The Backpacker's Handbook

Belize: Cay Caulker 2012

Kit Herring — Wed, 30 May 2012 00:51:33 +0000

Here are some random shots of Cay Caulker. Some are self-explanatory; some are not.

Arriving at the ferry dock

Beach

Side street

Sunset

Cops in the coconuts

Pole-climbing for rum on Easter Sunday

And life’s a party…

Belize: Exploring Lamanai

Kit Herring — Tue, 08 May 2012 03:39:22 +0000

The year is 2012 and I’ve been seeking illumination about the date of December 21. What better way to find inspiration than to visit a major Mayan site in Central America? So last month we set out for a day trip to the Maya ruins of Lamanai in northern Belize. The route we took involved driving north from Belize City toward Chetumal, Mexico and then embarking in a boat and traveling up the New River.

1) the road north – not much to see except small farms

We turned off the highway at a nondescript collection of wooden shacks. Two small outboard runabouts waited for visitors. We boarded without delay and set off through the dry forest along the river. A baby fresh-water crocodile posed photogenically for us in the lilies near the dock.

2) Baby croc – only about a foot long: Photo by Shawn Herring

As we wound our way through narrow, snake-infested passageways, the undergrowth soon gave way to open river. The forest contained plenty of wildlife but was hardly primeval. Still, it was a part of Belize that most tourists seem to miss, preferring instead to delve into the wonders of the rain forest further south.

3) Thick, overhanging bush

4) The river opens up: photo by Shawn Herring

We moved slowly, in order to examine the critters and their abodes.

5) Tree termite nest

The boat driver was sharp-eyed and called our attention to a variety of birds, including the hard-to-see Mangrove swallow.

6) Not rare… just difficult to spot

A large Mennonite community had a settlement on the river bank. The woman in their old-fashioned frocks reminded us of nineteenth-century German peasants as they stood watching us from their wharf. We didn’t photograph them; the action would have been disrespectful, and it wouldn’t do to steal people’s souls with modern optical contrivances.

7) Mennonite village

At last the river widened further, into the Lamanai Lagoon, effectively a huge lake in the middle of the bush. Truly a dramatic location, it’s easy to see why the Maya picked the spot, with its commanding views and strategic advantages.

The lagoon

Partially excavated pyramids rose like great buttresses through the trees. An aura of mystery and sadness hung over the landscape. Unlike its sister cities in Mesoamerica, Lamanai was never abandoned. The complex was occupied continuously for three thousand years but devastated in the end by European disease and exploitation. Pillaging Spanish and English slave-seekers did what the environment could not; the culture disappeared quickly and quietly after contact with the outside world.

9) Tourists atop a pyramid as seen from the lagoon: photo by Shawn Herring

We debarked from the boat and walked into the city. A greeter flapped vigorously from his tree.

10) Toucan. I have a nagging feeling this bird may have been someone’s pet

The Belizean authorities have done a good job at uncovering a few of the pyramids and other buildings but most of Lamanai remains buried under a 500 years of detritus and plant growth.

11) Most of the city is buried under intact dry forest: photo by Shawn Herring

We explored the site. You could see that people had once lived here but the obvious traces were gone.

12) Basins or metates?

At one of structures the frescoes had been reconstructed.

13) Here a face was copied in the plaster – the real version lay underneath, protected from weathering

And of course we climbed the highest pyramid, dodging rain squalls.

14) Diana looks up as we climb

15) On the way down

The ball court presented a significant anomaly. Lamanai’s version was very small, and perhaps merely symbolic. However, in the middle of the pitch, underneath a carved circular stone, archaeologists have found a pool of pure mercury, placed there by the Maya. Were the ancient ones skriers? Peering into the liquid metal and divining the future like their peers in medieval Europe?

16) The weird ball court. The mercury pool was found under the small stone that looks as if it’s below this woman’s purse.

We’ll never know their intent.

At the Temple of the Jaguar (a modern name and almost certainly not that of the Maya) the frescoes are original and spooky.

17) Jaguar eyes

The biggest excavated series of buildings is found here, too.

18) Standing near Shawn and his friend, Danny

The rain poured down on us as we stood, baffled by the monumental architecture and by a culture so far removed from ours as to be unfathomable. So what does that magical date in December hold for civilization? Mostly likely more of the same, the never-ending cycles, the ups and downs along with rebirth and destruction, as humanity blunders its way through present time. Will we be able to avoid the mistakes made by both the Maya and their eventual conquerors? All indications point to the answer as, “No.”

And the Maya are not talking.

Jamaica: The Go-Fast Trip

Kit Herring — Mon, 19 Mar 2012 15:45:34 +0000

I had the opportunity in 1992 to cover an international road rally in Jamaica on behalf of Autoweek, the weekly magazine devoted to all things car-related. Naturally I jumped at the chance; I had lived on the island in the early 80s and still had many fond memories.

This trip was one of a different sort; the rally route covered a huge swath of territory and lasted three days. I had coordinated my attendance with local automotive enthusiasts and the Jamaican tourist board and was provided with transport by way of several vehicles, including cars belonging to medics, spectators, and government officials. A colleague of mine came on the adventure as well and acted as a back-up photographer.

We began in Kingston, not the most touristic of destinations. The place has a bad rap, probably deserved, but the locals proved either friendly or indifferent.

1) Early on departure day near the stadium. Not much hoopla. In the background rise the Blue Mountains

2) Close-up of the stadium, scene of many famous events in modern Jamaican history

I wasn’t sure how uneasy I should feel, hanging in the King’s Town with expensive camera equipment draped over my shoulders, but the vibe was easy-going.

3) Waiting for the festivities to begin

Soon enough the rally fired up. The drivers whom I accompanied, inevitably wanna-be racers, screamed down back road, racing through crowded villages at speeds reaching 60 miles per hour and causing all sorts of mayhem. The rides were great fun.

We passed through areas seldom seen by casual visitors, including sites where bauxite had been mined years earlier, old sugar plantations, and some of the larger towns.

4) Cane field

Especially interesting were the rural people.

5) Rastas trying to make a few dollars along the rally route

6) Cops looking dutifully scornful

7) Sugar mill with conveyor belt passing over the road; you can see the same set-ups in Hawaii

Every hour or so I saw sights that seemed more interesting than the cars I was supposed to be following.

8) Kids in the bush

9) Esso goes oxymoronic

But eventually I did what I was supposed to do and shot the car race. Our theory was a simple one: find a spot with a road hazard and snap a pic of every car that navigates it. Regardless of the race winner there would be one cool photo, at least, of the best car doing something radical.

10) A big puddle

Sometimes my faith in the drivers was touching. I posted myself at a ninety degree turn on a dirt road for a few hours, never wondering if one of the cars would spin out and crash through my position.

11) Cornering

In St. Thomas parish the car I rode with, which carried the race medics, got stuck in a field and blocked the race for an hour or so. Oops.

12) Blocking the route; at least the scenery was nice

Eventually the racers returned to Kingston. The only hold-up was a final police checkpoint just west of the capital. Large men with automatic weapons searched the car I was in; my Jamaican friends told me quietly to not say a word during the stop. I was happy to comply.

The magazine article was published in the States a few weeks later and so ended the great Jamaican car race.

Mexico: A Glimpse of the Old World in Izamal, 1978

Kit Herring — Tue, 28 Feb 2012 22:22:20 +0000

USA: Departing Seattle

Kit Herring — Sat, 11 Feb 2012 18:31:38 +0000

Descending the Cairo Side - a novel of the traveling life

Available as an e-book on Amazon.com

Buy the book on Amazon

Everybody whines and complains about air travel these days but the experience doesn’t always have to be a bad one. You need only a combination of good weather, pleasant staff at the airport, and a sense of patience.

Of course, maybe the above combination is asking for a lot of circumstances to interact in the correct manner at the same time.

Last week Shawn and I left Seattle for the East Coast, on a flight to Boston. The only real hassle at the Seatac airport is to get through security in a timely fashion. But this day no lines snaked through the corridors.

We found our gate with an hour remaining to wait until boarding. But since the sky was so nice I decided to snap some pics.

1) Our plane is at the gate but one woman doesn’t look pleased

2) Baggage cart with the Olympic range in the distance, the Brothers twin peaks rising to 7000 ft.

To our great satisfaction the airplane loaded on schedule. But then we sat on the tarmac for an hour while a widget was replaced in the cabin heating system.

But eventually we did get in the air, and were immediately rewarded with some nice views of Puget Sound.

3) Looking west to Maury Island with the Olympics in the background

Finally, one last photo as languor set in. Five hours flying over the USA makes for a lot of reading time.

4) The Brothers again…

The Cook Islands: Aitutaki’s Lagoon

Kit Herring — Mon, 16 Jan 2012 19:59:47 +0000

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 land – pic 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 here. To 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

Kit Herring — Fri, 13 Jan 2012 14:23:56 +0000

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

Kit Herring — Tue, 06 Dec 2011 00:23:51 +0000

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

Kit Herring — Mon, 08 Aug 2011 15:43:24 +0000

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 Stritter, 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, said 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 as much as we can hope for.

12) On the edge of the world

Nepal: Kathmandu, 1976

Kit Herring — Tue, 02 Aug 2011 15:18:20 +0000

Descending the Cairo Side - a novel of the traveling life

Available as an e-book on Amazon.com

Buy the book on Amazon

I still smile when I think of the bus ride to Kathmandu from the Indian border. Traveling with my good friend Tony and a Tibetan refugee who lived just outside the city in Kathmandu Valley, we made good time in a rickety bus that climbed through the foothills with slow but terrifying disregard for the safety of the passengers. We drove through temperate evergreen forests and wondered at the sudden change of climate.

At one of the passes we stopped for chai and it began to snow. I was dressed in thin cotton space pants and sandals; Tony wrapped an African sarong around his shoulders for dubious warmth. He had never seen snow before and it was a marvelous sight to watch him as flurries came down. He was as entranced as any four year-old might be in similar circumstances.

We were hungry – the bus ride that carried us perhaps 150 kilometers took hours and hours. I procured from the chai stand a package of Brit-style tea biscuits and so began a craving for the things that never seemed to go away. At one particularly hair-raising junction we got off the bus and observed another conveyance that had fallen off the road. Fortunately for the passengers, rather than rolling several hundred meters straight to the bottom of a plunging ravine, that bus had caught on trees that grew horizontally out from the face. We hoped that the people inside had been able to extract themselves without serious injury and clamber back to the road. No telling how long they may have waited there for another lift.

1) Himalayan foothills near Kathmandu, mostly deforested

And so we arrived at the end of the day. We bid a temporary farewell to our Tibetan friend and sought refuge in the precincts of Darbar Square and the old city.

2) The old city, Kathmandu

We found an inexpensive hotel a block from the north end of the square and began our explorations. Kathmandu in those days was a city replete with sights, sounds, and smells of old Nepal and Western influence covered the ancient landscape with but a thin layer of modernity.

3) City life

Restaurants that catered to the tastes and pocketbooks of travelers abounded. You could still buy hash cookies and other delights for the mind at many of the small eateries. One famous place, Aunt Jane’s, was purported to serve great home-style American chocolate cakes. The only time I checked it out I noticed the staff washing dishes on the floor of the squat toilet. I’d had enough gastro issues and promptly departed.

Mysteries abounded. One of the temples of Darbar Square was reputed to have been carved in great antiquity from the trunk of a single tree.

4) An ancient temple

The great spiritual significance of the Kathmandu and its place in both Buddhist and Hindu realms was not lost on us. We tried to take the energy of the valley and we tried to learn more about ourselves and the world at large. It’s difficult to calculate whether we succeeded or not. So many years later memories of Kathmandu have faded, to be replaced mostly by deteriorating photos and our own advancing years.

Oddly, mental images of the bus trip remain fresh.

5) More evolved minds than ours preceded us

Photos by Ken and Peg Herring, early 1980s