of Diana in Ephesus Turkey, Kronborg Castle of Hamlet in Copenhagen, Serengeti Plains, Nelson Mandela, Dali Lama, Fez, Yosemite, White Cliffs of Dover, Mekong Delta, Mount Everest, Tour d’Eiffel, Golden Gate Bridge, Chinatown NYC, Cape Hattarus hurricane, Tintagal, Auschwitz, Venice, (each transforming as a succession in attainment)

2008 Happenstance

I am a firm believer in happenstance. Some would say you need to make things happen. There are so many forces beyond our control that credence with what lies before us may lead to a better path. I would attribute such as a formula for my content and fulfillment, more so in recent years.
Last year marked the achievement of traveling all the way around the world. That lifetime goal opened up with many business opportunities in the Orient since 2003. Several times I laid the groundwork, but accommodating business schedules had not allowed plans to take place. In August, two deals in Shanghai did not fall into a sequence, so it was necessary to make two trips inside of six weeks. With the first, I had a few extra days to see the Terra Cotta Warriors in Xi’an. For the second trip, I thought of venturing into Mongolia, but political unrest there left me scrambling for a plan B two weeks before I was needed in Shanghai. Hastily I threw together the triumph of a seasoned traveler and added Kenya, Ethiopia, and Morocco to my list of sixty-four countries that good fortune has allowed me to visit. I was able to include a stop to revisit Ghana and find the family I worked with thirty-two years ago.
In February, a couple days of business in Turkey provided a week to wander and wonder in the historic streets of Istanbul. Of the nearly one hundred and fifty pins on my world map, Istanbul is significantly aided by the cooperation of Kerem whose business brought me there.
Working a trade show in Cleveland allowed me to enjoy what’s new downtown. Dining on lobster is better along the coast of Maine, particularly when in the company of a special friend. My lovely daughter made my birthday quite pleasant when I flew to Tampa that weekend. My brother and his wife uphold Thanksgiving as a family tradition during my now annual trip to Colorado.
After thirty years of business, I may be basking in success, at least by my measurements. I am concerned about traditional skills with a desire to support those gifted and devoted. Fine dining at better restaurants will exemplify manner and reward the expertise of a premier chef. The enjoyment of great wine is a level of endorsement for a vintner’s craft. Much joy comes from witnessing classical music presented by near monastic devotion of a musician for their work. Artwork, in its many forms of expression, should invoke beauty and purpose in creative imagination. Primitive cultures warrant preservation, allegiance, and undying respect.
Being open to what life has to offer is merit within itself. Good fortune is not a monetary prize but a reward for the consequences of your folly.