Skip to content

The World at a Glance

January 21, 2012

I came across this old piece of paper recently, begun in 1976 and tracing my life’s travels.  There are many more lines to draw.

The Cook Islands: Aitutaki’s Lagoon

January 16, 2012

The atoll of Aitutaki is generally recognized as one of the Pacific’s most beautiful. Flying to the island is a real treat, even when the weather isn’t perfect.

1) The first corner

2) Now more appears in the airplane window

The landing strip is a newish addition to the original airfield built by the Americans in WWII.

3) Ready to landpic shot thru the cockpit door

Of course, the real joy in experiencing the lagoon isn’t to found from an airplane window.  You have to venture into it by boat.

4) The sea’s colors are a swirl of azure

Great snorkling is to be found around the rocks at its edge, too.

5) Playing with snorkels and masks

Lastly, the motus, or small islands that circumscribe the reef, are wondrous uninhabited deserted islets, where the only sounds are the whistle of the wind through the palms and the calls of the tropic birds.

6) Honeymoon Motu, so named, it is said, because 40 years ago a Canadian couple decided to get married hereTo the right, behind Honeymoon’s sandbar, is a different motu, Maina

7) Another view of Maina

8) Diana, as close to paradise as a modern person can reasonably hope to find herself

The Cook Islands: Return to Aitutaki

January 13, 2012

We returned to our favorite island recently to welcome the New Year.  The island retains its charms, although the first event we witnessed was a full-fledged tropical storm.

1) Blowing a gale on Dec. 28

The cabin shook and a storm surge brought the lagoon waters to within a few feet of our house.

But the weather cleared with little damage. Except the beaches were full of broken coral from the reef that has washed in with the waves.

2) Beachfront

The island has recovered nicely from the ravages of Cyclone Pat two years ago; we can only hope that history doesn’t repeat itself too soon.

3) An outrigger on the lagoon

Algeria: Exploring Timgad

December 6, 2011

Few people visit Algeria anymore because of internal strife, but I hitchhiked across the country in 1975.  Theses are some recollections of the country’s greatest archeological site, the Roman city of Timgad, as they appear in my novel, Descending the Cairo Side.  Here was once an African center of empire; today the ruins are empty and forlorn: 

    When I arrived at the nearby modern Algerian settlement, I found that accommodations were scarce. The only lodging proved to be a rather expensive hotel. But I checked in, not wishing to camp in the open.  In the lobby I found a map of the ruins.
    After securing my belongings and now in a state of bemused contentment, I headed for the ruins, glad that a whole Roman city lay waiting for my investigations.  A man at the gate collected a pittance as an entrance fee. It would have been interesting to see if the daily receipts even paid his salary. Certainly, there was not a single other tourist on site.  I was completely alone at one of northern Africa’s premium archeological wonders.
    The foundations of the town lay ahead, but no buildings stood higher than about three feet.  I was somewhat disappointed, thinking foolishly that I would wander the streets of a nearly intact city. This was a naive fancy, of course. The ruins had been picked over for centuries as a source for quarrying stone, and no doubt looters and grave robbers had long ago stolen anything of value that could be easily removed.
1) Overview of the ruins
    I walked down a broad boulevard in the center. The dun-colored stone remains were, in their subtle, discreet fashion, magnificent.  A sense of orderliness and tidiness stood out. The city had been planned, much more carefully than were any modern population centers in North Africa. It seemed that the whole thing had been built from a central design.  Streets were laid in a grid, and the map I had showed the various public and private buildings, although it would have been hard to discern the function of most of the ruins.  On the surface, all was a jumble.
    It didn’t take long to tire of picking through the low walls. There weren’t any interesting artifacts lying about, of course, and little in the way of artwork.  I was surprised at how fast boredom set in.  I felt like an unsatisfied and jaded seeker of lost history.
2) Trajan Gate
    Yet the scale of Timgad was impressive. The stone-paved streets covered the better part of a square kilometer.   Sitting down on top of a crumbling wall, I consulted the map again to see if there were other interesting spots.  I had noticed, about a quarter of a mile away, a large structure that looked like a fortress or a castle.  It had a non-classical architectural style to my unpracticed eye.  What was that?
    The structure loomed over the ruins like a giant crashed bird.  It was constructed differently from the rest of the city.  Although much larger than any other of the stone remnants, it seemed, at this distance, to have been put together from cruder materials.  I decided to have a peek.  It required a walk outside the perimeter of the Timgad ruins.  I read on my map that the fort dated from Byzantine times, which would account for its stylistic singularities.  It loomed more and more imposingly as I approached it.  As advertised, it indeed was a kind of primitive castle. There was a wide entrance, some twenty feet high, which once may have supported huge wooden doors.
   The interior was dark. I pressed on, entering the portico, feeling my way through a great central hall.  The fortress was made entirely of small, roughly hewn rocks.  Its lines were severe and utilitarian.  Above me the ceiling faded into the darkness.  Abruptly I tripped over a loose stone in the path, and a loud surprised noise emerged from my throat.  Without warning, a great host of bats swooped down from the recesses of the bulwarks, twittering and screeching their eerie cries. I ducked instinctively as they swirled and swooped around me like miniature dive-bombers.  It was quite unnerving and I panicked, looking for a speedy exit.  They flew through my hair, brushing against my face. I had a flashing thought of rabid animals covering me with tiny painful bites and sprinted for the exit. The bats decided not to follow, but I continued running blindly for a hundred yards, finally coming to rest on the base of a column. The cries of the bats were still audible from within the gloom.
    I panted, staring back at the Byzantine fort.  This was not part of the bargain. God, bats!  I looked around the area for a time, bewildered.  The fun had gone out of this expedition. Making my way back to the ruins in the city, I attempted to busy myself studying the vestiges of Roman life, but my curiosity had taken a blow.  It felt as though I had been rejected by this place, that it had no connection for me.  I kicked a few stones around a small plaza, trying to decide what it all signified.  I considered what I knew about Roman history.  The usual schoolboy facts.  Great conquerors, leaders, civilizers. But the stories from my youth no longer seemed relevant.  An idea occurred to me, courtesy of the attacking bats.  Maybe the Romans were precursors of a continuum of evil in Europe, proto-nazis from the ancient age. What had they accomplished in subduing and controlling their piece of the known world?  Surely, their art, literature and culture counted greatly in the progression of human knowledge, but in the final analysis, their ruins were haunted places, the abodes of night creatures. They enslaved vast regions and peoples in their quest for dominance.  The glories of their conquests had long withered, leaving nothing but relics of brutality and fear that gave proof to the lie about empires.
    The legions of Rome represented a great leap backward for humanity.  The modern history books had it wrong.  I walked away from the archeological site, toward the modern town of Timgad, vowing never again to set foot on Roman territory.
PHOTOS COURTESY OF WIKIPEDIA

Nepal: A Trek through Gorka

August 8, 2011

In 1982 my parents set out on a trek to the village of Gyamapasal in the Gorkha district of Nepal.  This was not an area favored by tourists. Their destination had been determined by my mother’s old friend Preb, a Wellesley graduate (1945) who had eschewed the wonders of modern civilization in exchange for a Peace Corps job teaching the village’s children. My mother,  Peg, reported that Preb had indicated in her correspondence that she was hungry, and she asked them to bring extra food. They were happy to comply.

Below is a selection of photographs from the trip, beginning with the village itself.

1) The school in Gyampasal, with Preb’s house below

2) Preb with her students

The trek there, a journey of several days, had its own unique rewards.

3) Nepali girl-watching. A universal human pastime, I would say

4) Peg enjoying some impromptu music en route

5) Another village

6) Always in the background, the Himalayas

7) On the road with Preb

8) Friendly locals

9) Details of old house

10) Planing wood the old-fashioned way

11)A nice farm with terraces

I’m not sure if conditions have improved over the years in Gorka; it’s a region we never seem to hear much about.  Undoubtedly Preb left memories in Gyampasal about how kind Americans can be. That’s all we can hope for anyway.

12) On the edge of the world

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.