The Guest

By Diane Caldwell
dianewanderer@hotmail.com

“They’re political,” said Ayse, my modern Turkish friend as she sipped her red wine and knocked the ash of her cigarette into the metal ashtray for emphasis.

Three Turkish women and myself, an American, sat at a stylish outdoor cafe in the westernized area of Beyoglu, Istanbul. Turkish pop music blasted out the speakers, the ‘boom boom boom’ of the bass driving our conversation. We were surrounded by tables of young Turks–males and females seated together drinking beer and wine, smoking cigarettes, dressed in fashionable jeans and t-shirts, discussing films, music, and politics.

“But I don’t see why a young woman should be denied a university education just because her religion dictates that she cover her head with a scarf,” I said.

The mention of allowing “covered” girls entrance to university in Turkey sent my secular Turkish friends into vitriolic spasms.

“It’s not about religion, Diana. You don’t know these people, said Esra. She leaned forward, pushed her face close to mine. “They just want power. The men all want women to be like donkeys. These girls don’t want to be covered. Their families force them.”

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As soon as we had crossed into Algeria, it was clear that something wasn’t right. Our shared taxi was slowing down and speeding up, and staggering from side to side like an overloaded, drunken donkey. To the side, lay a sharp, deep drop from the mountain to the surprisingly verdant valley.

All the way from Tunis, and up the steep mountain road to the border post, the driver had seemed fine. Once we had entered into Algeria, he seemed to lose his mind.

As we continued to veer from side to side, we received a good beeping from a car coming up from behind. For a minute or so, the driver seemed to regain his senses but as soon as the other car had passed, it all went wrong again. While drifting around a bend – on the wrong side of the road – he suddenly swerved to avoid a dozing cow. I began to wonder if everybody simply went mental as soon as they entered Algeria. This theory was starting to grow on me – it could go a long way to explaining the 100,000 or so killed in the nearly ten year long civil war – when we almost drove into a warning sign (with a picture of a cow on it).

By now, I really felt like I ought to say something – I didn’t want to spend my holiday being dead. I leant forward and saw his mobile in pieces as he struggled to insert a new SIM card.

Brilliant colors invaded every aspect of the landscape as we sped along the hard-packed sand in our white 4×4 ute. Carved sand cliffs stood streaked with orange, yellow, and red bands. Birds fluttered among tropical trees, looking like flying rainbow blurs. Even the sun washed luminous paintings across the sky each morning on this large Australian World Heritage site.

It was so easy to be consumed by the natural tranquility of Fraser Island. I never imagined I could be held captive there.

“Bloody pommie dick heads!” our tour guide, Jason, yelled out the window as we tore around some parked British tourists on the open sand road. Jason’s sun-scorched face accented the rage that boiled up every time he touched the steering wheel. “Learn how to drive!” His brown lace-up boot bore down on the gas pedal as we headed north toward our accommodations for the night. I endured his driving techniques only because I knew he led tour groups each week, and they usually returned unharmed. Whenever he drove near another tourist vehicle, though, my friends and I cringed.

At every stunning scenic point on Fraser, Jason happily advised our group of 15 naïve American 20-somethings about both the beauties and hazards there. “Take time to wander through the sandy Rainbow Gorge, swim in the pure blue waters of Lake McKenzie, and of course snap pictures at the rocky cliffs of Indian Head,” he said.

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Egypt has the longest line of history in the recorded civilizations. So when I, along with my mother and uncle traveled to the ancient monuments (June 2005), we were all in for adventure that would teach us how much we didn’t know. During one part of the journey, we visited Cairo Museum-one visit’s not enough- and I was so excited to see the royal mummies. I am talking 3,000 year old corpses, preserved in one of the most efficient embalming methods known to human history. What weren’t the Egyptians good at? That’s up for debate. Nonetheless, I saw Ramses II (the most renowned pharaoh), his son Merenptah, and many other royal mummy remains.

By far, the creepiest aspect of the visit…. I could still see the hair and nails on the mummies. I had to do a mummy double take. Ramses II still had his beard. The mummification god, Anubis, took real good care of the decomposing, Egyptian pharaohs and kings (difference between the two, pharaoh was recognized by the Gods). Here’s another tidbit that rattled my brain: Egyptologist speculate that Merenptah was the ruler associated with Moses. And what a inherent coincidence that his remains were encased with the Red Sea salt deposits. I stayed in the royal mummies’ exhibit for at least 40 minutes; consequently, one-third of the time I stared dumbfoundedly at Merenptah.
Seeing ancient mummies really can opened my eyes to how precious life is and how death is apart of life as well. I had many overwhelming yet humbling moments that made me reexamine my life in terms of my culture and perspective of the afterlife. So until next time Egypt, Shukran! Thanks for the memories.

Dublin 4, not what it was

So Dublin then for a weekend in Dublin 4. Dublin, a week before the “most important General Election since Irish independence” according to the the media boards at the airport although to me it already seems like closing the stable door after the (financial) horse has bolted.

D4, the postcode to die for in the good times but the good times are gone in D4 and beyond these days. We lived here for a time during the Celtic Tiger years, in the days when the weekends started at Thursday lunchtime and the party went on until Sunday night. Not any more.

This time we stayed in the D4 hotel, never heard of it? Well try Jurys Hotel, once one of Dublin’s landmark locations. It was bought by a developer a few years ago to be levelled and replaced with yet more soulless apartment blocks but when the crunch came, and the banks demanded a revenue stream, any revenue stream, it was frantically re-opened as the D4. Now its the ultimate budget airline of hotels and where once there was glamour, black tie events seemingly every night and you simply could not get in the door on big International Rugby weekends now there is a take-away coffee counter and a convenience store.

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I hop in the bus and, I try to discretely observe the faces, the clothes, the situations I encounter, trying to take it all in without spoiling it.

I hand the chauffeur 6 pesos, sit back by the window and off we go. A lady comes in with her quiet son asking for help, does her spiel, her paisanos offer her their kindness, the chauffer waives off the fare, I am sure it’s not enough, but she smiles thankfully. Outside the juggler takes his chances by juggling in front of the cars when the light turns red, first row street entertainment, if he is lucky, he might get one day join, on a real show, the streets clowns who later walk in on the bus.

As we get closer to Cruzero, it gets harder to see the clearly through the confusion of “tiendas” and Mexicans in a walking about.

We get to the centre, I see the visible North American influence, I say to the chauffer “quiero bajar-me aqui”, not knowing if that’s correct. Crossing road time, I look at both sides like I would in any street in the world and I feel as if as I going to do a bungee jump.

From here I will try to get Ruta 2, where me and the Mexican workers are joined by tourists that travel from Hotel to Hotel and Plazas to Plaza in this stretch of 20km of money spending paradises. And the experience of getting off the bus and crossing the road are all in the pressing of a button.

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Over The Abyss.
By Curtis Jones

Childhood memories from 1957

The anticipation of the trip

The talk about the trip to California had been going on for some time. Most of the kids had lost interest in the talk and had given up on the idea of a trip to that far away and exotic place. But there was renewed interest when we began the preparation. The trip would take three days each direction. We liven in eastern central Oklahoma. The trip would only take two days if we traveled route 66 but we wanted to go through Colorado, through the Rockies.

Mom and Dad told us of great mountains that reached to the sky. We wanted to see those huge and majestic towers to God’s creation. In Oklahoma the tallest mountain was where my Aunt Helen lived in Stilwell, as far as we knew. This mountain was a full 1,000 feet above the valleys that were around it. The mountain was simply called Workman’s Mountain. Our ears would pop when we went to visit Aunt Helen. Mom and Dad said that our ears might just pop eight or ten times when we went over the Rockies.

We were told that even in June there would possibly be snow on the tops of the mountains. We could hardly imagine that because in June in Oklahoma we have not seen snow for three or four months, and maybe not since January. This seemed like a strange and wonderful place that didn’t have to be like home was. It was as if they had their own rules to live by. You have to remember that there was no television in most homes so to see something like this was to see a photograph or see it in person. We had seen ourselves as explorers going to the west to see what the original mountain men had seen.

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A heavy back pack, a small map, the red face and strolling on the pavement by gazing everything surrounding me proved that I was a tourist. Not only I was watching them, but also they were trying to look at me. Simple smiles and honest eyes seemed helpful and curious. I didn’t know where I was exactly. The only thing I understood was that I was on a road jam-packed with tons of food stalls, automobiles and yes, also people.

The pavements were not smooth and neither the road. I also didn’t have a mobile phone and couldn’t find a vendor-machine to grab a can of Coke. I agree if you mention that the city is not well-developed. But I didn’t know why, I felt the warmth from those people walking here and there. I felt the simplicity from those old buildings and I felt the happiness from the environment. May be it was because I was in Yangon; the former capital of Myanmar.

By making some noise, my stomach reminded my brain that I was hungry. I had no idea about what to eat. I turned left entering a narrower street while my eyes were finding a right stall. At the corner of the street, I found something interesting. It was smaller than a normal stall. The owner was sitting on a wooden stool and also the customers. The only thing divided them was the two box-like wooden tables. A flat long stick connected those two tables on which I could see something yellow, white and orange on one table and a big and bulky metal pot on another.

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We are lost. Hopelessly lost in Chandni Chowk, in a sensory overload of nighttime noise and colour.

We arrive at Delhi’s ‘moonlit market’ in the hot dusty afternoon. Shopkeepers sit in the languid shade of their doorways, sipping chilled lassi with their neighbours. Customers are scarce, waiting for the cooler evening, and screeching macaques chase across the rooftops.

In the textile kucha steep wooden steps lead to a cornucopia of saris and fabrics in every colour and pattern. Bolts of jewel bright silk are unrolled across the floor. They billow like parachutes, before settling in flowing rivers of emerald and cerise.

Mr Rajdeep sends his son for cups of sweet milky chai, and we allow him to woo us with soft cashmere shawls and artful flattery.

When we descend to the street, dusk is turning to night. We retrace our steps along narrow lanes and alleyways, now crammed with shoppers and hawkers. There are silversmiths, falooda stalls, and tiny shops selling marbled paper. Electrical shops flash brightly with strings of garish lights, and the streets become a confusing swirl of bangles, sandals and spices.

In the dark and bustle it is easy to lose any sense of direction. As we pass the same book shop for the third time, I admit defeat.

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I have never liked camping. It is an alien world of pointless discomfort and acres of mud. It is also a well known fact that wherever you pitch your tent, at sunrise you will be surrounded by bleating ewes entangling their cloven hooves in your guy ropes.

However, hope springs eternal, and I am on my way to spend a night under canvas ‘at the top of the world in God’s own County’ – alternatively known as the North York Moors.

We set out under a grey sky, teasing us with the occasional splash of optimistic blue, and by the time we turn off the main road near Kirkbymoorside it is a rare and perfect summer’s day.

These moors are a wild and lonely place in winter, and farmhouses huddle close to the hillsides, always anticipating bleak winds and harsh frosts.

But now there is sweet honeysuckle climbing cottage walls, the ‘pee-wit’ call of the lapwing, and the warm smell of heather as we climb higher onto the moors. The heather blazes purple as far as the eye can see, punctuated by the tiny dots of grazing sheep.

These hills and valleys are intersected by pannier tracks formed of large flat stones, where monks used to walk between their abbeys and farms. As we follow one of the high paths, we hear the long whistle of a steam train in the dale below, snaking its way between Grosmont and Pickering.

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