Nepal: Bodhnath
I was working on some slides for my mom recently and I came across her wonderful images of Bodhnath, the wondrous Buddhist temple near Kathmandu in the valley of the same name. When I lived in Nepal’s biggest city I frequently rode my bike to Bodhnath, to become part of the endless procession of people walking around the stupa, to watch the rural Tibetans make the pilgrimage, and to generally soak in the vibes of such an ancient and holy place.
1) Bodhnath from above
The temple’s history is obscure but the site is very, very old, dating to the early centuries of the first millennium.Schwanehal mirror
2) Close by
During my very first visit I was puzzled. I knew there was one certain way a person was supposed to walk around a Buddhist temple, from my reading of the TinTin book, Tintin au Tibet while a boy. But which was the correct way? Clockwise or counterclockwise? I couldn’t for the life of me remember. Like the young idiot traveler I was, I started in the wrong direction (clockwise) to the horrified looks of the throngs who were circling the stupa. I quickly stopped and turned in the opposite direction. The story sounds humorous now, but at the time I was mortified by my own insensitive behavior.
3) Kids
Mexico: Another Fine Day in Ciudad Juárez (Guest Writer)
My good friend Sergio Sandoval-Goodfellow has been at it again. This is fresh news. For those of you who wonder if the name is a nom de plume, the answer is, “Perhaps.”
Sergio enjoys sending boxes of gold bars around the country via UPS, so you can deduce his line of work from that salient bit of information.
I work in Juárez and go back and forth a lot … sometime daily, sometime weekly, sometimes monthly. Since the Troubles have begun most of my friends tell me not to go: others ask me if I’m not afraid, and yet others tell me about cousins that have disappeared or fathers ransomed. I always reply that I’m not afraid but cautious. I like to know where the trouble is to head the other way.
1) Rick Perry is not very popular in Juarez, either
I fell in love with Mexico in my youth. I travelled all over and was invariably greeted by people with an open open heart. They are generous so you should be generous too. Yes, you had to be careful about transitos, policemen and bureaucrats looking for a little extra … una nada … una mordida … but if you learnt the dance, learnt how to “show respect”, you didn’t have to pay.
Today I was about to enter my office when one of three men dressed in something close to municipal police uniforms lounging out side mad the off-handed comment “Gabacho ó mexicano”. Concerned that I was about to be “levantado” I did not pay him the attention he felt he deserved. They surrounded me and the same one pulled at my clothes and became abusive. At no time did he ask for id or act like a policeman. He expressed concern because I didn’t show him the respect he felt he and his uniform deserved and then launched into a series of diatribes about the “Migra” and how the “Migra” mistreated everyone. Did he ever get out of the wrong side of the bed! Needless to say, he then wanted in to my back pack which he searched and on finding nothing of interest gave it back and then accused me of trying to hit him with the said back pack. At that point I started banging on the office window in the hope that someone inside would look out and see what was going on. No such luck. Everyone was in the back. Then it’s up against the wall, on with the hand cuffs and into the police pick up. Meanwhile I yelled to a couple of people on the street that I have been saying “Hello” to for the last ten years but they made themselves scarce. Who can blame them!
Switched hand cuffs and off to see the judge at Calle Oro and Deiciséis de Septiembre. Down the stairs to the basement. Hats off and stand over there. Then over to an unlit passage with a camera and I was asked my name which while easy in English is difficult in Spanish so it took time but no photo. Then it was “Over there, next to the other Guero”… We chatted – if that is the word – and discovered that we knew people in common.
2) The door on the left in shade is where those in custody enter the cop shop/courthouse on Oro y 16 Sept
I did my best to stay detached. I wish I’d learnt to how to meditate. If it was ever the time, now was the time! Anyhow, it would all work out in the end.
Ten men were called up in a bunch and dealt with. I couldn’t hear what was going except the judge berating them. The “other guero” was called up and the judge didn’t like his story. Well, more than that, he didn’t like his attitude. They were both trying to speak over each other. No facts were established nor … Well nothing was clear. He was sent into the doctors and then disappeared with a glimpse thru another door. Ten or twelve other men and the woman associated with the “Other Guero” were called up. Again I couldn’t hear what was going on other than IDs were being asked for and given or not as the case may be. He said something to the woman and she hurried out the IN-door. The judge began to curse them out with a “chingada aqui and a chingada alla”. They all look appropriately repentant and were sent to stand against wall.
When it was my time before the judge I listen to his monologue; observation of his relationships with other “clients” made it clear he didn’t like to be interrupted. It was his courtroom and that’s that! Once I nodded acceptance of his ground rules, we had a back and forth while I explained what had happened, how the policeman had behaved and how I was quite concerned about being kidnapped. He then lectured me that there were forms to follow, procedures to follow and how I should respect the proper authorities to which I cautiously agreed. We almost parted friends.
He signed something and again it was up against the wall. Then into see the doctor who checked me out as best she could from a distance of roughly ten feet. She asked me my age, a couple of basic health questions and if I had been beaten. No I hadn’t. No bumps. No bruises, not even a heavy hand. And again, over against the wall. Then one of the policemen waved a paper in my face and sort of pointed to the IN – door.
Another policeman opened the door and I hoped up the steps into the light again. May be it was four hours from start to finish. I was lucky. I still had what little money I started the day with. My camera, my … my everything. Yes, I was very lucky!
Then I headed back to the office half-concerned and half anticipating that I would run into the Terrible Three but no such luck. My office mates asked me for names but I never looked at or for the name tags of the Terrible Three and the police in the tank didn’t have name tags and neither did the judge. Neither did I look at or memorize the number of the pick up that took me to the tank. I’ll do better next time. Whoa … I don’t want a next time.
All of this because a cop was rude and, evidently, wanted to stick it to a gabacho! Moral of this story … don’t be a gabacho and if you run across a cop with his head up his ass, don’t let him know you know, because he’s the only one that doesn’t know because he’s up to his eye balls in shit.
If I was lucky, what happened to those that weren’t so lucky?
USA: Dreaming, Cape Cod
We started a trip to the East Coast in fine style, sailing with my brother off his home port near Portsmouth, New Hampshire. The boat, a 30′ Alden Priscilla, is a fine example of why fiberglass never should have been invented.
1) Warm weather at last, on the foredeck of Odyssey
Inevitably I took the helm and relished the feel of the wind on the sails as transmitted through the hull to the tiller.
2) At the helm
With a following wind at 10 knots, what more could I ask for?
The next day we made our way south to Cape Cod, to the town of Harwich. Some years ago we found a delightful (and inexpensive, relatively speaking) place to stay, the other side of the road from Allen Harbor.
3) The front of our motel, the Harbor Breeze Inn, is an old house
We had come to the Cape to visit my mom, who lives in Harwich, but we were prepared. My brother gave us a bottle of exquisite wine, and it held a place of honor on our room’s TV shrine.
4) The shrine and the bottle
Alas, only my wife Diana thought it prudent to drink but that’s ok, I can live vicariously when necessary.
Every day we went to the beach. Twice we went with my mother. The first time we parked ourselves at the yacht club, where we saw across the channel the most god-awful plastic contraption, appropriately named Speculation.
5) Speculatively, I’d say the owner is a banker?
Never mind, we hung out in the shade and watched sailboats come in and out of Wychmere Harbor.
6) I’d say this guy was cheating
We returned to the Yacht Club the next evening to see the full moon.
7) Moonrise over the entrance to Saquatucket Harbor
That night even the mosquitoes were respectful.
We also had a picnic at Fort Hill during a blustery day. We decided to stay in the van to eat.
8) A fresh wind in Eastham
Other days were calm and hot. The beach at Harwich Port mirrored the heat and the sky.
9) Sailboats frolic
Our connection to this place is a strong, physical thing, a continuing presence in our hearts.
Cape Cod endures as we hope that we shall, too.
10) Wandering back roads at sunset
PHOTOS BY KIT AND DIANA HERRING
Peru: Signs of Progress in Camaná
I took a bus one time from Lima to Camaná. I wanted to see the place because, for lack of a better explanation, it was there. Ostensibly the town was a resort during the Peruvian summer, for locals who visited the beach, and I imagined that Western tourists might find the place attractive. Camaná had the additional advantage of being off the tourist routes of Peru.
A friend and I arrived after dark. We had the name of a hotel to spend the night at and we located the establishment without difficulty. Camaná is not very big as these sorts of towns go, and has a population of around fifteen thousand souls. It also serves as a port for the much larger inland city of Arequipa. I should add here that our little expedition took place before the earthquake of 2001 which greatly affected the entire coastal region.
At any rate, we awoke the next morning to an interesting view from our hotel window.
1) The main square
The town was quite modern and bore no trace of its founders, a party led by Manuel de Carbajal, who also founded Arequipa. Especially fascinating was the town’s church.
The church ranked as one of the most peculiar Catholic places of worship I’d seen in the entire country.
Now bemused, we headed for the beach, a few kilometers away. We had come in July, Peruvian winter.
3) The beach
Regrettably the air was cold and dank, the water freezing, and the beach none too inviting. We carried on later that day to Arequipa but I’m still glad we stopped and stayed in Camaná. Every town in Peru has its charms.
Kauai: A Stunning Place to Stay
I never recommend a place to stay at a destination, for all the obvious reasons. This web site doesn’t shill for anyone, and anyway, properties change and what is a good deal one year may not be the next.
But now I will make an exception to the otherwise practical rule. In the island of Kauai, in the town of Waimea, we have found the most wonderful set of cottages. Originally my son, who lived in the area for a year and a half, showed us the place.
1) The beach and Nihau from Waimea Plantation Cottages
Originally part of a sugar plantation, the land drips with history. The people who built the hotel moved cane workers’ cabins from various places and also several management buildings into position to recreate an authentic picture of a Hawaian plantation circa 1900. Many of the trees at the cottages are over a hundred years old.
Rather than describe the property I will let photos do the talking.
2) The main building and front desk from the beach side
3) The manager’s house; yes it’s for rent
4) Banyan tree
5) Our cabin – we’ve stayed here twice
6) An Australian pine borders the pool
7) The beach – given its proximity to the Waimea River, swimming is not advised. Oh, well…
8) Sunset from our lanai
