walk about 2007 Morphs Into Life in Ireland

Back to Ireland, 2012

2012-01-29T08:42:00.000-08:00

Well my bags are packed, or nearly so, and I'm heading back to Ireland, this time to the Viking town of Wexford in the 'sunny southeast.' Al and I spent 2 months in Westford, Co. Mayo, last spring and we love it there -- we have friends, favorite walks, Clew Bay and Crough Patrick; but this time, I'm wanting to be able to pop up to Dublin and I also am looking forward to exploring Kilkenny, Waterford, and the rolling countryside in the south. I'll miss the winds of Westport blowing the town around, but Wexford has opera, birding, the Hook Lighthouse, and eight Story-telling Houses where tall tales, myths, and life stories are shared.

I'm looking forward to waking up each morning and being in Ireland! I have rented a room in a house with 3 other women: a chef, a health care worker, and a laundry assistant. The house is 5 minutes walk from town so I imagine I'll be walking through town, finding my green grocer's and the town library, hearing local traditional Irish music, discovering art galleries, etc. etc. Setting up a new life and seeing what each day brings.

I'll do my best to share my experiences and photos and I hope you enjoy the ride!

Summer Solstice

2008-07-04T10:57:00.000-07:00

Summer Solstice is celebrated in Ireland not on June 21 but June 23, the former longest day of the year. Towns, villages, hamlets and clusters of neighbors honor the pagan day by gathering anything that will burn, building a sky-high pile of refuse, pallets, mattresses, and even a picnic table and setting it on fire.

In my village of Murrisk, the pile was gathered late and hastily on Monday afternoon. But I was told by neighbors as we stood around the fire that in formewr years, people collected stuff for weeks and added on to the pile until it was alarmingly high.

Fron my front door facing Clew Bay, I could see other fires across the Bay and up into the Nephin Mts. And as I walked in to the village other fires were streaming smoke across the evening sky.

It's mostly for the kids and the old ones, although a few teenagers had plopped down on the periphery, backs turned to the adults, talking and screeching to each other as teens will do. The youngest kids all had brought small water bottles to dip into the small creek and spray each other with water. Soon they all were soaked to the skin and with the cold wind blowing off the bay it will be lucky if they all don't come down with pneumonia!

I spotted one of my neighbors and she introduced me to her friends. Soon I was having a chat and meeting more of my neighbors. Murrisk is a tiny close-knit village and people are friendly but make no mistake, it will take some time before I am accepted as the 'blow-in.'

As the sun shifted down behind the leafy elms leaving us chilled in the shadows, I headed uphill to home. The Nehpins across the bay were misted over in rain but for once, all was clear on our side. The sun doesn't really set now in the heart of the summer this far north in Ireland. It is still light at 1 am and then the sun is coming up again at 3:30.

Getting Your Irish Driver's License

2008-06-25T06:19:00.000-07:00

Getting a driver’s license in Ireland is perplexing. Well a lot more than perplexing. It is fucking annoying, maddening, frustrating, idiotic.

You know. Here’s a sample of the test questions:

If the road is slippery, when should you drive your tractor with the left side wheels up on the grass verge in order to improve road holding?

OK, even ignoring the words ‘verge’ and ‘road holding,’ how is one to answer a question like this??

Here’s another one:

On a 2 plus 1 road, there are
a) two motorway lanes and one non-motorway lane in two directions.
b) Two non-motorway lanes and one motorway lane in two directions
c) Two motorway lanes in one direction and one non-motorway lane in the opposite direction
d) Two non-motorway lanes in one direction and one non-motorway lane in the opposite direction.

Email me your guesses and let's see if anyone is even close. All responses will be answered!

All foreign drivers have to pass the Irish drivers test. Except for those countires that have special relationships with Ireland, like the EU countries, the UK, Singapore, Australia, New Zealand. And Brazil. And maybe Costa Rica.

But Americans have to take the theory test, pass it, then sign up for the driving test, wait 5-12 months for an appointment (the licensing agency is SERIOUSLY backlogged but there is still no leeway on completing this marathon), then take a driving test.

I decided to investigate the cost of insurance in the event that I buy a car. Because I don’t have an Irish drivers license, I was told by the insurance agent that I couldn’t insure a car.

As I watched drivers of all nationalities whiz by me in their fine autos, I couldn’t believe that that was the truth. I was entering the Irish Dimension where nothing is as it is, it’s actually something else entirely. Four trips later to the same insurance company, I pried out of them that a) Americans all drive automatics so they don’t know how to drive in Ireland because Irish all have manual drives; b) that Brasilians (BRASILIANS!!!) can drive on their licenses in Ireland I guess because they are cool dancers; and c) if I get an International Driving Permit, I can get insurance until I get an Irish driver’s license.

I looked pretty cool myself as I danced down the street, happy in the thought that if I wanted to buy a car, I could now get insurance. Ah, but how much would this insurance cost me?

Back I go to the agent’s. Well, we all know I don’t have an Irish driver’s license but the agent informs me that once I pass the theory test, I would have a provisional driver’s license. With this, I cannot drive alone (!!!!?) and I must have displayed on my car 2 red-lettered ‘L’s’ designating me a raw beginner; can’t drive alone, can’t drive at night.

I remind the agent about the new-found possibility with my International Driving Permit. “Oh yes,’ she sighs. “Well let me check that out.” She has to call headquarters and they return with an annual payment of 842 euros.

Jeez, that’s what homicidal young 20 year old males have to pay. Evidently I have to start my driving history over from scratch for the Irish authorities to believe that I am actually a good driver. Drat being an American, why couldn’t I have been born Brasilian?

As I am sitting there considering the actual possibility of paying that extraordinary amount, I remember a friend told me about an online insurance broker. I ask my current agent to let me look them up in her telephone book (her look of incredulity was satisfying). After a quick conversation, exchange of particulars, the online folks tell me that I can drive for one year on my International Driving Permit and the annual insurance payment is 284 euros.

What?!?

Just in time. Because I have found a lovely little 1 bedroom cottage out by the sea and at the same time, checked out a very reasonable Hyundai which I will need to cover the distance of 10 km from my new village of Murrisk into Westport. I have moved up from the international boarding house to my own place, just in time for summer. And I am signed up for my driver’s theory test on July 10 with the driving test somewhere off in the misty future. Wish me luck!

Retiring in Ireland

2008-06-25T06:17:00.000-07:00

I arrived back in Westport, Co. Mayo at the end of January 2008, armed with a year long visa granted me by the Immigration police. I contacted them after having an encouraging conversation with another American who was retired and aiming towards residency.

‘Aiming’ is the operative word here, since it takes five years of reapplying for one-year visas to be eligible for residency. Once you have been granted residency, you can then apply for naturalized citizenship and all the benefits that might imply.

My American friend Joe advised me to have tax returns, bank statements, and health insurance card available for perusal. But the police official only glanced at the insuarance card, asked if my kids were joining me (“no”), told me to pay 100 euros to an official bank account, and present the receipt to him when he returned in a few days. Once I had paid, he brought me down to the Gardai Station (police), took my photo, stamped my passport, and issued me a residency card, that isn’t REALLY a residency card. But it does allow me to live in Ireland for one year and offers the possibility of extending the visa every year until I do have residency.

The stamp in my passport is a bit problematic since it says I am not allowed to work or set up a business. Since my pension is not overly generous and Ireland is now the most expensive place to live in Europe (everyone says this, even the Brits, which I do not understand since anyone can see that the UK is hellaceously expensive. I mean it costs L1.40 for a cuppa tea for God’s sakes, that’s $2.40!! although now the pound has slipped against the Almighty Euro so the pound IS cheaper to Europeans), work will be desirous if I want to do anything beyond the very basics.

I spent the winter as a roommate, one of three living in a 4 bdrm row house in the center of Westport. The house was drafty and cold, with only a small peat fireplace and a wall-storage heater in the living room. The rest of the house was frigid. The bathroom had a electric water heating system which you flipped on just before turning on the water. Saved money on electricity, worked great, but was a little cold once you had to turn the hot water off. Not to mention sitting on that cold toilet seat for your first pee!! YIKES!

To keep track of my expenses, I wrote down every cent I forked over in a small book. In this way, I could see where I needed to watch myself and when I could splurge. I would recommend this activity for anyone wanting to know exactly where the money is leaking out. I set aside one day a week to spend nothing and sometimes I managed two days with no money being spent. I learned to pare down and adjust to life in Ireland. Not all families lived like this, many have central heating, and unlimited hot water. But I didn’t mind giving up some of the unnecessities of life for the greater goodness of living in Ireland. Life is simple and slower, food tastes better, walking is part of life and not part of my exercise program. People are friendly, most have a ready smile and a laugh, the hills off in the distance are dappled with sunshine and a passing shower, and there is a softness in the air that feels grand on my skin.

It may not be paradise, but it does a good imitation.

Rip Out Your Lawn -- The Revolutionary Act of Gardening

2008-04-28T21:01:00.000-07:00

No more idle talk about the impact of higher fuel prices on the cost of food, people are starting to panic a bit. I will continue to try to garden for the pleasure of growing my own food, not neccessarily saving my life. Because I feel that there is a system -- global capitalism? -- in place that is now fueling the food shortages -- those speculators buying commoditiy futures. We don't have a prayer of a chance with folks making money off a food crisis. But stay calm, eat less, and do what you can. Michael Pollan's article is sweet -- addressed to urbanites just starting to see that the world does not revolve around them and their lattes . . . SC

By Michael Pollan The New York Times, April 20, 2008 Straight to the Source

Why bother? That really is the big question facing us as individuals hoping to do something about climate change, and it's not an easy one to answer. I don't know about you, but for me the most upsetting moment in "An Inconvenient Truth" came long after Al Gore scared the hell out of me, constructing an utterly convincing case that the very survival of life on earth as we know it is threatened by climate change. No, the really dark moment came during the closing credits, when we are asked to . . . change our light bulbs. That's when it got really depressing. The immense disproportion between the magnitude of the problem Gore had described and the puniness of what he was asking us to do about it was enough to sink your heart.

But the drop-in-the-bucket issue is not the only problem lurking behind the "why bother" question. Let's say I do bother, big time. I turn my life upside-down, start biking to work, plant a big garden, turn down the thermostat so low I need the Jimmy Carter signature cardigan, forsake the clothes dryer for a laundry line across the yard, trade in the station wagon for a hybrid, get off the beef, go completely local. I could theoretically do all that, but what would be the point when I know full well that halfway around the world there lives my evil twin, some carbon-footprint doppelgänger in Shanghai or Chongqing who has just bought his first car (Chinese car ownership is where ours was back in 1918), is eager to swallow every bite of meat I forswear and who's positively itching to replace every last pound of CO2 I'm struggling no longer to emit. So what exactly would I have to show for all my trouble?

A sense of personal virtue, you might suggest, somewhat sheepishly. But what good is that when virtue itself is quickly becoming a term of derision? And not just on the editorial pages of The Wall Street Journal or on the lips of the vice president, who famously dismissed energy conservation as a "sign of personal virtue." No, even in the pages of The New York Times and The New Yorker, it seems the epithet "virtuous," when applied to an act of personal environmental responsibility, may be used only ironically. Tell me: How did it come to pass that virtue — a quality that for most of history has generally been deemed, well, a virtue — became a mark of liberal softheadedness? How peculiar, that doing the right thing by the environment — buying the hybrid, eating like a locavore — should now set you up for the Ed Begley Jr. treatment.

And even if in the face of this derision I decide I am going to bother, there arises the whole vexed question of getting it right. Is eating local or walking to work really going to reduce my carbon footprint? According to one analysis, if walking to work increases your appetite and you consume more meat or milk as a result, walking might actually emit more carbon than driving. A handful of studies have recently suggested that in certain cases under certain conditions, produce from places as far away as New Zealand might account for less carbon than comparable domestic products. True, at least one of these studies was co-written by a representative of agribusiness interests in (surprise!) New Zealand, but even so, they make you wonder. If determining the carbon footprint of food is really this complicated, and I've got to consider not only "food miles" but also whether the food came by ship or truck and how lushly the grass grows in New Zealand, then maybe on second thought I'll just buy the imported chops at Costco, at least until the experts get their footprints sorted out.

There are so many stories we can tell ourselves to justify doing nothing, but perhaps the most insidious is that, whatever we do manage to do, it will be too little too late. Climate change is upon us, and it has arrived well ahead of schedule. Scientists' projections that seemed dire a decade ago turn out to have been unduly optimistic: the warming and the melting is occurring much faster than the models predicted. Now truly terrifying feedback loops threaten to boost the rate of change exponentially, as the shift from white ice to blue water in the Arctic absorbs more sunlight and warming soils everywhere become more biologically active, causing them to release their vast stores of carbon into the air. Have you looked into the eyes of a climate scientist recently? They look really scared.

So do you still want to talk about planting gardens?

I do.

Whatever we can do as individuals to change the way we live at this suddenly very late date does seem utterly inadequate to the challenge. It's hard to argue with Michael Specter, in a recent New Yorker piece on carbon footprints, when he says: "Personal choices, no matter how virtuous [N.B.!], cannot do enough. It will also take laws and money." So it will. Yet it is no less accurate or hardheaded to say that laws and money cannot do enough, either; that it will also take profound changes in the way we live. Why? Because the climate-change crisis is at its very bottom a crisis of lifestyle — of character, even. The Big Problem is nothing more or less than the sum total of countless little everyday choices, most of them made by us (consumer spending represents 70 percent of our economy), and most of the rest of them made in the name of our needs and desires and preferences.

For us to wait for legislation or technology to solve the problem of how we're living our lives suggests we're not really serious about changing — something our politicians cannot fail to notice. They will not move until we do. Indeed, to look to leaders and experts, to laws and money and grand schemes, to save us from our predicament represents precisely the sort of thinking — passive, delegated, dependent for solutions on specialists — that helped get us into this mess in the first place. It's hard to believe that the same sort of thinking could now get us out of it.
Thirty years ago, Wendell Berry, the Kentucky farmer and writer, put forward a blunt analysis of precisely this mentality. He argued that the environmental crisis of the 1970s — an era innocent of climate change; what we would give to have back that environmental crisis! — was at its heart a crisis of character and would have to be addressed first at that level: at home, as it were. He was impatient with people who wrote checks to environmental organizations while thoughtlessly squandering fossil fuel in their everyday lives — the 1970s equivalent of people buying carbon offsets to atone for their Tahoes and Durangos. Nothing was likely to change until we healed the "split between what we think and what we do." For Berry, the "why bother" question came down to a moral imperative: "Once our personal connection to what is wrong becomes clear, then we have to choose: we can go on as before, recognizing our dishonesty and living with it the best we can, or we can begin the effort to change the way we think and live."

For Berry, the deep problem standing behind all the other problems of industrial civilization is "specialization," which he regards as the "disease of the modern character." Our society assigns us a tiny number of roles: we're producers (of one thing) at work, consumers of a great many other things the rest of the time, and then once a year or so we vote as citizens. Virtually all of our needs and desires we delegate to specialists of one kind or another — our meals to agribusiness, health to the doctor, education to the teacher, entertainment to the media, care for the environment to the environmentalist, political action to the politician.

As Adam Smith and many others have pointed out, this division of labor has given us many of the blessings of civilization. Specialization is what allows me to sit at a computer thinking about climate change. Yet this same division of labor obscures the lines of connection — and responsibility — linking our everyday acts to their real-world consequences, making it easy for me to overlook the coal-fired power plant that is lighting my screen, or the mountaintop in Kentucky that had to be destroyed to provide the coal to that plant, or the streams running crimson with heavy metals as a result.

Of course, what made this sort of specialization possible in the first place was cheap energy. Cheap fossil fuel allows us to pay distant others to process our food for us, to entertain us and to (try to) solve our problems, with the result that there is very little we know how to accomplish for ourselves. Think for a moment of all the things you suddenly need to do for yourself when the power goes out — up to and including entertaining yourself. Think, too, about how a power failure causes your neighbors — your community — to suddenly loom so much larger in your life. Cheap energy allowed us to leapfrog community by making it possible to sell our specialty over great distances as well as summon into our lives the specialties of countless distant others.
Here's the point: Cheap energy, which gives us climate change, fosters precisely the mentality that makes dealing with climate change in our own lives seem impossibly difficult. Specialists ourselves, we can no longer imagine anyone but an expert, or anything but a new technology or law, solving our problems. Al Gore asks us to change the light bulbs because he probably can't imagine us doing anything much more challenging, like, say, growing some portion of our own food. We can't imagine it, either, which is probably why we prefer to cross our fingers and talk about the promise of ethanol and nuclear power — new liquids and electrons to power the same old cars and houses and lives.

The "cheap-energy mind," as Wendell Berry called it, is the mind that asks, "Why bother?" because it is helpless to imagine — much less attempt — a different sort of life, one less divided, less reliant. Since the cheap-energy mind translates everything into money, its proxy, it prefers to put its faith in market-based solutions — carbon taxes and pollution-trading schemes. If we could just get the incentives right, it believes, the economy will properly value everything that matters and nudge our self-interest down the proper channels. The best we can hope for is a greener version of the old invisible hand. Visible hands it has no use for.

But while some such grand scheme may well be necessary, it's doubtful that it will be sufficient or that it will be politically sustainable before we've demonstrated to ourselves that change is possible. Merely to give, to spend, even to vote, is not to do, and there is so much that needs to be done — without further delay. In the judgment of James Hansen, the NASA climate scientist who began sounding the alarm on global warming 20 years ago, we have only 10 years left to start cutting — not just slowing — the amount of carbon we're emitting or face a "different planet." Hansen said this more than two years ago, however; two years have gone by, and nothing of consequence has been done. So: eight years left to go and a great deal left to do.
Which brings us back to the "why bother" question and how we might better answer it. The reasons not to bother are many and compelling, at least to the cheap-energy mind. But let me offer a few admittedly tentative reasons that we might put on the other side of the scale:
If you do bother, you will set an example for other people. If enough other people bother, each one influencing yet another in a chain reaction of behavioral change, markets for all manner of green products and alternative technologies will prosper and expand. (Just look at the market for hybrid cars.) Consciousness will be raised, perhaps even changed: new moral imperatives and new taboos might take root in the culture. Driving an S.U.V. or eating a 24-ounce steak or illuminating your McMansion like an airport runway at night might come to be regarded as outrages to human conscience. Not having things might become cooler than having them. And those who did change the way they live would acquire the moral standing to demand changes in behavior from others — from other people, other corporations, even other countries.
All of this could, theoretically, happen. What I'm describing (imagining would probably be more accurate) is a process of viral social change, and change of this kind, which is nonlinear, is never something anyone can plan or predict or count on. Who knows, maybe the virus will reach all the way to Chongqing and infect my Chinese evil twin. Or not. Maybe going green will prove a passing fad and will lose steam after a few years, just as it did in the 1980s, when Ronald Reagan took down Jimmy Carter's solar panels from the roof of the White House.

Going personally green is a bet, nothing more or less, though it's one we probably all should make, even if the odds of it paying off aren't great. Sometimes you have to act as if acting will make a difference, even when you can't prove that it will. That, after all, was precisely what happened in Communist Czechoslovakia and Poland, when a handful of individuals like Vaclav Havel and Adam Michnik resolved that they would simply conduct their lives "as if" they lived in a free society. That improbable bet created a tiny space of liberty that, in time, expanded to take in, and then help take down, the whole of the Eastern bloc.

So what would be a comparable bet that the individual might make in the case of the environmental crisis? Havel himself has suggested that people begin to "conduct themselves as if they were to live on this earth forever and be answerable for its condition one day." Fair enough, but let me propose a slightly less abstract and daunting wager. The idea is to find one thing to do in your life that doesn't involve spending or voting, that may or may not virally rock the world but is real and particular (as well as symbolic) and that, come what may, will offer its own rewards. Maybe you decide to give up meat, an act that would reduce your carbon footprint by as much as a quarter. Or you could try this: determine to observe the Sabbath. For one day a week, abstain completely from economic activity: no shopping, no driving, no electronics.
But the act I want to talk about is growing some — even just a little — of your own food. Rip out your lawn, if you have one, and if you don't — if you live in a high-rise, or have a yard shrouded in shade — look into getting a plot in a community garden. Measured against the Problem We Face, planting a garden sounds pretty benign, I know, but in fact it's one of the most powerful things an individual can do — to reduce your carbon footprint, sure, but more important, to reduce your sense of dependence and dividedness: to change the cheap-energy mind.
A great many things happen when you plant a vegetable garden, some of them directly related to climate change, others indirect but related nevertheless. Growing food, we forget, comprises the original solar technology: calories produced by means of photosynthesis. Years ago the cheap-energy mind discovered that more food could be produced with less effort by replacing sunlight with fossil-fuel fertilizers and pesticides, with a result that the typical calorie of food energy in your diet now requires about 10 calories of fossil-fuel energy to produce. It's estimated that the way we feed ourselves (or rather, allow ourselves to be fed) accounts for about a fifth of the greenhouse gas for which each of us is responsible.

Yet the sun still shines down on your yard, and photosynthesis still works so abundantly that in a thoughtfully organized vegetable garden (one planted from seed, nourished by compost from the kitchen and involving not too many drives to the garden center), you can grow the proverbial free lunch — CO2-free and dollar-free. This is the most-local food you can possibly eat (not to mention the freshest, tastiest and most nutritious), with a carbon footprint so faint that even the New Zealand lamb council dares not challenge it. And while we're counting carbon, consider too your compost pile, which shrinks the heap of garbage your household needs trucked away even as it feeds your vegetables and sequesters carbon in your soil. What else? Well, you will probably notice that you're getting a pretty good workout there in your garden, burning calories without having to get into the car to drive to the gym. (It is one of the absurdities of the modern division of labor that, having replaced physical labor with fossil fuel, we now have to burn even more fossil fuel to keep our unemployed bodies in shape.) Also, by engaging both body and mind, time spent in the garden is time (and energy) subtracted from electronic forms of entertainment.
You begin to see that growing even a little of your own food is, as Wendell Berry pointed out 30 years ago, one of those solutions that, instead of begetting a new set of problems — the way "solutions" like ethanol or nuclear power inevitably do — actually beget other solutions, and not only of the kind that save carbon. Still more valuable are the habits of mind that growing a little of your own food can yield. You quickly learn that you need not be dependent on specialists to provide for yourself — that your body is still good for something and may actually be enlisted in its own support. If the experts are right, if both oil and time are running out, these are skills and habits of mind we're all very soon going to need. We may also need the food. Could gardens provide it? Well, during World War II, victory gardens supplied as much as 40 percent of the produce Americans ate.

But there are sweeter reasons to plant that garden, to bother. At least in this one corner of your yard and life, you will have begun to heal the split between what you think and what you do, to commingle your identities as consumer and producer and citizen. Chances are, your garden will re-engage you with your neighbors, for you will have produce to give away and the need to borrow their tools. You will have reduced the power of the cheap-energy mind by personally overcoming its most debilitating weakness: its helplessness and the fact that it can't do much of anything that doesn't involve division or subtraction. The garden's season-long transit from seed to ripe fruit — will you get a load of that zucchini?! — suggests that the operations of addition and multiplication still obtain, that the abundance of nature is not exhausted. The single greatest lesson the garden teaches is that our relationship to the planet need not be zero-sum, and that as long as the sun still shines and people still can plan and plant, think and do, we can, if we bother to try, find ways to provide for ourselves without diminishing the world.

Michael Pollan, a contributing writer for the magazine, is the author, most recently, of "In Defense of Food: An Eater's Manifesto."

Where Have All the Manhole Covers Gone?

2008-03-29T05:10:00.000-07:00

It's a world gone MAD!!

By Daniel K. Gardner
Published: March 28, 2008

This from the Daily Herald in suburban Chicago on on Jan. 12: "On Dec. 22, police pulled over a 33-year-old Lake in the Hills woman after she failed to use a turn signal. The authorities say they found 11 manhole covers in her car, eventually leading to charges against her."

And from The Guardian in England in October 2004: "London has joined the select band of world cities cursed by the mysterious phenomenon of manhole cover theft. The target has been Newham, east London, where in recent weeks nearly 200 grates and covers have been stolen. The thieves made off with 93 covers in one week."

Since 2004, dozens of cities on every continent - including Cardiff, Montreal, Milwaukee, Daegu, Chandigarh and Johannesburg - have experienced waves of manhole cover theft.

Calcutta's daily Telegraph has estimated that at least 20,000 of the city's manhole covers are stolen every year. The Beijing Times claims that Beijing lost 24,000 covers, valued at over $5 million, to theft in 2004 alone, and the China Daily has reported that on average, 12 are pilfered everyday in Shanghai. In Greenville, South Carolina, population 56,000, the Public Works Department says as many as 40 manhole covers have disappeared since November.
Even if you're like me, you're not normally given to thinking about manhole covers, you still may be asking why a 33-year-old woman would be driving around a Chicago suburb with 11 of them in her car. What motives did she, and all the other manhole-cover thieves around the world, have for making off with cast-iron discs weighing in excess of 50 pounds?

This: In 2001, scrap metal sold for $77 a ton; at the end of 2004, it was $300 per ton, and today it's approaching $480. Behind the rise, say the analysts, is China's voracious demand for steel.
The construction market in China has been booming since the dawn of the new millennium, fueled by explosive growth in the industrial economy.

Steel companies in China have been racing to keep up with the demand, but iron ore production in China is limited, pressuring steel companies to sign long-term supply contracts with foreign mining companies. These contracts run into the billions of dollars.

Melting down existing metal is cheaper and more efficient than processing iron ore. Representatives of Chinese steel companies consequently have fanned out across the globe in search of scrap metal.

scrap dealers, from San Diego to London to Kuala Lumpur, tell of Chinese knocking at their doors every five minutes, offering premium prices for any scrap metal they might have. The dealers, in turn, have been aggressively expanding their networks of suppliers - often small mom-and-pop salvage yards - promising them ever higher prices for their scrap. Mom and pop, finally, are happily paying $5 to $6 for each 50-pound cover, while the city of Elgin, Illinois, for one, is left with a dangerous hole in the street and a $150 bill for a new cover.

The epidemic is spreading beyond manhole covers. The beer industry estimates that it is losing some $50 million in pilfered stainless steel kegs every year. Some July 4 and Super Bowl celebrators have discovered that taking the empty keg to a scrap dealer fetches far more than the $10-$30 deposit they put on it, so they forego the deposit. That may be financially sound, but it is illegal, as is stealing empty kegs from alleyways and storage areas of restaurants, bars, and beer distributors.

Enterprising individuals in Ukraine recently stole a historic 1924 steam locomotive, the first ever to be built in Ukraine, from an open air museum and sold it as salvage to a scrap dealer.
In 2006, a sting operation in Vancouver recovered an intact phone booth. One obvious moral here is that unscrupulous dealers are enablers. Those who trade in manhole covers marked "Property of the City of Milwaukee," or beer kegs stamped with "Anheuser-Busch," or telephone booths carrying the Telus logo, probably have a pretty good idea that these didn't come from a musty attic.

Deterring the theft of manhole covers could take a range of forms. In Vancouver, officials ordered stricter enforcement of laws prohibiting scrap dealers from trading in manhole covers and other obviously stolen scrap. Milwaukee considered installing locking devices on its manhole covers, but decided it was too expensive.

Finally, cities could replace their iron covers, so tempting to criminals, with covers made of non-metal polymer materials with no recycling value, such as glass fiber, resin, quartz or corundum. Beijing has been experimenting with composite covers since early 2005.

Those cities around the world hit hard by the epidemic should have no difficulty obtaining these theft-deterrent covers. Factories all over China - some probably built out of recycled manhole covers - are standing ready to take their orders.

Daniel K. Gardner is a professor of history at Smith College.

Another Take on the Hillary-Bill Political Machine

2008-03-14T03:43:00.000-07:00

By hook or by crook, it's the Clinton way
Senator Hillary Clinton holds a baby during a campaign event in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, this week

By Johann Hari in Washington

Thursday March 13 2008

Haven't we seen this movie before? Barack Obama has just proved his chasm-wide appeal again by conquering another Republican-red state -- Mississippi -- yet the battle for the Democratic nomination is set to stretch out on to the far horizon.

As the comedian Bill Maher says, in a reference to John McCain's age, "It's a bad sign when the Democratic campaign is set to last longer than the Republican nominee." But the looming ending to this story feels flatly familiar -- like a slo-mo remake of Florida in the year 2000.

It is clear the Clintons are determined to get this nomination, any way, any how. If they have to do it by falsely claiming to have won states like Florida and Michigan -- where Obama's name wasn't even on the ballot, because there was an agreement by all the candidates to punish the states for holding early primaries -- then they will.

If they have to do it by overturning the will of the Democratic electorate by appealing to the unelected super-delegates -- a group of party functionaries who seem likely to hold the balance -- then they will. If they have to do it by pandering to racist sentiments n dismissing Obama as akin to the black firebrand Jesse Jackson, or by leaking images of Obama in African tribal dress -- then they will do it. Some American liberals have been suddenly, violently disillusioned by the Clintons' tactics over the past few months. But in reality, for people who could see beyond political tribalism, the nature of the Clintons has been plain for a long time.

The idea that Clinton was "the first black President" was always implicitly racist: so screwing around, riffing well in speeches and liking fried chicken makes you black now? In fact, Bill Clinton was prepared to lash black people whenever it was politically convenient, with the quiescence of Hillary. Just after receiving the Democratic nomination for president, Governor Clinton returned to Arkansas to authorise the execution of a black man, Ricky Ray Rector, who was so profoundly mentally disabled that he told the guards to keep his last meal so he could have it tomorrow.

Attacking blacks when an election neared became a habit: in 1996, Clinton signed a package of welfare reform that effectively abolished benefits for poor women after a two-year time-limit. They are disproportionately black -- and as a recession hits now, they will suffer severely.
Of course you have to make compromises to achieve power. But at some point, on some issues, you have to say: no, I can't. I can't execute this mentally disabled black guy. I can't plunge millions of kids into poverty. I can't still insist I was right to back the war in Iraq, when it has killed more than 650,000 Iraqis. The Clintons don't have that gagging reflex.

Instead, they chose to turn themselves into weathervanes, pointing whichever way the winds of mega-power blow. Why did it take us so long to see them for what they are? Partly, it is because the Clintons were blessed with a parade of even greater grotesques as enemies. The right couldn't attack the Clintons on their genuinely scandalous behaviour, because they supported it all: the executions, the abolition of benefits, the crackdowns.

So they contrived nonsense scandals, like Whitewater and Monicagate. Today, many of them are serving up stale sexism against Hillary: right-wing host Tucker Carlson has announced, "There's something about her that feels castrating, overbearing and scary." Think about the symbolism for the watching world if the Clintons manage to snatch this nomination. The people in a majority of states in America will have shown they are ready to embrace a black man as president -- only for some white guys in suits to hand it to the wife of the ex-president.

Their arguments in their own defence will seem feeble. The idea that Hillary is more "experienced" seems to me both anti-feminist and untrue. How does being married to a man make you "experienced" in his job? As the stand-up comedian Chris Rock said in a recent gig, "I don't get it. I've been married for 10 years -- but if my wife came out here on stage now, you wouldn't laugh."

There is evidence that President Obama would be more susceptible to pressure from progressives than Hillary. If the Clintons prevail, there will be a worse effect still: the US will be much more likely to have another Republican president. Most major polls show Obama is more likely to beat John McCain. The Republicans are desperate for a Hillary candidacy, knowing it is the one thing that can unite their base behind McCain. The far-right radio hosts, Rush Limbaugh and Laura Ingraham, have begged their listeners to go out and vote for her in the Democratic primaries.

Hillary would be unable to make an election issue out of McCain's greatest weakness -- his support for the invasion of Iraq -- because she made the same dumb mistake. She would have to fall back on reinforcing right-wing ideas by bragging about her "toughness". The enthusiasm Obama has stirred among first-time voters would leech away.

With their latest lunge at power, the Clintons have shown us how they should be remembered when the end credits roll -- as a greasy stain on the bright blue dress of the Democratic Party.

(© The Independent, London)
- Johann Hari in Washington

Poets, Scholars, Storytellers

2008-03-11T04:16:00.000-07:00

Ireland's literary history is well-known and, as a rabid reader of all things, I am in heaven, even with just the small Westport library to browse in. There are several bookstores and many reading clubs. The one I have joined meets in the rare and used bookshop in town and our selection for March discussion was 'In Cold Blood.' What an interesting choice! For me, an American, I remember this book being controversial because of the sympathetic treament by the author towards at least one of the murderers and also the fact that it was one of the first efforts to understand 'senseless' murders and their perpetrators. The advent of nurture or nature in regards to criminals.

When I mentioned that in the U.S. murders like this are so commonplace that they might not even be reported anymore, my Irish co-members told me that while gangland execution-style murders are becoming more common in Ireland, and domestic abuse has always been part of the crime scene, senseless murders are extremely rare. In fact, they were hard put to think of any more recent than one they all remembered from the 1980's. So we spent some time discussing the boys who did the cold-blooded murder of the family back in the 1960's and how these young men were mistreated enough that perhaps they were not completely responsible for what they did, that they must have been insane because what normal person would do a thing like that, execute a whole family for $40?

All in all, a wonderfully literate evening with honest scrutiny of the writing, premise, style, and conclusion of a timeless piece of literature.

I am in the process of reading 'The Ireland Anthology' edited by Sean Dunne which covers Irish literature from the earliest times to modern days, including history, religion, and fiction. There I found a poem by Desmond O'Grady that struck me, especially in regards to the past year of searching for the place I might call home:

Tipperary

It's a long way to Tipperary
it's a long way to go -- and various.
It's a torture of twists, about-turns,
disillusions, disappointments.
The way to Tipperary appears
perennially dark with only
occasional twilights.

If you decide to go to Tipperary
set out while you're young, plucky;
at that age when you're bright-eyed with visions
of radiant horizons of revelation and achievement
and you know nothing of twilights or the dark;
that age when all creation, all life shines clear
as spring sunlight, bright as light-catching gold.

When you set out you must go alone.
There are no maps of the way to Tipperary.
Your only conmpass is your own heart. Trust that!

Some see their Tipperary clearly from the start;
see it's a long road, full of daily pitfalls;
a labyrinth of curious sidestreets, inviting
guesthouses; giddy with the temptations
of those bogey people's trinket stalls'
hokeypokey -- daily thieves of eternal energy --
easy come, easy go, you've sold your soul,
you've no more choice. They sell bedlam!

On the way to Tipperary keep your eye open
for signals of direction, encouragement;
that nod of understanding, comradeship,
a cherishing arm on your pillow. You'll see
beautiful sights on the way to Tipperary:
man's mirage tales, imagination's monuments.
You'll behold the endless vistas, panorams
of vision. Be curious about them all
for the gracious gifts they will afford you.
Without them you'd live that much the poorer.

It's a long way to Tipperary
and when you get there
nothing awaits you. You'll find no roadsign,
no brassband and welcoming committee
with a banner proclaiming you're in Tipperary
and a medallion to hang around your neck.
You'll find only what you brought with you
in your heart.

Then, what you must do
is make and leave some record
of what your Tipperary means to you --
as witness for all those behind you
on their way to their own Tipperaries.

It's a long way to Tipperay
but all our hearts lie there.

The News for This Week, the First Week of March

2008-03-07T03:42:00.000-08:00

Each week is a little different. As I get a bit more settled, meet people, find my way around, life feels less strange, more familiar. This week I have been in Westport for 5 weeks. Soon I will stop counting and just BE here.

Last week I drove for the first time, something I was irrationally terrified at the prospect. Well maybe not so irrationally; having been carted around a bit on the back roads, I just don't look anymore. The margin of error on not slamming into a tree or stone wall must have given rise to the measurement of the 'nano.'

But driving myself from Castlebar where I picked up the Ford Fiesta rental car (a piece of US crap if there ever was one) to Dublin was daunting. Not the least because I STILL don't get driving on the right. I continue to look in the wrong direction and so spend long minutes studying the road before venturing across. I must look like a right idjit!

But I did ok, especially on the satanic roundabouts where everything in you is screaming that everyone is going the wrong way and we will all DIE!! I did ok. I chanted the mantra 'driver is always on the middle line in the road, middle line in the road' and that really helped. I only found myself on the wrong side of the road once and that was solely beacuse there were no lines on the country lane and no one else on the road for me to gauge my position against.

I took the big highways from Castlebar to Swinford, Charlestown and on toward Sligo where I stopped at Strandhill on the Atlantic to see the incredible waves the last evening's storm had brought in and indulged in a seaweed bath at Celtic bathhouse. Very relaxing although soaking in a tub of tendrilly seaweed seemed strange, slimy, sea-smelling and yet very relaxing. And supposed to be moisturizing as well but I can't say that I noticed that improvement.

I also drove up the side of a mountain in pursuit of the Carrowmore Megalithic Tombs, 5 passage tombs from pre-Christian times. I drove along the ledge of a skimpy track which was barely hacked into the side of the mountain, no guard rails, edging astonished sheep out of the way with the front of my funky Ford, and then got stuck. No place to turn around unless you consider 1000 feet down a way out. So I rocked the car a little, found traction, and continued on, through potholes the size of ponds, and a track that looked more like a riverbed.

I love doing these things, looking for remote artefacts in isolated places but why do I always have to do it ALONE!?? I considered the real possibility that there was no place to turn around, the weather was changing into something like a storm, and where the fuck was I?? Thankfully, responding to my prayers, a flat place opened up marked with a sign for the Tombs several km further off, down the side of the mountain. I got out of the Ford and made my way down mountain a bit but saw nothing resembling a tomb unless it was my own so returned to the Ford which I was now praising to the high heavens, clumsily turned in a 12-point turn, and weak-kneed, made my way down the river bed, through the ponds, past the still astonished sheep, stopped to open the cattle gate, stopped to close the cattle gate, and then as I hit tarmac, breathed a sigh of relief. Back in civilization once again.

I made a promise to myself -- no more remote wanderings solo, I will have to explore with others from now on. Not that I was ever in any real danger, but the view which I was rewarded with at the top of the mountain proved to me that I was in true Irish wilderness, remote and beautiful but not even within cell phone coverage if I should need a tow out.

Small Town Life, & Death

2008-02-21T03:39:00.000-08:00

This weekend was darkened by two deaths in Westport. Friday evening a carload of young teenaged boys were in a terrible accident, slamming into a wall out on the Castlebar Rd going out of the town. Two of the boys escaped with minor cuts and contusions, but their 19 year old friend was killed. I heard about this tragedy as I walked from my house on the hill down into town and saw road workers detouring traffic, causing a huge slow-down just as folks were coming into town to do their weekly shopping. I stopped to chat and they gave me the news and we talked about how many young men were driving themselves to death, driving too fast on the West Ireland lanes, and despite strict laws and big fines for doing so, drinking and driving.

From my house into town is a five minute walk and on the weekend evenings, I will pass several packs of young people congregating on the corners, or along the Mall, a walkway on either side of the Carrowbeg River, and in the car parks. There's a youth cafe and many do go there but it isn't as exciting as seeing what kind of trouble you can get into in the streets. Drinking is legal at age 18 but I don't think that's the big problem. As my Irish friends have told me, The Pub and too much socializing is still a way of life, and for some a way of death. That poor family of this young man buried him by Sunday.

But nothing prepared the town for the next sad event -- a young 15 year old boy hung himself in the school yard where he was found Sunday evening. Everyone could remember seeing him on his bike on Sunday afternoon but by Sunday evening he was dead.

Was it an accident? Did he understand the permanence of this foolish sad move? And his poor parents, to lose their precious son, albeit maybe geeky, lost, unpopular, dark, struggling with all the issues young teenagers muddle through. As one woman told me, if he could have only waited 2 more years, his life would have seemed better, he would see that there is life after school, things even out among kids by 16, boys fill out, get more confident.

I stood watch as the funeral made its way up the main street, hundreds of people in tow, slowly following the hearse, many of them his 'mates' in their shcool uniforms, huddled against one another in the frigid wintry air.

There just is nothing sadder in the world than the too soon death of a young person.

Westport: Settling In

2008-02-15T03:37:00.000-08:00

I arrived in Shannon and was familiar with the drill -- get through passport control, Nothing To Declare, push through the doors and there ye be, in Shannon airport. Fetch a great but pricey cup of coffee, relax in the comfy sofas, go to the toilet because there are no bathrooms on the busses here, then catch the 8:55 am bus to Galway, kill an hour or so there, then hop on the noon bus to Westport. The talk radio is omni-present on all Irish busses and God only knows how the driver doesn't rear-end the fella up ahead because mostly he is laughing his head off from all the nonsense the commentators are spouting.

Once again I stayed in the Old Mill Holiday Hostel, in the all-female dorm which in the deep of winter was brutally cold. There was a heater but w/o much in the way of traffic I think it had not been turned on. I slept in all my clothes and was STILL cold. The bathroom was the same -- the icy seat woke you up when you have to piddle in the middle of the night.

Lukas, a Polish guy living and working at the hostel, gave me some numbers for rooms for rent, also tips on finding more ads at the Super Valu market up the street. The first call led me to Michael O'Hallaran, a 29 yr old musician and Tesco market employee, who rents out rooms in the house he is mortgaged to the hilt for. The house was great, located only 3 blocks from the center of town, my room is on the third floor with one big window and a skylight. The price was excellent -- 60 € a week, 240 € a month. We have access to a washer and a dryer, a great kitchen, cable TV, and a fireplace plus a wall heater in the living room. By Sat. I was unpacking in my new home! My other roommate is Tommy, a Korean engineer who now owns an internet cafe in Westport.

Weather in Ireland is a big topic -- no matter what it is doing outside, everyone has something to say about it. The first weekend it snowed, but combined with gale force winds it was like a hurricane with snow! Very dramatic and lovely to be in a house with a fire, gazing from the comfort of an easy chair I have claimed as mine. Since then, we have had warm spring weather, gloomy winter weather, gales w/o rain, gales w/ rain, sunny but frigid, and today, gloomy but frigid. In short, winter in Ireland.

Pub life is still the center of society here. I limit myself to one drink and then wander from bar to bar in search of good music. Matt Malloy's, owned by The Chieftain's flutist Matt Malloy, has music every night. Young musicians just starting out may start the evening at 9 pm, playing alongside local singer Mick who knows hundreds of Irish folk songs, rebel songs, and ballads. Then around 10 pm, the Real Musicians show up 2-8 of them and they start playing in the small back bar with the coal fireplace. Porter's Pub next door has good music as well and there are other places in town that will offer traditional music on different evenings. There is also rock, sometimes hiphop and this weekend there is a Brasilian samba band playing at Shibeen's down on the Harbor.

As for how I fill up my days, I go walking most days. There is a branch of the Western Way pilgrimmage route nearby that takes me down a farm lane, past sheep and horses and meadows, then over hills toward the sea. I hope to travel it extensively up the coast but so far in my attempts, I have only gotten drenched to the skin. Another walk takes me to the old railway line, now a greenbelt, through a lovely river valley, then out to the coast, along the harbor and back into town. Last week I walked down hill towards the sailing club, through forests and past the old Westport Country House, an old expansive estate. I spotted two mating storks and could hear a woodpecker searching for food. But traffic on the narrow lane became brisk and I feared for my safety when the young male drivers raced by, so after 45 minutes, I turned back. Off-track walking is the best because you can relax and just enjoy the surroundings.

I am planning on getting a car one of these days but drivers here are among the most unsafe I have ever encountered. The combination of young people driving on narrow lanes edged with hedgerows adds up to many traffic fatalities. Mix in an active pub life and it is incredibly dangerous out there. Pedestrians are mere connon fodder -- no one sees them or even slows down for the elderly struggling to cross the street.

But life is good here, comfortable and so far easy. I joined a drumming group and am learning drumming rhythms from African, Latin, and Native American traditions. I find it relaxing to drum with others and I look forward to meeting with this group each month.

Vlierhof

2008-02-15T03:36:00.000-08:00

Goslar

2008-02-07T03:22:00.000-08:00

Quedlinburg

2008-02-07T03:15:00.000-08:00

Pergamon Museum & Jewish Museum

2008-02-07T03:13:00.001-08:00

Located on Berlin's famous Museum Island, the Pergamon Museum offers something different from the ordinary exhibitions, statues, and pictures seen in all standard museums and galleries. It has several enormous reconstructions of parts of ancient cities.

The star exhibition is the Pergamon Altar, a Greek construction with beautiful freezes that dates from the second century BC. The remains of this ancient building were shipped to Germany at the end of the nineteenth century during a period which German archeologists were very active. In contrast to the Elgin Marbles in the British Museum, some of the pillars came with and the display is build up so you can climb the decidedly modern stairs and see how it was presented originally.

In an adjacent room towers the Market Gate from Miletus. It is the façade of a market from a Roman town in Asia Minor and is more than 16 m high. Original date of construction is estimated to be about a century BC. Passing through this gate you enter what is if not the most beautiful definitely the most colorful of the major displays – the Ishtar Gate. This gate from Babylon dates from the sixth century BC and gives the Pergamon Altar strong competition for star of the show. The glazed tiles, mostly in blue, are in astonishingly good condition given the age. Large pieces from the Processional Way leading up to the Ishtar Gate decorate both sides of the passage.

The displays of Islamic art on the second floor are smaller but no less interesting. The façade of the Mshatta Palace in Jordan, eight century BC, fills a room while another displays the inside of a seventeenth century paneled room of a rich merchant in Syria. Also of interest is a large world map from India – the audio guide is necessary to make much sense of it from a modern viewpoint. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pergamon_Museum

The Jewish Museum Berlin (Jüdisches Museum Berlin) is a museum in Berlin covering two millennia of German Jewish history. The Jewish Museum in Berlin was founded on Oranienburger Straße in 1933. It was closed in 1938 by the Nazi regime. The idea to revive the museum was first voiced in 1971, and an "Association for a Jewish Museum" was founded in 1975. A Jewish department of the Berlin Museum was opened after the Berlin Museum first displayed an exhibition on Jewish history in Berlin in 1978. In 1999 the Jewish Museum Berlin was granted status as an independent institution. A building by Daniel Libeskind was finished in 1999 and officially opened in 2001.

The building is very distinctive from other museums, since it does not respond to any functional requirements, but is rather constructed to create spaces that tell the story of the Jewish people in Germany. The museum itself is a work of art, blurring the lines between architecture and sculpture.

The view from above is that of a large zig-zag line, which earned it the nickname "blitz", German word for thunderbolt. The main building is covered with zinc plating, and the windows are just lines that cross the surface in a random fashion. These lines were created from connecting different sites in a Berlin map that are important to Jewish history. This building has no access of any kind from the street. The entrance is located in an adjacent building, a museum of German history, through a staircase and tunnel embedded in a concrete tower that goes through all the floors of the German museum. This symbolizes that German and Jewish history are inseparable, violent and secret.

The staircase leads to an underground site, composed of three hallways, called axes: The Axis of Death, leads to a concrete tower that has been left empty, called The Holocaust Tower; The Axis of Exile, which leads to an exterior square courtyard composed of concrete columns and that has been tilted in one of its corners, called The Garden of Exile; and The Axis of Continuity, that goes through the other two hallways, representing the permanence of Jews in Germany in spite of the Holocaust and the Exile. This axis leads to a staircase, which in turn leads to the main building. The entrance to the museum is intentionally made difficult and long to instill in the visitor the feeling of challenge and hardship that is distinctive of Jewish history.

The main building, even though it seems skewed and irregular in general, hides a straight but discontinuous line, marked by hollow concrete towers painted black, with little windows from which visitors only can see the other visitors in opposite windows. One of these towers was called the Memory Void for those affected by the Holocaust.

As you walk down the long hall, you hear the clank of something -- is it silverware from the cafe kitchen, gears from the elevator, workmen moving contruction material? The closer you get, the louder the noise becomes until you turn the corner and see visitors cautiously walking across Menashe Kadishman's 'Shalechet' ('Fallen leaves') installation which has filled this void with 10,000 coarsely made iron faces. Visitors are encouraged to walk on the work, creating an almost 'industrial' noise, something with deep meaning.

Berlin

2008-02-07T03:07:00.001-08:00

Christmas, Berlin style!

2008-02-07T02:58:00.000-08:00

Day trip from Malaga to Antequera

2008-02-07T02:45:00.000-08:00

Antequera - the city of art. It has many palaces and churches built during the Renaissance and Baroque periods. There must be around 30 churches and convents, many containing a treasure trove of art. The Municipal Museum is located in the Palace of Najera and is a must see. It includes the ephebe, a Roman statue in bronze of a nude youth. There are only 6 known ephebes in the world and the one in this museum is the best preserved. On top of the hill is the Alcazaba, the old castle and fortress. Beside it is the important church of the Real Colegiata de Santa Maria la Mayor. And just outside the city one can find a dolmen complex, which consists of megaliths.

I went in no museums, just wandered through the alleyways and then sat and watched a storm build up and ooze over the mountains and down into the town.

Christmas Lights in Malaga

2008-02-07T02:33:00.000-08:00

Malaga's main pedestrian shopping street, Avenida Larios, was blazing with an eye-popping display of Christmas lights and all along the 1 km way, traditional musicians, community groups of singers, magicians, classical musicians and weird odd types entertained every evening starting Dec. 1.

From the small balcony in my room in the Hostal Larios, I could take part in the festivities, watch the passing throng of excited children, giggling teenagers, and whole families agog with Christmas excitement.

Leandro Lopes -- Exceptional Photography from an Exceptional Young Man

2007-12-08T09:25:00.000-08:00

Check out more of Leandro's incredible photography at www.flickr.com, under nickname of upalala.

Albert Kahn's Archive of the Planet

2007-12-02T00:43:00.000-08:00

Clockwise: Irish woman in Claddagh; dancers in Thailand; Marrakesh.

I am staying in the home of a British woman who lives in Vejer, watching her dog Toby while she is in Portugal. One of the percs of living in a British home is watching the BBC. How they manage to consistently produce not just fine TV but EXCELLENT TV is a mystery to those of us beaten down by the shit that passes for TV in the States.

I recently watched two of the five episodes of The Edwardians in Color, a documentary on the efforts of Albert Kahn to compile his Archive of the Planet by sending photographers throughout the world to photograph natives going about their daily business. The remarkable thing, and I could scarcely believe my eyes, is that the photographs are in color. Beautiful delicate magnificent color.

The Archives de la Planète gather 4,000 stereoscopic plaques, 72,000 autochromes (constituting therefore one of the largest collections in the world) and around 183,000 meters of film, which amount to more than 100 hours of projection. They document forty-eight countries in the world, from every continent except Oceania. They were shot between 1912 and 1931 by five cameramen under the close supervision of the French geographer Jean Brunhes (1869-1932), chosen by Albert Kahn to oversee the constitution of the archives from their very beginning. The collection's purpose, according to Kahn, was “to put into effect a sort of photographic inventory of the surface of the globe as inhabited and developed by Man at the beginning of the twentieth century.” Most films in the collection are unedited rushes, ranging from scientific and ethnographic genres to actualities and other “pre-documentary” forms. The collection is an extraordinary historical document, containing unique testimonial of public and everyday life in the interwar years, and it represents one of the first projects in film history to envisage film strictly as an historical document. Check out the web site below for more information and if you get a chance, look for this documentary when it comes out on DVD. As a photographer and anthropologist, I find this archive mesmerizing, knowing that by some miracle, Albert Kahn began this project just at the turn of the 20th century, not knowing that so many of the cultures he caught on film would be gone in a matter of decades.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/bbcfour/documentaries/features/albert-kahn.shtml

Looming Train Wreck: Sinking US $ Could Drag World Under

2007-11-26T06:12:00.000-08:00

As an American traveling in Europe, I have watched in horror as the dollar plummets against the euro and the British pound. Today, it is a heart-stoppingly $1.48 against the euro. Never in the last 60 years has the dollar been so weak world-wide. And we have done it to ourselves, kicking back and letting the government spend money there was NO WAY we could raise and now no way we can pay off without huge sacrifices. Sacrifices that not one candidate for president can talk about if that candidate wishes to stay in the race at all.

It was as if the parents left the teenagers for the evening with full access to the credit cards, stayed away for 8 years, and never checked online to see what havoc was being wreaked while they were gayly sipping cocktails at the neighbors.

Sinking Currency, Sinking Country
by Pat Buchanan
Fri Nov 2, 3:00 AM ET

The euro, worth 83 cents in the early George W. Bush years, is at $1.45.

The British pound is back up over $2, the highest level since the Carter era. The Canadian dollar, which used to be worth 65 cents, is worth more than the U.S. dollar for the first time in half a century.

Oil is over $90 a barrel. Gold, down to $260 an ounce not so long ago, has hit $800. Have gold, silver, oil, the euro, the pound and the Canadian dollar all suddenly soared in value in just a few years?

Nope. The dollar has plummeted in value, more so in Bush's term than during any comparable period of U.S. history. Indeed, Bush is presiding over a worldwide abandonment of the American dollar.

Is it all Bush's fault? Nope.

The dollar is plunging because America has been living beyond her means, borrowing $2 billion a day from foreign nations to maintain her standard of living and to sustain the American Imperium. The prime suspect in the death of the dollar is the massive trade deficits America has run up, some $5 trillion in total since the passage of NAFTA and the creation of the World Trade Organization in 1994.

In 2006, that U.S. trade deficit hit $764 billion. The current account deficit, which includes the trade deficit, plus the net outflow of interest, dividends, capital gains and foreign aid, hit $857 billion, 6.5 percent of GDP. As some of us have been writing for years, such deficits are unsustainable and must lead to a decline of the dollar.

A sinking dollar means a poorer nation, and a sinking currency has historically been the mark of a sinking country. And a superpower with a sinking currency is a contradiction in terms.
What does this mean for America and Americans?

As nations realize that the dollars they are being paid for their products cannot buy in the world markets what they once did, they will demand more dollars for those goods. This will mean rising prices for the imports on which America has become more dependent than we have been since before the Civil War.

U.S. tourists traveling to the countries whence their ancestors came will find that the money they saved up does not go as far as they thought.

U.S. soldiers stationed overseas will find the cost of rent, gasoline, food, clothing and dining out takes larger and larger bites out of their paychecks. The people those U.S. soldiers defend will be demanding more and more of their money. U.S. diplomats stationed overseas, students and businessmen are already facing tougher times.

U.S. foreign aid does not go as far as it did. And there is an element of comedy in seeing the United States going to Beijing to borrow dollars, thus putting our children deeper in debt, to send still more foreign aid to African despots who routinely vote the Chinese line at the United Nations.

The Chinese, whose currency is tied to the dollar, and Japan will continue, as long as they can, to keep their currencies low against the dollar. For the Asians think long term, and their goals are strategic. China — growing at 10 percent a year for two decades and now growing at close to 12 percent — is willing to take losses in the value of the dollars it holds to keep the U.S. technology, factories and jobs pouring in, as their exports capture America's markets from U.S. producers.
The Japanese will take some loss in the value of their dollar hoard to take down Chrysler, Ford and GM, and capture the U.S. auto market as they captured our TV, camera and computer chip markets. Asians understand that what is important is not who consumes the apples, but who owns the orchard.

Other nations that have kept cash reserves in U.S. Treasury bonds and T-bills are watching the value of these assets sink. Not fools, they will begin, as many already have, to divest and diversify, taking in fewer dollars and more euros and yen. As more nations abandon the dollar, its decline will continue.

The oil-producing and exporting nations, with trade surpluses, like China, have also begun to take the stash of dollars they have and stuff them into sovereign wealth funds, and use these immense and growing funds to buy up real assets in the United States — investment banks and American companies.

Nor is there any end in sight to the sinking of the dollar. For, as foreigners demand more dollars for the oil and goods they sell us, the trade deficit will not fall. And as the U.S. government prints more and more dollars to cover the budget deficits that stretch out — with the coming retirement of the baby boomers — all the way to the horizon, the value of the dollar will fall. And as Ben Bernanke at the Fed tries to keep interest rates low, to keep the U.S. economy from sputtering out in the credit crunch, the value of the dollar will fall.

The chickens of free trade are coming home to roost.

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/11/07/AR2007110700574_pf.html

Spanish King Tells Hugo to "Shut Up!" and He Doesn't!

2007-11-24T00:56:00.000-08:00

From BBC News online:

Spain's King Juan Carlos told Venezuelan leader Hugo Chavez to "shut up" as the Ibero-American summit drew to a close in Santiago, Chile. The outburst came after Mr Chavez called former Spanish Prime Minister Jose Maria Aznar a "fascist".

Mr Chavez then interrupted Spanish PM Jose Luis Rodriguez Zapatero's calls for him to be more diplomatic, prompting the king's outburst. Latin American, Portuguese, Spanish and Andorran leaders were meeting in Chile. Mr Chavez repeatedly tried to interrupt, despite his microphone being turned off.

The king leaned forward and said: "Why don't you shut up?"

The king addressed Mr Chavez as "tu", the familiar version in Spanish of "you" which is normally used only for close acquaintances, family, or children, and can be regarded as insulting when used in other circumstances.

Mr Chavez responded to the king's rebuke. According to the Associated Press news agency, he said: "I do not offend by telling the truth. The Venezuelan government reserves the right to respond to any aggression, anywhere, in any space and in any manner."

Another take:

The Juan Carlos-Chavez Spat
Royal Incident Signals Arrival of Latin America's 'Underdog' Class

By Marcela Sanchez

Special to washingtonpost.com Friday, November 23, 2007; 12:00 AM

WASHINGTON -- King Juan Carlos of Spain made a lot of people happy when he recently told Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez to shut up. Yet to many in the Latin American underclass, the incident was proof that, politically, they had finally arrived.

Even Chavez-haters acknowledge that he is a folk hero to many in Venezuela and beyond because they see him as a manifestation of their own empowerment. That it was a king and not the president of some other country telling Chavez to keep quiet amplified a sense of satisfaction among Chavez followers -- because of the colonial overtones and the history of imperial Spain in the region.

And so the incident provides an excellent starting point to talk about the new social mobilization of Latin America's poor. Latin American discontent has been around for a long time. But there is an important distinction today. When social movements of the past began to make demands of Latin American governments, the typical response was suppression by various means -- imprisonment, execution, isolation. Some of these groups believed that the only way of resolving their grievances was by arming themselves to fight their way to revolutionary change.

Latin America's social movements of today are effective because democracy has become so consolidated in the region that their concerns can no longer be ignored or easily dismissed, much less silenced. Now states believe they have to accommodate these concerns and promote consensus or risk losing popular support and even be forced out of office. In Argentina, for instance, los piqueteros, a movement of unemployed workers that grew in strength following the country's 2001 economic collapse, have successfully pressured the state to give them welfare subsidies to spread among members. Had this movement emerged 15 years earlier and not in 1995, it might well have met another, and violent, fate.

Not that long ago, groups such as the piqueteros would have been seen as an undesirable development, putting unwelcome pressure on young democracies. But persistent economic inequality and social exclusion, despite more than two decades of democracy and a decade of market reforms, have forced a reassessment of those social movements -- less as a problem and more as a solution.

Even in Washington, which historically has sided with stability, usually at the expense of the oppressed in Latin America, President Bush has referred to the desires of groups leading the "revolution in expectations" as "legitimate demands." In a recent report, the Inter-American Development Bank waxed optimistic about social mobilization as a necessary agent of change -- despite its potential to "aggravate social conflict and complicate democratic governance."
The ultimate manifestation of Latin America's social transformation has been the rise of indigenous movements. In countries such as Bolivia and Ecuador, individuals once deemed inferior to Spanish or other European descendents have mobilized in recent years to successfully reverse policies, bring down governments and elect native candidates to office, including the presidency.

Now, those countries in which the once subjugated have come to power will put to a test the maturity of Latin American democracy. The challenge is whether the grass-roots uprisings will "lead to an enduring, more complete inclusion in a political and social sense, reducing discrimination and inequalities" or to new forms of exclusion, as Mark Payne, one of the authors of the IDB report, put it in an interview.

Chavez, while not a true example of an indigenous leader, draws his popular support from Venezuelans previously oppressed -- namely, the country's poor in an oil-rich land. He has unquestionably used that power in many instances to right certain historical wrongs. But he has also taken to harassing or suppressing opponents. As David Smolansky, a 22-year-old journalism student and spokesman for the new student movement in Venezuela told me, "Here in Venezuela we are getting to the point that whoever does not concur with his (Chavez's socialist) ideas is a ... traitor" and will be excluded from participating in political life.

One hopes that all democratic leaders, indigenous or not, will find a path to greater inclusion rather than going down the road well worn by previous oppressive regimes. For the time being, though, it's not such a bad thing -- perhaps it is even a measure of democracy's success -- that there were some who saw a victory for the "underdog" in the Juan Carlos-Chavez incident. After all, it seems wholly appropriate to celebrate that a Spanish royal family's bloodlines are ever more diluted among Latin America's ruling class.

Marcela's e-mail address is desde@washpost.com.

Canas de Meca, Costa de la Luz

2007-11-24T00:52:00.001-08:00

Caños de Meca
07 Nov
by Jim Mackie

Well away from the hustle of the busy Costa del Sol beaches and the increasing numbers of visitors to the Costa de la Luz you will find a small sweet unspoiled village nestled on the cliff top over looking the Atlantic Coast of Spain.

The village of Caños de Meca can be found by taking one of the small side roads off the CN340 coast road near Vejer de la Frontera or by taking the minor road through the pine forest from Barbate. It is located deep in the Parque Natural del Acantilado surrounded by beautiful pine forests.

The village has some beautiful beaches which offer the visitor something that is in short supply on other beaches in Andalucia, Space. The beaches are clean peaceful even in summer although the village is becoming increasingly popular.

Pirata is the main beach of the village with with fine sand and sandy seabeds. It is located right in the heart of the village and is the best equipped with lifeguards, toilets, bars and restaurantsIt ends in a pretty peak shaped by the action of the rocky reefs. At low tide, there are small islands.

The Faro zone, Varadero and la Curva is one beach made up of smaller beaches, stretching from the Lighthouse to Conil and Chiclana (LosBancos)and farther. You can enjoy the sun setting directly over the sea.Word of warning for those of you that have like to swim. The waters around here have very strong tide and currents especially in the area surrounding the lighthouse. The cape of Trafalgar that lays of the coast , the seabed and the cliffs provoke swirls and turbulence that can be fatal to anyone swimming too far out. 700m from shore you will find the Aceitera zone , an area which is greatly appreciated by fishermen and divers for its rich fauna and archeological remains.However this in one of the most dangerous for bathers, every year there are stories of disappeared divers in the area.

There are none of the usual facilities such as life guards, showers or rubbish bins, The beach is accessed from the main Faro road, you must park your car on the road here and walk across a broad strech of sand to reach this tranquil beach.Here you can also climb up to the lighthouse where you will be treated to some magnificent views of the area although there in no fence around the small cliff at the lighthouse so take care when looking over and especially if you have children or animals with you.

The beach known as the Curva or Marisucia is located next to Los Bancos beach. Between these two beaches lies a strip small creeks and reefs goes all the way around the Trafalgar bay.The sand here is not as fine as that of Los Bancos and having an South Eastern orientation whenNudist beach and cliffs.

For those of you who prefer the natural look when it comes to sun bathing then head for the nudist beach which is located at the foot of the first cliffs in the park. This beach is very sandy and apart from the nudist it is also popular with small groups of illegal campers.
20 minutes walk east of Los Canos Beach across the rocks you will find the “Playa de las Cortinas” where fresh water falls from the cliffs above.

Apart from the villages stunning beaches and magnificent landscape the villageis also famous for its nightlife during the summer months and for windsurfing which is an extremely popular sport in the area. The best point to launch is at the western end of the “Playa del Estrecho” apartments in the town. Other water sports such as snorkeling are also popular and you will find that the reef just off the Los Caños beach has plenty of fish to see.

Costa de la Luz Eco-Backpackers Hostal

2007-11-24T00:48:00.000-08:00

For 50 euros a week from Nov. 3-16, I joined David and Jane Cooney and their two kids Robin and Emily at the Costa de la Luz Eco-Backpackers Hostel, in southern Spain near Cadiz. I scored a bottom bunk in a dorm, cooked in the somewhat porous kitchen/bath building and hitched into Vejer or over to the beaches, catching rides with local old men or smitten tourists who thought they'd found the 'wild' side of Spain.

This British ex-pat couple came to Costa de la Luz 16 years ago as young 20somethings, bought a couple of acres of land in the middle of nowhere but with a fantastic view of the scrubby farmland and Atlantic rolling in on deserted beaches. Over the years, they and their friends have built several bunkhouses, a kitchen building and the very nice house they live in, learning more and building better as they went along.

They run an English-Spanish Language School in nearby Conil, cart their kids to school in Canas de Meca, and end up spending a lot of their time barreling down dirt tracks, driving hell for leather to schools, shops, work, and parties.

Unfortunately, David is a bit of a liar -- euphemistically stating on their web page that their incredibly remote outpost in the campo located between inland Vejer de la Fontera and Canas de Meca, the world famous beach for surfing and parasailing, was only 3 km. from the beach. Perhaps by ultralight, my dear!! We walked and hitched and walked and hitched and it took a better part of 2 hours. Very pleasant nonetheless, walking up a dirt road with the sea tantalizingly just ahead and yet the road took twists and turns through forests of umbrella pine and the small hamlet of San Ambrosio and a natural park and another natural park, and along the cliffs, before finally depositing us on the shore.

David also insisted that their place was ONLY 3 km from the village of Vejer. There are no busses or taxis and very few CARS in this area so walking in and out is the main method of getting to the beach or the town.

Tramping uphill, down hill, uphill, down hill, fruitlessly hitching, walking all the way into town, takes more than an hour. Coming back from town we usually managed to snag a ride and one English-speaking provider laughed when we asked if it was ONLY 3 km to David's barrio. He clocked it and it was 7 km, 14 RT, long way David, long way!

When we pointed out the discrepancy, he just laughed and admitted that maybe his odometer was off, then jumped into his battered 4 wheel drive and drove like a madman, off to pick up his kids at school.

Well you can see how beautiful it was, lovely vistas, remote, lonely, but elemental and wild. In the mornings I'd wake to roosters crowing and donkeys braying, and sip my coffee in the doorway soaking up the weak sun, waiting for the day to emerge. At night, the stars were so bright you could navigate in the pitch darkness by them. The Milky Way was a lacy swath across the sky and the constellations must have beeen from another world because I recognized none of them, they are natives of North Africa and the Sahara.

I shared the bunkhouse with a young German girl, Meike, who was wwoofing with David and Jane. We cooked together in the evening, I shared my wine, she shared her roll-up tobacco, and if things were really slow, we would watch the mice rummage through the cupboards in search of food. The previous guests had left all their food in unprotected drawers and the mice had had an easy time of it. They simply chose a drawer, gnawed through the packaging, and ate til they were stuffed.

We decided we actually wanted to eat our food ourselves, so placed everything in the fridge. Soon the mice became frantic as it dawned on them that their sources had dried up. They became brazen and bold and scampered through our dishes, into the sink, over the compost, even tried eating the label of the olive oil in the hopes of finding sustenance.

Meike and I had an ethical dilemma -- we both voiced the possibility of 'should we FEED the mice?' As we considered the ridiculousness of that proposal, we came to compromise. Any food in the compost bowl could be the mices', all other food was ours and would be put away. The mice could choose to move on or move out, their choice.

Somewhere along the line, the lid to the olive oil bottle got lost. For several days we sprinkled oil on our salads, used it to make omelettes and other food. As Meike picked up the bottle one dinnertime, she remarked that it seemed very dark, very dark indeed.

And there, perfectly preserved in the bottom of the olive oil bottle, was the small newly deceased body of a mouse.

At least we HOPED it was newly deceased.

Vejer de la Frontera, Cadiz province

2007-11-24T00:32:00.000-08:00

One of the great pleasures of Vejer is simply walking around the quiet backstreets and cobbled lanes that wind their way through this very Moorish village. It is so easy to imagine being in another time, where history is not distant but happened only yesterday. Vejer de la Frontera is not grand or oppulent as Seville, Granada, or Cordoba are, but the history of the town is palpable, real, immediate, from conquering Phoienicians and Carthigians circa 400 BC, to the imperialist Romans, marauding Visigoths, civilizing Moors, to the reconquistador times in the 1400's.

The ancient town walls still trace the outline of the old village perched on the sides of several hills. In places they appear as they once must have been strong defenses against enemies; but the walls also disappear into homes and you'll just as likely see washing being hung on the ramparts. Heavily restored in places, the walls were built in the 15th century as part of the defensive investment after the Christian reconquest of the region.

Several arches lead into the old town through the walls and, unlike many other towns in Spain, all the original gateways still exist and are part of everyday life of Vejer. The old moorish 'alcazaba' is tucked away down a narrow backstreet with the town built right around the castle. The Church is built on the site of the old mosque -- the minaret is still standing now but houses a belltower. The church consists of two contrasting styles -- the front of the main aisle is visigothic while the remainder is mudejar. The interior of the church was damaged during the Civil War & little remains of the usual riches.

The Plaza de España or 'Plaza de los Pescaitos' is a beautiful plaza, ringed with date palms and bouganvilla. The Plaza de los Pescaitos (Plaza of the Little Fish) gets its name from the goldfish that swim around the fountain. Decorated with bright ceramics & 4 spouting frogs, the ornate brightly tiled fountain is not as old as it seems and dates only to the early 1900's.

Vejer is located just a few km. from the beaches at either El Palmar, Trafalgar Bay or Los Caños de Meca. Vejer itself is made up of 2 parts, the old medieval quarter & the newer part of town carefully designed in the style of the 'pueblos blancos' of the region. Vejer has many monuments to visit, flower filled courtyards to peer into & turreted walls to see views from. Vejer is surrounded on 2 sides by the 'Las Breñas' Natural Park a 5,000ha. forest of pine wood running down to the coast & the 'Marismas' Natural Park a smaller nature reserve through which the Barbate river runs through & home to an important collection of birdlife. Both parks have walking trails running through them & are perfect for day walks.

A short walk away is the recently restored roman acueduct of Santa Lucia, usually still working in the summer, with a water supply that feeds the small lush valley nearby where avocadoes, pomegranate & other semi-tropical fruits are grown. A myriad of walking trails & wider cañadas run through the local countryside.

A Quick Trip to Seville

2007-10-31T09:37:00.002-07:00

Seville has been occupied for a long long time -- by the Tartesians from 700 BC, to the Phoenicians, Carthaginians, Romans, and then the Moors who had a long-lasting influence on the architecture, language, culture, and cuisine. Today, Seville is a modern Spanish city straddling the wide Guadalquivir River but with a skyline much more reminiscent of Cristobal Colon´s day, that´s Christopher Columbus, it still exudes an atmosphere unlike any other city in the world.

The Moors ruled Seville and most of Spain for hundreds of years but with the Christian reconquest in 1248, the grand mosque became an even grander Cathedral, known as the largest (and certainly one of the most opulent) in the world. The Cathedral sports the tall Giralda tower which formerly was the ancient minaret of a Moorish mosque. Begun in 1184, it is the signature monument of Seville.

Tucked in a plaza behind the Cathedral is the monumental complex called Reales Alcazares palaces, a Moorish palace which dates back to 700 AD. A series of patios leads you deep into the palace interiors and then out into alleyways of the former Jewish barrio. Alleys are so close that they are called ´kissing streets´ because the walls almost touch. Here are homes with cool fountains trickling in inner courtyards, tabernas, hostals, and restaurants, all within a short wander from the bustling square in front of the Cathedral but quiet, cool from the shade of orange trees, and tranquil.

The Plaza de España is nearby and a short walk from the Cathedral takes you through shady parks with the constant cool sound of fountains. On this day when I visited Seville, Oct. 28, the weather was perfect, about 23 C/ 76 F but in the summer it can reach above 100 F and is sweltering. The many parks throughout the city give its citizens a place to rest and relax and shelter from the heat of the sun.

I stayed in the Triana Backpackers Hostal and I enjoyed my brief stay there. Below is a photo of the inner courtyard and on the roof of the building was a patio with hammocks, sofas, chaise lounges, and a covered area. I spent a lovely evening there with some young Europeans, a guitar, and 2 bottles of wine, under the stars, in our shirtsleeves. Great place!!

A Cautionary Tale About Homestays

2007-10-31T09:37:00.001-07:00

Staying in someone's home while visiting a foreign country is a lovely way to get to practice your newly acquired language skills, get to know locals in their native habitats, learn the customs, cuisine, and culture in a more intimate way than is possible in a classroom.

However, it is the luck of the draw as to what KIND of family you might find yourself housed with. After all, think about your own family . . . Jesus who would want to live with THEM??!!

So I shouldn't have been at all surprised that the Spanish family I found on the internet was a couple who had split up 2 years ago, the kids had fled the nest for their very lives, and the fragile Spanish lady, my 'mum,' the sweet lady above, was having a major mental breakdown.

The first 4 days of my stay she spent crying in her bed. I was paying for half-pension but soon I was buying food and cooking for HER to ensure that I would get fed at all. As for practicing my Spanish, well I did somewhat: I learned lloron was crying, antidepressant medicamente was mood enhancers, and BOO HOO HOO!!! meant no dinner.

Once I realized that she probably wasn't going to slice her wrists or jump from the top storey, life was good although a bit dark. Literally. The blinds and shutters never got raised all day unless I did it. After awhile, I started to live in Calle Ecuador 20, I went food shopping, pondered what to cook us for lunch (served at 2:30 or 3 pm), discovered a fine TV show that we watched at 4:30 pm almost everyday about the Franco Days, called Amor en la Revolucion. A wonderful series on life in the 1950's in Spain with the Guardia Civil skulking around every corner, women yearning to get out of the kitchen and work, and men unsure of who to trust.

If I came out the front door and took a left, a small calle deposited me onto Avenida Dilar, a shopping district of clothing stores (mostly polyester), mucho shoe stores (WHY do they need so much choice in cheap shoes??), panaderias, fruterias, pastellerias, big chain grocery stores, and lots and lots of bars. And a Moroccan hallal butcher. This is also where I could catch a bus to downtown or to switch to get to the bus station.

If I took a right out my front door, I was deposited onto Avenida Cadiz and into a completely different neighborhood than Dilar. Dilar was solid middle-class Espanoles while Cadiz was immigrant -- home to brightly dressed and robed African men and women, Latinos who have been brought to Spain to work in the bars, as cleaning ladies, and construction workers. Here in Cadiz, you can find Latino groceries, kebab houses, and tons of locutorios -- places to call home from a cabine or buy a phone card or use the internet.

I spent my days in Granada walking, sometimes for 4-5 hours. I would walk from my neighborhood, down Dilar or Cadiz, past Avenida Americas to the Palacio de Congreso, along the river, over the bridge, and on into Granada proper. My walks took me through the Jewish quater, up toward the Alhambra but where small casitas straggle just below the gardens of the Alhambra forming their own derelict community, up to the Albaicin and its Moorish neighborhood of stairways, alleys, minute plazas, and roads so narrow the sun never shone there at all.

Al Gore Comes to Spain

2007-10-31T09:36:00.000-07:00

Finds Deserts, Floods, Dumb Asses

Al Gore joined other environmental heavyweights at a conference in Spain last week and was probably entertained but not amused by comments made by Mariano Rajoy, the leader of Spain's conservative party who downplayed the threat from climate change. Rajoy, who is leading his party in a general election set for March 2008, admitted he knew "very little" about the subject but cited his cousin to back his opinion.

His cousin??? The BOOKIE?!

"My cousin he told me: 'I've brought ten of the most important scientists in the world here and not one is able to guarantee what the weather will be like in Seville tomorrow'," Rajoy said. "So, how can anyone claim to know what will happen to the world in 300 years' time?"

Spanish Environment Minister Cristina Narbona meanwhile called Rajoy's statements "eccentric and incredible."

"I didn't think that there were any right- or left-wing leaders left capable of speaking so dismissively about the climate change threat," she added.

Meanwhile –

Headlines Oct. 19 read:

One Man Killed in Devastating Storm
Monsoon-like rains hit Granada and surrounding regions on Fri., Oct. 19, forcing enormous amounts of water through the mountains to the sea in riverbeds unable to handle the deluge. Catastrophic floods in the nearby seaside resort of Almuñécar on Friday killed one man and caused more than 6 million € of damage to public infrastructure. Currently, there is no figure for the vast amount of damage caused to private property.

A German man lost his life when a wave of water hit his apartment block's garage on Friday. He had gone back to get his moped when a retaining wall next to a river gave way, and he was swept beneath a wall of water.

The Spanish branch of the WWF environmental conservation organization said in a press release on Monday that urban expansion along the coastline, as well as construction in normally dry river beds, has destroyed the natural ecosystems which act to alleviate the effects of flash floods by their ability of absorbing the torrential rainfall which is common on the Mediterranean coast at this time of year.

Although the Spanish government is well-aware of the enivironmental damage being done by over-development, building of golf courses with little or no water, depleting of the regional aquifiers, and the increasing desertification of some of its provinces, the lure of staggering profits is proving too much to resist.

Spain Warns Desert is Spreading

by Giles Tremlett, The Guardian

The deserts of north Africa are threatening to leap the Mediterranean and creep through Spain, according to government figures made public as part of a national campaign to halt desertification.

A third of the country is at risk of being turned into desert as climate change and tourism add to the effects of farming.

More than 90% of land bordering the Mediterranean from Almeria in the south to Tarragona in the north is considered to be at high risk. But that figure climbs to almost 100% in Alicante and Murcia.

Spain's environment ministry has announced a £50m programme to combat desertification. Over-grazing and irrigation methods that wash away topsoil were to blame for some of the damage, experts said. Building developments and climate change were doing the rest.

Spain builds an estimated 180,000 holiday homes along its coast every year. "We have grown too quickly without protecting areas of nature," Javier Pedraza of Complutense University, Madrid, said this week.

"If things continue like this we won't need to go to Africa to enjoy the tranquillity of the desert, we can just go to the Canary Islands, Valencia or Murcia," ABC newspaper commented yesterday

Halloween Tapas Crawl in Granada

2007-10-31T09:35:00.000-07:00

No words necessary, right?!

Children of the World, Run Away!!

2007-10-27T07:27:00.000-07:00

And here´s how to do it: There are several associations that, in exchange for 5-6 hours work of various types and difficulty, you receive room & board in great locations, meeting locals, experiencing real life in the real countryside where you are working.

For $30, I joined WWOOF (world wide organic opportunities in farming) before I left the US. I spent several hours contacting a total of about 30 farmers, restauranteurs, and smallholders via short descriptive emails telling them my prospective dates I would be available, work skills, other talents (I am a trained massage therapist and that usually is quite welcome by everyone), and any other pertinent information.

I always ask about the scope of work (one man lived on a very remote farm in the backwoods of Mallorca and was looking for someone to climb olive trees located on a steep hillside and bring home the fruit in a sack -- no thanks), the accomodations (room in a house, caravan, or only a tent?), type of food served (there are some raw foodist fundamenatalists out there!), bathroom facilities (yes, no, maybe?), how far from the nearest village, can you pick me up at the bus station.

Once all these issues have been resolved by both parties, you are on your way to living and working in the country of your choice. For those without deep pockets, this is a fine way to extend your travelling almost indefinitely. And there may be side benefits -- one place in the south of Spain, in the beautiful white hillside village of Vejer de la Frontera near Cadiz, wrote back saying they had a wwoofer but could offer me a bunk in a 4 bed room for 50 euros a week, complete with kitchen privileges, pool, 3 km to village, 5 km to gorgeous beach.

You can´t beat that!!

So here are the three agencies I have heard about and of course there may be others but these 3 have decent reputations:

www.wwoof.org
www.helpx.net
www.workaway.info

Start packing!!

Tomorrow is a new day; begin it well and serenely

2007-10-26T04:26:00.000-07:00

One of my real treats on the road is my weekly purchase of the International Herald Tribune, published by the New York Times, but seemingly untouched by the self-censorhip that plagues the Times nowadays. They also manage to group together a nice melange of thoughts from very diverse authors. Below is an editorial by Garrison Keillor, of Prairie Home Companion and PBS, two entities I have managed not to expose myself one bit.

But he does write an eloquent little commentary on fall, late parenthood, good memories of school (the two of you out there with these, please raise your hands!), Thoreau the crab, Emerson the smiling pre-Dalai Lama, and Life After Bush.

It´s just swell -- give it a read!

Don't be a morose teenager

Get a grip. We have passed the great test of a republic to survive the most incompetent leadership ever.

By Garrison Keillor

Sept. 19, 2007 That crisp, clean, dry smell of autumn is in the air, so stunning and surprising every year, a smell forever connected to bright colors and fresh apples and cool grass with beads of dew and the eagerness of a boy, pencil box and tablet in hand, wending his way toward Benson School and Mrs. Moehlenbrock's sunny classroom. The pencil box is new. Mr. Truman is president, the neighbor's son Jack is fighting the communists in Korea, and every Saturday we yearn for the University of Minnesota Golden Gophers football team to be triumphant, which sometimes they are.

I loved school, where I excelled for a short time, and now my golden-haired gap-toothed daughter, who is 9, loves it, too. She tolerates weekends pretty well but on Monday she is all eagerness, leaning forward on tiptoes with that heightened sense of possibility that is the basic component of cheerfulness, which is the secret of the good life. She expresses this by clenching her fist in the air and jerking it down and saying, Yes. Sometimes twice.

Cheerfulness isn't the same as happiness. You can't always be happy. Or satisfied. But a cheerful outlook is always possible. Ancient people in wheelchairs in nursing homes, their minds in ruins like the Parthenon, nonetheless beam at the stranger out of lifelong habit, putting the best possible face on things, even during great vacancy.

I turned 65 last month, which is about as festive as walking into a brick wall, but I'm OK now. And when I look back on my messy life with all the wrong turns and failures and days I wish I could rewrite, and then I think of the shining child whose picture is on my cellphone, the door to the past closes. You cannot possibly regret anything in a chain of events that led to her existence. So you turn to the future.

The philosopher of cheerful purpose was Emerson, and for some reason my generation preferred the puritanical Thoreau, a sorehead and loner whose clunky line about marching to your own drummer has found its way into a million graduation speeches. Thoreau tried to make a virtue out of lack of rhythm. He said that the mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation. OK, but how did he know? He didn't talk to that many people. He wrote elegantly about independence and forgot to thank his mom for doing his laundry.

Emerson was a mover and shaker. He said, "Every great and commanding moment in the annals of the world is the triumph of some enthusiasm ... this is the one remedy for all ills, the panacea of nature. We must be lovers and at once the impossible becomes possible." He said this while he was out on the road plying his trade as a lecturer, peddling his books, earning the money he would use to buy the land for Thoreau to build his little cabin on and pay Thoreau's fine and get him out of jail. Oh well. Never mind.

These autumn days are so golden, if there was a whole month of them, your mailman would feel triumphant enthusiasm and start his own dance company called Deliverance and the woman who cleans your teeth would write haiku --

Into the gorge of
Enamel and spit I thrust
My slim silver pick.

-- and you would have to tell them how much you liked their work, even though you didn't, but bravo for them. Nothing is so cheerful as the urge to commit art. The purpose of all great art is to give courage and thereby cheer us, just as the purpose of education is fundamentally cheerful -- to draw us out of gloomy solitude and into a conversation with other scholars.

Lighten up. Get a grip. Leave morose silence to teenagers; it's too dramatic for you and me. We have passed the great test of a republic, to survive the most incompetent leadership, and now we can anticipate a new era, one with no Bushes. As Emerson said, "This time, like all times, is a very good one, if we but know what to do with it ... Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities no doubt crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day; begin it well and serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense."

In other words, cheer up.

(Garrison Keillor's "A Prairie Home Companion" can be heard Saturday nights on public radio stations across the country.)

Let´s Talk Tapas

2007-10-26T04:07:00.000-07:00

Spain is famoso for its tapas but Granada is the BEST because tapas are libre! That´s right, with each drink you get a delectable little morsel which encourages you to have another drink to see what little treat you will be handed next.

For your first foray into tapasland you may stop in a cafeteria, order a beer or vino tinto and be pleasantly surprised when the camerero brings you a bowl of potato chips and green olives. What a nice gesture, you sigh.

But very quickly you turn into a tapas snob, searching out the most generous portions vs. the most elegant offerings vs. 1 drink, 3 tapas for only 3 euros.

After cruising the neighborhoods from the Albaicin to Realoje to Calle Navas and over to Calle Elvira and up some dark little alley, I have my favorite tapas bars but unfortunately, I can NEVER remember where they were and who can read bar signs after serial drinking, eh?

There is the little place off a back street off the Plaza Nueve, very deceptive -- you look into the dimly lit interior and all you see is what looks like a very cramped butcher shop, lots of hams hanging up and people standing at the counter. We were advised to check this place out by a local and thought maybe he was pulling our leg.

'It´s a butcher shop, not a bar, no tapas here' we grumped but timidly pushed open the door which displaced the 4 people standing there indeed having wine and tapas. Oddly, you walk behind the butcher´s counter and enter into a very classical Granada bar, done in Moorish style with long banquette sofas lining the wall, low wicker stools and glass-topped tables.

Forget the vono tinto, we are wine snobs now as well -- Vino Rioja is our choice, deep, mellow, aromatic. The camerero brings us the wine and thick slices of serrano ham with crusty bread. In this bar, meat is their specialty, especially the mountain-air-dried ham of Spain.

Our group of four orders a tabla: for 14 euros we get slices of creamy home-made pate with pistachios, salchichon, more serrano ham, manchego cheese, and a basket of of fresh bread.

Another night, we stumbled through the rain into a crowded bar off the Calle Elvira, near Hannigan´s Irish Bar. Vino rioja came with salmon lying daintily on a slice of ripe avocado placed on toast. We watched as the tapas chef worked with the same precision and artistry as sushi chefs, moving quickly but mindfully as they put together some incredible creations of sauteed mushrooms, fried calamari, steamed artichokes, tastes of sausages.

My favorite tapas offering was a sauteed heart of artichoke with a slice of salmon on top. Tapas hour starts around 7 pm although some bars don´t open for business until 8 pm. Workmen´s bars in the local neighborhoods lying outside the center of the city also offer tapas which can be hearty like tortilla (egg and potato quiche thing), meat stew, fried calamaris, migas (fried flour crumbs with sausage -- is MUCH better than it sounds), or paella.

So it doesn´t have to be fancy to be good!

Farewell to Franco BUT Not Before We Beatify the Catholic Priests

2007-10-24T10:04:00.000-07:00

In a move to address the pain and suffering of the Spanish Civil War 1936-1939, a new law goes into effect in Spain on Oct. 30 banning all references, statues, street names, and plaques pertaining to Franco or the dictatorship. Interestingly enough, the Catholic Church is all set to beatify almost 500 clerics who died fighting on Franco´s side.

Hmmmmm . . .

It is difficult to follow the Spanish Civil War without a score card, seeing eye dog, and bottle of aguardiente but in a nutshell, it goes like this: in 1936, there´s a democratically elected REPUBLIC government (you remember those, right??!). However, Franco and the military rose up against this republic as ROYALISTS, which the Catholic Church and clergy supported. During which war many civilians and freedom-fighting Republican guerillas died.

SEE the film Pan´s Labyrinth for additonal footage.

NOW all references to Franco will be dismantled, including that kiss-ass pigeon on the right (on the RIGHT, get it!?). Oh except for the nearly 500 priests who will be formally beatified, just a stone´s throw away from sainthood.

For typical intelligent British news coverage, read below.

Spain to remove all symbols of Franco

By Fiona Govan in Madrid

Last Updated: 3:08am BST 12/10/2007

Spain is to ban all public references to the Franco regime under a controversial Bill that seeks to make amends to the victims of the Spanish Civil War and ensuing 36-year dictatorship.

All statues, street names and symbols associated with the dictator and his supporters will be removed as part of the Law of Historic Memory, which was presented to the Madrid parliament this week.

Even plaques and stained glass windows showing the Falange symbol of the yoke and arrows or the eagle associated with Franco's rule will have to be replaced.

At one time statues glorifying the Generalissimo adorned almost every town square but most have been taken down in recent years.

The decision to remove reminders of Spain's dark past will now be enshrined in law forcing all remaining elements associated with Gen Franco to be stripped from public view.

Opponents of the measure accuse the Socialist government of Jose Luis Rodriguez Zapatero, which has made the Bill a priority ahead of a general election next March, of "opening old wounds" and "denying Spain its history".

The legislation has set the government on a collision course with the Roman Catholic Church, which commemorates those who gave their lives fighting on Franco's side during the 1936-1939 war.

The Albaicin

2007-10-23T08:11:00.000-07:00

El Albaicín is the old Moorish quarter of the city. It's located on a hill facing the Alhambra and there are dramatic views of this area from the Alhamra's famous rose gardens. The Zirid Monarchs first established their court in the Albaicin in the 11th century although little remains from this era today, apart from some crumbling remains of the wall (including the section which used to encircle the Albaicín and the gates of El Arco de las Pesas, Monaita and Elvira).

Lower Granada is staunchly and impressively Catholic, with the immense and ornate Cathedral and ten´s of other smaller parish churches anchoring the barrios.

But as you take a left off Calle del Darro into the Albaicin, you are Somewhere Else, Fes maybe or Meknes or some backstreet of Marrakesh. Here are small smokey teterias, tea shops, darkly lit with groups of loungers sharing a common hookah. Calles and smaller streets, callejons, wander off uphill, passing large villas called carmens for their expressive interior gardens. Shops line the small streets looking as if laundry was hung out to dry but these are the cloths and clothes for sale; also for sale, piled haphazardly, are hammered tea sets, inlaid decorative wooden boxes, fantastically decorated shoes with dangerously pointy toes, jelabbahs more common to North Africa than Spain.

The cobblestoned way is slippery, dangerous, you feel as though with a turn of the ankle and a small stumble you would catapault right off the hill down into the Darro River. The Albaicin is a bit threatening and mysterious, as all things that we don´t understand are mysterious. Maps can´t help you in the Albaicin, you have to blunder out as you bumbled in . . .

We interrupt your regularly scheduled program with this news bulletin:

2007-10-22T13:21:00.000-07:00

What the F***??!! Dalai Lama Accepts Bush Award

I googled in these exact words expecting to run into hundreds if not thousands of outraged blog citizens registering their dismay that the Dalai Lama accepted an award from George Bush.

I found two: a woman who was clearly distressed about DL´s acceptance of such a dubious award from such a -- how do we say this -- problematic leader yet apologetic to having doubts about the Dalai Lama´s underlying reasons for meeting with Bush at all. The other blogger reminded all that there are two other dalai lama pretenders who might have different views on accepting awards from 'evil doers.´

CAN THIS BE SO?!?

Is this not akin to accepting an award from Hitler, Pol Pot, or Idi Amin and if so, how can this enhance the position of the Dalai Lama and the Tibetan people who he so earnestly and smilingly supports?

the world has indeed gone mad.

Talk to me, explain to me what this really is, tell me it isn´t some moral failure on the part of the Dalai Lama, that what seems to be a photo op maybe really is something else, something better, but please tell me WHAT.

For a lighter touch see this: http://www.zenunbound.com/dogstar101703.html

The Alhambra

2007-10-16T09:49:00.001-07:00

On a hill overlooking Granada, the Alhambra—a sprawling palace-citadel that comprised royal residential quarters, court complexes flanked by official chambers, a bath, and a mosque—was begun in the thirteenth century by Ibn al-Ahmar, founder of the Nasrid dynasty, and was continued by his successors in the fourteenth century. Its most celebrated portions—a series of courtyards surrounded by rooms—are a varied repetoire of Moorish arched, columnar, and domical forms. The romantic imagination of centuries of visitors has been captivated by the special combination of the slender columnar arcades, fountains, and light-reflecting water basins found in those courtyards.

The Alhambra became a Christian court in 1492 when the Catholic Monarchs (Ferdinand and Isabel) reconquered the city of Granada. However, during the 18th and 19th centuries, the Alhambra fell into neglect and was occupied by thieves and beggars, until 1870 when the Alhambra was declared a national monument. Today, the Alhambra is a world heritage site, protected, restored, cared for and preserved for the pleasure and admiration of all.

Thursday night across from the Alhambra

2007-10-15T00:49:00.000-07:00

Grace, another woman staying with my homestay family, and I spent the evening sipping tempranillo wine, savoring olives and watching the sun go down. Granada is easy to enjoy with so many plazas and the view from each one is very different, relaxing or entertaining or just peaceful. This is the view across the Rio Darro from the Mirador San Nicolas to the Alhambra, a favorite gathering place for the local neighbors who live on the steep hillsides of the Albaicin and also tourists who enjoy just hanging out for a few hours to watch such a simple things as the sun dip down and the sky grow dark.

The atmosphere at San Nicolas is like a fest as musicians sing, the oddly talented perform, and buskers hawk their wares. Dogs run free and often upstage their owners in territorial stand-offs with intruders. But mostly the plaza is quiet, hushed, and you are able to enjoy the evening, the end of another perfect day.

Feast of the Virgen de Granada

2007-10-15T00:42:00.000-07:00

This weekend Granada celebrated it´s relationship with the Virgin, with a solemn procession accompanied by high officials dressed in black who carried the Virgin through the streets of Granada, stopping traffic as the parade of dignitaries made their way to a smaller church in the Realoje district. A medieval village of vendors, artisans, and food tents was set up in the plazas and alleyways behind the cathedral.

Streets were jammed with visitors since this wekend coincided with the Spanish national holiday celebrating Columbus and the discovery of the New World. The cathedral is massive, ornate, and costs almost 3 euros to get in. I mention that because I can´t recall paying to get into a church! But I guess they have to raise funds for renovation and gold leaf somewhere. It was well-worth the visit although I would have to say that the glow of evening on the exterior of the cathedral outshines any amount of gold leaf in the interior.

Salobreña, Granada´s coastal town

2007-10-15T00:26:00.000-07:00

Only an hour out of Granada, Salobreña is a small hillside village that also has a playa tucked into a cove of the Mediterranean. This mini micro-region is protected by two mountain ranges coming down to the sea and is blessed with a semi-tropical climate. You´ll find mangoes, avocadoes, papayas, and other exotic fruit for sale in the markets. We left Granada in the cool morning with rain threatening and arrived back in summer in Salobreña. Topless at the beach in mid-Oct.! The local bus cost 5 euros one way and left at 11, returning at 5:45 pm, perfect for a relaxing afternoon at the beach!

The day we visited Salobreña was a Spanish national holiday -- Columbus Day. The newspapers urged all Spanish to show their national pride by flying the flag but it seems that the Spanish are a disobedient group -- very few flags were on display and there were no signs of any kind of national fervor. That type of display smacks of fascism and most Europeans still have a horror of any kind of blatant nationalism.

A newspaper article in the International Herald Tribune reported that all reminders of Franco were to be dismantled as soon as possible, including the last remaining statues. This period brings out a lot of emotional response from those who still want an apology for the Civil War atrocities as well as right-wingers who might not be adverse to the return of Franco. On the other hand, a very popular TV series, called Love during the Revolution, depicts Spanish life during the Franco years, with women controlled by their families and husbands and the police generally hovering just behind everyone´s shoulders, an oppressive force that could invade one´s life and home at any time.

Federico Garcia Lorca

2007-10-10T01:19:00.001-07:00

From Wikipedia:

Federico García Lorca (June 5, 1898 – August 19, 1936) was a Spanish poet and dramatist, also remembered as a painter, pianist, and composer. An emblematic member of the Generation of '27, he was killed by Nationalist partisans at the age of 38 at the beginning of the Spanish Civil War.

The Franco regime placed a general ban on his work, which was not rescinded until 1953 when a (heavily censored) Obras completas was released. It was only after Franco's death in 1975 that García Lorca's life and death could be openly discussed in Spain.

In 1968, Joan Baez sang translated renditions of Lorca's poems, "Gacela Of The Dark Death" and "Casida of the Lament" on her spoken-word poetry album, Baptism. In 1986, Leonard Cohen's English translation of the poem "Pequeño vals vienés" by García Lorca reached #1 in the Spanish single charts (as "Take This Waltz", music by Cohen). Cohen has described Lorca as being his idol in his youth, and named his daughter Lorca Cohen for that reason.

Lament for Ignacio Sanchez Mejias

1. Cogida and death

At five in the afternoon. It was exactly five in the afternoon.
A boy brought the white sheet at five in the afternoon.
A frail of lime ready prepared at five in the afternoon.
The rest was death, and death alone.

The wind carried away the cottonwool at five in the afternoon.
And the oxide scattered crystal and nickel at five in the afternoon.
Now the dove and the leopard wrestle at five in the afternoon.
And a thigh with a desolated horn at five in the afternoon.

The bass-string struck up at five in the afternoon.
Arsenic bells and smoke at five in the afternoon.
Groups of silence in the corners at five in the afternoon.

And the bull alone with a high heart!
At five in the afternoon.
When the sweat of snow was coming at five in the afternoon,
when the bull ring was covered with iodine at five in the afternoon.

Death laid eggs in the wound at five in the afternoon.
At five in the afternoon. At five o'clock in the afternoon.
A coffin on wheels is his bed at five in the afternoon.
Bones and flutes resound in his ears at five in the afternoon.

Now the bull was bellowing through his forehead at five in the afternoon.
The room was iridiscent with agony at five in the afternoon.
In the distance the gangrene now comes at five in the afternoon.
Horn of the lily through green groins at five in the afternoon.
The wounds were burning like suns at five in the afternoon.
At five in the afternoon.
Ah, that fatal five in the afternoon!
It was five by all the clocks! It was five in the shade of the afternoon!

Art in Granada

2007-10-09T04:09:00.000-07:00

Art is everwhere in Granada! Not just the expected stuff in churches or framed hanging on walls in some over-priced museum, but up every alley, in the way the light shines at certain times of day, and especially in the Spanish themselves, their aristocratic haughty attitude toward style. Older women are impeccably dressed, made-up and coiffoured while their husbands, in tow, are equally elegante, some sporting a silk ascot or handmade tailored suit. Shoe stores abound, every third shop sells perfect little shoes and boots, while next door are lovely bras and undies, next door to that are handmade haut coutour men´s cotton shirts.

I am put together with string and chewing gum so most of this focus on fashion is lost on me, my clothes and style are practical and I am lucky if on any particular day I am CLEAN much less fashionable. But I can appreciate the style and elegance these clothes and shoes provide.

And I absolutely love wandering the calles and alleyways seeing art for what is was meant to be, a spontaneous outpouring of artistic expression and need to note what we perceive in the world.

Flamenco, ole!

2007-10-09T04:01:00.001-07:00

Sat. night I went to a flamenco club, the Upsetter, and was stunned to my core over the energy generated by this music-singing-dancing-clapping-ole-ing event. The club was very small, the stage just a raised platform a mere 3 feet from the first members of the audience. We sat on tiny tiny stools which barely provided enough space for even my small butt, and perched precariously so, we awaited the artistes. Only half-hour late, one young man carefully tuned his guitar, the other joven cleared his throat, and then just began. The singing is more wailing, in true gypsy fashion, and the guitar work is fast and flawless. And so emotional that you can´t take your eyes off these men, displaying their feelings for all of us to witness.

Then up strode the young woman dressed all in red, and the men faded away, just disappeared under the force of her power. Slim, tiny boned, she could slam her heavy-shoes into the floor like a bullet shot. Her footwork did sound almost violent, as did her dancing, quick turns towards then away from whoever was causing this dramatic and emotional reaction in her.

The evening ended as it began, abruptly, with the trio simply walking off stage and out of the club. We lingered, the music was still floating around the room, and I wanted more. Outside, at 12:30 am it was the shank of the evening for Granada - looking more like noon than midnight, people still flooded the streets, restaurants were full, cafes bustling, and taxis were ferrying people from one spot to another. I lingered for awhile in a plaza, enjoying the still-warm evening before flagging down a cab and returning to my room across the river.

Achill Island, Ireland

2007-10-09T03:40:00.001-07:00

Achill Island is north of Westport, remote, wild, still undeveloped for the most part. Small scrubby farms are here, and lots and lots of bogs, where peat is cut, harvested, and dried, and still used today for heating homes. The first time I went up here I hitched and I was concerned that although Achill is only 40 miles from Westport it felt like 400 miles into the back side of the civilized world. I managed to get a ride right onto the island with two women who were reporting into work at the call center in Achill town. Then I began to hitch around the island and it was slow going. Not only that, but storms were passing through although cars weren´t. After an hour I gave up crossed the street, and started hitching back towards Westport, comforting myself that at least I got to the island even if I didn´t get to go along the Atlantic Coast drive which was reputed to be some of the most beautiful scenery in Ireland. Soon I became a fixture on the landscape as I hitched for hours trying to get back to Westport. The wind picked up, squalls pulled in then left, and the only thing that comforted me was the police station across the street. If it got really bad, I could go in and report myself missing or something and maybe they would take pity on me and drive me to Westport, where I was last seen.

An old man, a farmer, finally stopped, looking for a bit of conversation and whatnot to ease his long drive to the big town in that area, Castlebar. He drove me right to Westport, bless his soul. But not before we had the Bush Talk, required conversation everywhere now. Amazingly, he was pro-Bush! Of course he didn´t have to live with Bush and the Irish have Bertie Ahern as their president and he is just undergoing questioning on some $50,000 that he can´t quite remember where he got or what he did with it.

The next day I rode back to Achill Island with 2 German woman who had rented a car and didn´t mind my company. What a glorious day and we couldn´t help ourselves from stopping every mile or so to get out and absorb the vistas of land, bog, sea, and sky. We were very compatible travelers, liked the cemeteries, picking and eating wild blackberries, stopping for a tea now and then, or just stopping and each of us wandering off on our own. Beautiful beautiful country!

Westport

2007-10-08T09:22:00.001-07:00

Westport is home to Matt Molloy´s pub, member of The Chieftains, a very famous traditional Irish group. So I HAD to go there every night to hear the great music, right? The lively group above is playing next door to Matt´s, at Porter´s pub and you could hear great music coming from every other pub in town, quite a feat for a village that only has 4 main streets to start with.

On. Sat., the local horse and donkey owners association held their annual fair and big-booted men clomped through town from their farms to give them a look-over. I especially loved the sweet-faced donkey above and offered to buy him (1000 euros!!). Across the way was a very vocal pony, yanking his owner around, neighing and yelling, and and causing a ruckus. I asked the lady who owned the donkeys what the horse was complaining about and she said that the donkey was his friend, that they share a pasture together, and he wanted to be with his friend. My heart broke when I realized that they both may be sold and somehow that horse knew this and was so upset by it. Can I buy both of them, I asked, half in jest.

Besides the animal melodrama, Westport is a wonderful small town in the NW corner of Connemara, Co. Mayo, I was able to hitch out of town, getting a lift with a lady taking her dog for a run on the beach who left me off at the foot of Crough Padraig, and then from a man who was going all the way to the beach at Louisburg to do a short job, he was an engineer doing some water supply testing, and so he also gave me a lift back into town. Hitching in Ireland used to be very easy and safe. Now everyone has cars so people aren´t as friendly anymore -- they want to know why you don´t have one.

I stayed at the Old Mill Youth Hostel, got a lower bunk bed in a 7 bed room for 18 euros, with kitchen privileges. clean toilets, and adequate showers. I went to the library for free internet, ate bread and cheese in the nearby park along the river, and sat in the weak autumn sun in between short showers. I also treated myself to a movie -- Jodie Foster in The Brave One, very thought-provoking about choices of violent behavior we might make under certain cirsumstances. The Old Mill was full Thurs. and Fri. so I moved in to The Abbeywood, had a 4 bed room all to myself and I spent time with Mischa, an older man from Hungary trying to support his family who still live in a small village in Hungary.

Westport struck a chord with me, a nice small friendly town, village really, on a river, near spectacular coast, easy to get around, probably easy to live here. I also met an Austrian woman, Marina, who is moving here to work as a nurse. We talked about how good it felt in this town but couldn´t quite put our finger on why.

Crough Padraig

2007-10-08T09:14:00.001-07:00

Crough Padraig or Mt. Patrick is the imposing volcano cone dominating the Westport skyline in the upper NW corner of Ireland, in Co. Mayo. This is the place where St. Patrick went for his 40 days fast before beginning converting the Irish to Christianity. Many people still come here on pilgrimmage and as rough as the terrain is, covered in sharp rocks and scree, many walk to the summit barefoot.

There is a power here, the mountain is sudden and strong as is the weather that always surrounds it. It is not high, or even that imposing, but it does impress.

Jampaling Buddhist Center, Bawnboy, Co. Cavan

2007-10-08T08:48:00.000-07:00

I worked for 2 weeks at the Jampaling Buddhist Center as a wwoofer, or world-wide opportunities for organic farming. I joined this organization before I left: it costs $30 per year and it gives you access to organic farmers all over the world who are interested in having you work for them in exchange for room and board. This was a great opportunity to work in an organic garden in a part of Ireland that most would never find themselves. The Center is a former manor home and estates which the owner, Marjorie, has donated as a Buddhist retreat and learning center. She is now a Buddhist nun and shares responsibility of running the center with Rinpoche, a Tibetan monk aged 75. Together, they also sponsor a Buddhist Center in Ulanbator, Mongolia where they fund the training of young Mongolian monks and also support a garden project.

My job was to harvest what summer veggies were still available and get the rest of the beds ready for winter. The garden was lovely, about 1 1/2 acres, but not all were planted. Mostly winter veggies were planted: turnips, beets, cabbage, onions, potatoes but also lots of lettuce, spinach, sweet peas, and runner beans. And in the polytunnel (necessary in very rainy Ireland) were 3 types of tomatoes, more lettuces, cucumbers, and herbs.

I lived in the women´s dorm with Katrina from Belfast who was spending a month at the Center doing a retreat. Two young women, Bonnie from Ireland and Anna from Poland, resided at the Center and provided cooking and cleaning of the center. Others drifted in and out either working or doing meditative retreats. The area was beautiful! Above is a photo of the lake to the rear of the grounds and the view of the mountains.

The weather held and I had 2 great weeks for working in a muddy garden. But nights started to get cold and I could see frost on the leaves as I walked to the main house for coffee in the mornings.

While I was at Jampaling, I was able to get a year long visa to stay in Ireland and I also met and made many friends. My plan is to return to Balinamore, the next village from Bawnboy, in Jan. 2008 and continue working at the Jampaling garden. I have set up an internship with Oregon State University students in the Soil Science and Horticulture Dept. in order to have knowledgeable and trained students getting the opportuntiy to work in this potentially very productive garden. There are many other organic farmers in this area of Ireland and I am eager to meet them and also get more training though the local organic agencies.

Cobh, Final Departure

2007-10-08T08:33:00.000-07:00

On Sunday, Sept. 9, I took a local train, one of the last of its kind in Ireland, to the small coastal town of Cobh (said Cove) on the opposite end of the great Cork Bay from Kinsale. I was joined by lots of Polish families and others as well, strollers and kids in tow because one stop before Cobh is a safari theme park with tigers, and monkeys, and elephants.

This is the port from where so many starving Irish famine victims set sail for America. I have noticed that unlike the rest of the world, the Irish call it America, not the United States. A subtle difference there that reminds me what we once were to others, the beacon of light we shone into the darkness.

Following the famine trail became a theme, not consciously chosen, but perhaps the Irish are emphasizing it now that they have put enough time and space between what they were and what they have become, real contenders.

A quick trip through NW Ireland --Cork, Cavan, Westport & Achill Island, Galway

2007-10-06T06:23:00.000-07:00

The city of Cork, in the SW corner of Ireland, is the usual grey somewhat grimey Irish city but it is also the culinary capital of Ireland, surrounded by burgeoning small organic farms and host to the English Market, a lovely indoor market of fresh vegetables, fish, meats, sea food and shell fish that rivals Pike Place Market in Seattle. I stayed uphill from the city at Sheila´s Youth Hostel where this photo was taken. I was surprised at how many Polish people were in Cork, every second person or family were speaking Polish. It seems that the Celtic Tiger, Ireland´s booming economy, requires more people than Ireland can provide so instead of, as in the recent past, exporting their young to other countries, they are importing workers eager to take part in a vibrant and friendly economy. I arrived in Cork Friday and by Sat., was ready to get out of the city so I headed to Kinsale, a foodie center, at one end of Cork´s bay. Kinsale is cute, almost too cute, with lots of great restaurants, but I took advantage of the warm sunny day and hiked out of town to the beach about 3 miles along the coast.

The Costa Rica You Might Never Hear About

2007-10-04T05:55:00.000-07:00

Having spent only four months in one small village in Costa Rica doesn´t make me an expert and yet, there seems to be two faces presented to visitors. One being the GREEN, ecologically sensitive one, paired with volunteer with the turtles, surf with the dudes, sip organic coffee, and contemplate the natural beauty and playful howler monkeys.

But there is another face to Costa Rica and it is not as pretty. Or as green. Or as ecologically sound. Or even terribly friendly. In the time I lived in Orosi, next to the stone quarry that had been shut down for business by the Ministry of Interior for polluting the air, endangering the local neighbors, and destroying the river, the owner, a wealthy man in these parts, bribed a judge and made up for lost time spent in jail by working the stone crusher up to 16 hours a day.

The sounds reverberates through the valley. There is no escaping it although if you are higher up valley, only a mild thumping can be heard, somewhat reminiscent of the roar of the Rio de Orosi as it thunders down the valley and into Lago de Cachi. But if you are in the barrio sharing fields and riverside with the stone crushing equipment, it begins to thump in your brain like a helicopter that never shuts off, never flies away.

Local children have asthma, as do the old people. Others just get headaches and housewives are driven to distraction removing the constant creep of stone dust. Not so bad I guess. Not the worst that could happen to a community.

As you look up valley or cross valley, all you see is green, layers of differing levels and tones of green. How lovely! Until you realize that all that green isn´t natural ancient rain forest. All that green is coffee and banana plantations, regularly sprayed with DDT and pesticides.

A local public health official informed me that the nearby towns of Cartago and Paraiso have the highest rates of stomach cancer in Costa Rica. Local farmers regularly don neckarchiefs across their faces to protect them from the herbicides and pesicides they carefully spray their gardens with to ensure that they will get the harvest and not the voracious insects who they share all their food and belongings with.

So -- your vision isn´t the same as you begin to add up these facts and wonder. Is Costa Rica some central American miracle, the longest-running democracy in a region rife with thugs, oligarchies and terror? Or is it a US enclave, a place to funnel our money, where it is still cheap to live, albeit not nearly as safe as we had thought. Gangs are about in San Jose, you can get killed in your plush home or apartment in the night. And even in sweet Orosi, overlooking the volcanos toward the Caribbean, backed into a lovely valley where howler monkeys can still be seen roaming with thier families, has its share of crime, petty thievery, leading all to be slightly on-edge, suspicious of their neighbors, in a remote mountain town of 5,000 souls.

Come and see for yourself. The people are friendly and kind, stretched to the limit by a new economy they don´t fully understand yet and may get abandoned by before they have a chance to comprehend it. Just don´t fall completely prey to the marketing juggernaut that says Costa Rica is paradise.

Paradise is not so easy to find, you see.

Getting Around Orosi

2007-10-04T00:37:00.000-07:00

Yes I bought a scooter! The speed was breath taking! And it made getting around town and the Orosi Valley such an adventure. Especially since I had to sneak past any posted policia because I didn´t have a licence or my official owner papers. Making the loop upvalley into Tapanti National Park, I heard the approach of a troop of howler monkeys although they never showed their faces as they leaped from tree to tree coming down from the ridge toward the river. Then I backtracked a bit to the main road, crossed the river on planks thrown down over a rickety metal bridge, and bounced down to the Cachi dam, over the dam, to Ujarras where there is a fine ruin of a cathedral, up past the waterfalls, and creeping slowly through Paraiso once again avoiding the police, I barrelled up mountain and then down mountain straight into Orosi, home of the oldest in-use 16th century cathedral in Costa Rica.

So, complaints and disappointments aside, life was pleasant and a comforting routine was established by my second week in town: up a 6 am with the roosters and all my neighbors, coffee in the sun, look for the parrot in my neighbor´s tree, head for town to buy fresh vegetables and wonderful fruit (mangoes, papayas, pineapple), prepare my lesson for teaching English, attend Spanish classes at Montana Linda school, visit friends (Americans, Swiss, Ticos, Dutch -- nice mix of expats) and most of all do nothing much but it feels like a lot! I also worked at Tia´s Garden vegetarian restaurant owned by Phyllis and John of Alabama. First I went there for the great food, and then the terrific friendship, then offered to do prepwork once or twice a week which soon grew to every day. Phyllis and John paid me in fresh bread, frozen cappuchinos, yoghurt, and good food. What a great job!

My good friend Cindie (on scooter) taught English in Orosi and we both tried to improve our Spanish but often whined about how difficult this very easy language actually is. I am still trying to master it but I am realizing that my brain may be too old for me to become proficient and I may always be a beginner, constantly restudying the same stuff over and over again before it actually stays in my mind.

Walk About 2007

2007-10-04T00:19:00.000-07:00

I am calling this blog Walk About 2007 but it well may last until 2008, 2009, or ?? Many things have propelled me onto the road, not the least of which is the responsibility of the United States for so much misery and unrest in the world. But also, because it is time to check in and see how others are faring; because I still have some of my brain cells firing and wake up each morning knowing a) who I am and b) where I am; and niggling in the back of my mind is the thought that the world may be changing very quickly now and the price of oil and the cost of the large carbon footprint of jet flights may well preclude someone as genteely poor as myself from travelling much in the future.

My journey has taken me to Costa Rica, NY & MA in the US, Ireland, and Spain with my main objective boarding the Trans-Siberian train bound for Mongolia in early May. Other stops along the way may be Vilnius, Lithuania and St. Petersburg, and after Mongolia?? Maybe Beijing, sneaking in just before the chaos that is the Olympics, down to Viet Nam, Cambodia, and Laos, or through the ´Stans overland to Istanbul. The trail fades out a bit at this point but I know that it is there!

And so I have set out. The journey began last March 6, 2007 in Costa Rica.