Tag: tourism

  • Tallinn Snapshots

    Greetings from Tallinn!

    On Monday, my friend and I took the 2-hour ferry from Helsinki, Finland to Tallinn, Estonia.

    Our mission? Like nearly every other passenger on board, buying alcohol. Tallinn, evidently, is the everyman’s solution to avoiding Finland’s high taxes and stocking up on liquor for parties and general consumption.

    With a house party coming up this weekend, we had an important task to complete, and an extra seven hours to explore Tallinn… Here’s just a taste:

    The ferry itself is six stories tall, boasting its own liquor store, luxury “trends” store and nightclub—where drinking habits go to breed and a night out consists of a round trip to Tallinn without ever leaving the boat.

    The breakfast buffet offers Karelian tarts (hailing from the Finnish region of Karelia, pastries full of rice, topped with a special “egg butter”), smoked salmon and cold cuts, mysterious meatballs and an assortment of very particular cured fish. We spend the entire trip to Tallinn slowly working our way through it all.

    My favorite poster from the day.

    Tallinn’s Old Town winds away from the harbor, a pleasant mix of cobblestones I’m still feeling in my sore legs, kitsch tourist restaurants loosely modeled after medieval times, posters that seem stuck in another century, souvenir shops and folk art galleries.

    My friend, travel sister and current host, posing with an eye-catching door.

    Outside one of those restaurants, bored waiters crouch down to scatter crumbs to a few pigeons. Next door, a woman in full-on (presumably) traditional Estonian garb acts as a human signboard—brightly colored embroidery, tightly braided pigtails and elaborate headdress demanding the passerby’s attention. We try to covertly get a picture of her… and fail:

    I think she saw us…

    But, we are photo-bombed brilliantly by a passing stranger, which makes up for it:

    Never seen this guy before in my life.

    I spot Captain Jack Sparrow walking down one of the main streets, swagger and all. I get a little bit too excited, fumbling with my camera and missing the photo op. I still wonder what restaurant he was promoting.

    As Jack Sparrow disappears down the street, we follow the sound of a Steel HandPan to a busker, and I meet my soulmate in puppy form:

    More puppy pictures to come.

    As is the case in dedicated tourist towns the world over, we are met with considerable indifference by a considerable portion of Tallinn’s population, with some friendly exceptions. As dusk falls (around 4p.m. in this part of the world), exhausted from some combination of cobblestones and cloudy skies, we settle in for a dinner of Modern Estonian Cuisine before making our way back to the ferry.

    Tallinn at dusk—beautiful.

    It’s a good day.

    ***

  • Strangers on a Train

    “We’re on our way to bible study,” says my friend. (He likes to make up stories, but let’s get real, who doesn’t?)

    It’s 10:00 pm, and we’re on the Circle Line, retracing our steps into Central London after hopping the wrong train. Across from us sits a young couple—friendly, talkative, and maybe a touch too willing to believe his absurd stories. They are sipping from a water bottle of vodka and fanta, on their way to a night out “raving.”
    Thus begins my Saturday night this past weekend. My friend alights at King’s Cross Station to head home, and I follow these strangers (soon to be friends) to Fabric, one of London’s most famous House clubs.
    We will meet another stranger on our way out of the Tube, and together walk to the venue. We will spend the next four or five hours dancing to some of the best House music I’ve heard in a year, adding new strangers (new friends) to our group as we went, and they will become, over the course of the night, no longer strangers.
    And all because we had all looked up across the aisle of a Circle Line train and said hello.
    A week prior, I went to meet my coworker in Oxford for the first time. On the trip home, the train was rush-hour packed—standing room only. Series of unexpected events, I found myself squished next to a fellow American; as foreigners are wont to do, we struck up a conversation, found it fascinating, and continued it over a particularly delicious dinner in Notting Hill.

    And all because I had asked (in my unmistakably American accent), “Is this the train to London?”
    When did we grow afraid of strangers? When did the popular wisdom for travelers shift from, trust the road and the good Samaritans who walk it, to, trust no one? When did two strangers—or four strangers—talking on the train become the exception, rather than the rule?
    I have an advantage, in that nothing about my thin five foot five frame and wide smile inspires fear or mistrust. There are fewer barriers for me to cross to arrive at the human beings inside their protective circles.
    Some of my most entertaining nights out, fascinating conversations and closest connections have occurred simply because I looked up and said hello. Though I occasionally forget and succumb to the comfortable bubble of my own world, I try to make a rule of talking to strangers—I have yet to regret it.
    And then, when you think about it, aren’t we all just strangers on a train?
    Busy watching for our station, looking out the window, or within, or anywhere but around us, we don’t realize that the train is it. There are no stations, no stops, and for all we know no destination.
    Our fellow passengers? We’re stuck with them—better hope they don’t smell—and we can make of that a party or a burden. The Buddhists will tell you the train is an illusion; the Jews will tell you it’s the only thing that’s real. One thing I know for certain: It’s what we make of the ride that counts.
    So we can either look up and say hello, and make the journey worthwhile, or we can keep staring at our shoes, waiting for the conductor to call our stop.

    Try saying hello to a stranger today and see what happens. Maybe they’ll tell you their life story. Maybe they won’t respond. Maybe that stranger will change your life—or your day, or your next ten minutes. But no matter what, isn’t it more interesting than your toes?

    ***

  • An Incomplete Guide to Sicily in Quotes & Pictures

    Valle dei Templi (Valley of the Temples), Agrigento, Sicily

    “The climate’s delicate; the air most sweet.
    Fertile the isle, the temple much surpassing
    The common praise it bears.”
    — Shakespeare

    I could write—and, indeed, have written—many pages about Sicily. However, I’m hardly the first person to be taken with the island’s complex history, natural beauty and unique charms, so for a change I would like to share the words of other writers, whose perspectives, combined with pictures from my recent visit, make for a woefully incomplete (but very poetic) look at the place. I hope it may whet your appetite for more, as I never tire of convincing people to visit!

    Scala dei Turchi (Stair of the Turks), Realmonte, Sicily.  
    “Ho capito che la Sicilia è molto più complessa di quello che si può pensare: la paragonerei ad una cipolla dai molti strati.” — Paco Ignacio Taibo II
    (“I have understood that Sicily is much more complex than one might think: I would compare it to an onion of many layers.”)
    Cattedrale di San Givanni Battista, Ragusa.
    “Sicily has suffered 13 foreign dominations from which she has taken both the best and the worst. The sequence of different cultures has made Sicily a fascinating place, quite unlike any other.” — Andrea Camilleri
    Valle dei Templi.

    “This is the homeland of the Gods of Greek mythology. Near these places, Pluto abducted Persephone from her mother. In this wood we just walked through, Ceres ceased her swift running and tired of her fruitless search, sat on a rock, and despite being a goddess, she wept, the Greeks say, since she was a mother. In these valleys, Apollo pastured his flocks; these groves, stretching down to the seashore, have echoed with Pan’s flute; the nymphs got lost under their shade and breathed their scent. Galatea fled from Polyphemus and Acis, close to succumbing to the blows of his rival, enthralled these shores leaving his name here … In the distance you can see the lake of Hercules and the rocks of the Cyclops. Land of gods and heroes!” — Alexis De Tocqueville

    Valle dei Templi.

    “Sicily is more beautiful than any woman.”
    Truman Capote

    Valle dei Templi.
    “Il siciliano è il prodotto di un territorio che non è un pezzo staccato d’Italia, che non ha mai fatto parte di alcuna parte del mondo in epoca storica, che è stato occupato da nord, sud, est, ma mai è stato assimilato, l’isola in cui niente è stabile se non il movimento, il non-stabile, dove un giorno distrugge quanto l’altro giorno ha costruito, dove vulcanismo e nettunismo sono continuamente all’opera, dove un giorno trasforma la storia di secoli.” — Paul Yorck von Wartenburg

    (“The Sicilian is the product of a territory that is separate from Italy, that has never been part of any part of the world in any period of history, that has been occupied by the North, South, East, but never assimilated, the island in which nothing is stable except movement, non-stability, where one day destroys that which another the other day built, where volcanic and marine forces are always at work, where one day transforms the history of centuries.”)

    “Sicilians build things like they will live forever and eat like they will die tomorrow.” — Plato

    Valle dei Templi.

    “For over twenty-five centuries we’ve been bearing the weight of superb and heterogeneous civilizations, all from outside, none made by ourselves, none that we could call our own.”

    This violence of landscape, this cruelty of climate, this continual tension in everything, and even these monuments of the past, magnificent yet incomprehensible because not built by us and yet standing round us like lovely mute ghosts; all those rulers who landed by main force from every direction who were at once obeyed, soon detested, and always misunderstood, their only expressions works of art we couldn’t understand and taxes which we understood only too well and which they spent elsewhere: all these things have formed our character, which is thus conditioned by events outside our control as well as by a terrifying insularity of mind.”

    ― Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa

    Sunset from a lighthouse.
    “I was enchanted… the limpidity of the sky, the restless splendor of the sun, the beauty of the countryside, a certain excitement of the fantasy…which brought to mind the time when in the fields one encountered the divine.” — Jean Houel

    Ragusa Ibla, Sicily

    “In Sicilia abbiamo tutto. Ci manca il resto.” — Pino Caruso
    (“In Sicily we have everything. We’re just missing the rest.”)


    Valle dei Templi.
    “Noi fummo i Gattopardi, i Leoni; quelli che ci sostituiranno saranno gli sciacalletti, le iene; e tutti quanti gattopardi, sciacalli e pecore, continueremo a crederci il sale della terra.”

    (“We were the Leopards, the Lions; those who will replace us will be little jackals, hyenas; and all of us Leopards, jackals and sheep, we’ll go on thinking ourselves the salt of the earth.”)
    ― Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa

    Macalube, Aragona, Sicily.

    “Per me la Sicilia ha una luce particolare, qualcosa di primordiale. Io non sono nato in Sicilia anche se mia madre è di Palermo. È come se con questa terra ci fosse un richiamo anche più lontano della mia esistenza, che appartenga alla mia memoria. Scrivo volentieri qui, c’è un’aria speciale, istintiva. Non mi va neanche di dargli un nome sennò darei dei confini che non ha.” — Emanuele Crialese

    (“For me, Sicily has a particular light, something of the primordial. I wasn’t born in Sicily even though my mother is from Palermo. It’s as if with this land were a recollection even further back in my existence, which belongs to my memory. I write often here, there’s a special atmosphere, instinctive. I do not even give it a name, as to do so would give it boundaries which it does not have.”)
    Scala dei Turchi.

    “There it was again: the sweeping verbal gesture magnified in the prism of Sicily, the pronouncement so poetic it nullified any arguments before they could take their first breath. The vines, the amphorae, the thousands of years of history, the palmenti, the volcano, the beauty, the power of it all. In Italy, of course, beauty is next to holiness. Sicily was long the most treasured daughter of the Mediterranean. So who can teach Sicily anything about beauty?” — Robert Camuto

    Fountain, Ragusa, Sicily.

    “All of Sicily is a dimension of the imagination.” — Leonardo Sciascia

    “Raccontano, infatti, che secondo il mito la Sicilia è sacra a Core poiché qui avvenne il suo rapimento e perché l’isola fu offerta alla dea come dono di nozze.” — Plutarco
    (“They say, in fact, that according to legend Sicily is sacred to Persephone since her abduction took place here and because the island was offered to the goddess as a wedding gift.”)

    Train tracks at the edge of the Valle dei Templi.

    “And anyone who has once known this land can never be quite free from the nostalgia for it.” — D. H. Lawrence

    *** 
    [All translations mine. :)]

  • Being versus Seeing


    So, what are you doing here?

    They say it kindly—with honest curiosity—and they say it in Italian, but that is the question.

    The woman at the cheese shop who patiently helps me taste 10 local varieties before wrapping up my selections. The barista at the cafe on the large piazza near my apartment. The elderly gentleman who insists on guiding me through the steep valley from Ragusa (the newer city where I stay) to Ragusa Ibla (the old medieval part of town).

    They want to place me, and I want to help them.

    Entering the valley.

    I explain, in as few words as possible, my work-travel creation. That is, more working than traveling; more living than exploring.

    And, sheepishly, I recall inwardly how disappointing a tourist I have been…

    I managed to climb the bell tower of the main cathedral. I spent an hour in Modica, one of the next towns over, tasting chocolate made the traditional (unbelievably delicious) way and eating granita. I’ve visited a few beautifully restored churches (a huge earthquake in 1693 destroyed most of the older architecture, and I’ve wandered many of the small, hilly streets, eating gelato, canoli or any other treats I stumble upon. I have the good fortune to be staying with two teachers, and have attended a few dinners, lectures and expositions with them, too.

    Cattedrale di San Giovanni Battista (and the piazza)

    It’s not nothing, but it’s not much, considering I’ve been here 10 days already. Compared to past trips, when I managed to cover as many countries in a month and spent entire days on an expedition to see a city from top to bottom, it’s not much at all.

    What’s changed? Quite a bit…

    These days, I don’t have so much free time.

    Between trying to regain a daily yoga practice after injuring my hip, working six to seven hours, chatting with my hosts (my Italian gets better by the minute!), cooking all my meals and trying to write besides, I watch my days fill up fast.

    Most days, I’m happy to get a walk in, a visit to the market and maybe an hour at a cafe.

    In the valley: gate to nowhere.

    So when I feel “guilty” for not doing or seeing as much as I can while I’m in this new town—this place I’ve never been before—I gently remind myself that actually, I’m not here to visit, to tour, or to see.

    I am here to be.

    Not, I am in Ragusa to ____.

    Rather, I am in Ragusa.

    That’s all.

    Ragusa Ibla.

    It’s a subtle shift, but it relieves some of that odd pressure of being a tourist or traveler—here to see, absorb and record as much as possible.

    And I find I am only capable of this shift because I have “an excuse.” I’m working, I’m not on vacation, I’m girando (moving around), but I’m not a tourist… blah, blah blah. Excuse or no excuse, maybe this is the way to do it—for me. (You can do it however is the right way for you, of course.)

    Seeing what I see and doing what I manage to do, but moving my focus away from quantity of recordable events, I can experience my existence here without expectations. The same way I would anywhere, without the badge of “travel” tacked onto the box where I store and process those stories.

    What does it mean to focus on “being” in a place, rather than “seeing” a place?

    Well, that’s what I’m figuring out right now… I’ll let you know.

    Ragusa Ibla.

    ***

  • Cows on the Beach (Photos)

    There is something delightful about seeing herds of cows wandering along the beach.

    Sure, when I stop to think about how much manure is probably swept up during high tide, it’s suddenly much less delightful. But still, they’re adorable and particularly photogenic, so I’ve found myself taking a (uselessly) large quantity of pictures of cows on the beach.

    Lest they be wasted, I am sharing the best ones here.

    Don’t worry—more are surely on the way. I will update this post with more cows on the beach as I see them!
    ***

  • The Invisibility Wish


    Living here, I find I cycle between feeling very comfortable and, dare I say it, assimilated (as much as such a thing is possible), and feeling totally out-of-place and exhausted with sticking out. This is a stream of consciousness on the latter:

    Sometimes, I wish I could be invisible here.

    A foreign feeling for me, who always wanted so much to stand out;
    Now here, hard as I may try, I could not hope to blend in,
    And though it is freeing at times and instructive at others,
    Sometimes, I would like to be invisible.

    Anonymity—a luxury I never appreciated—suddenly seems so very appealing:

    To spend a day where no cars screech to a stop to watch me pass, and no strangers want to talk to me simply because I am white (or foreign, or tourist, or moneyed or different… it’s all the same. And it is because I am white and foreign; I watch the women walking here, and no one wants to talk to them)…

    To spend a day anonymous; to slip under the water of hyper-conscious observation and simply watch for a change; to sit on the bus in silence—what a day that would be.

    Sometimes, when every day is a crowded audience for which I perform my life, I wouldn’t mind stepping into the shadows and only watching for a while.

    But I can’t.

    You can’t watch without being watched. You can’t be an observer without creating ripples through the world you observe. I think physics taught us that.

    You can’t be a white woman in Africa without recognizing the remnants of colonialism. (Irrelevant that at my ancestors were far removed at the time, living their lives in Eastern Europe at the time. I am still a white woman in Africa, here.) You can’t be a tourist without accepting that your money talks and it’s saying, “come talk to me.” You can’t be a foreigner without relinquishing your right to anonymity.

    Or maybe you can, but I haven’t figured out the secret. I will have to do without invisible days and unobserved observation, as I do without good cheese and potable tap water. Luckily, I have a vivid imagination—sometimes I pretend laughing cow is really a luscious Camembert, and sometimes I pretend the shouts and stares are all imaginary, and the beach is really a calm and peaceful oasis.

    It’s all perspective, anyway.

    *** 

  • “Hakuna Matata”

    Photo Credit: Flickr


    “Hakuna Matata! It means no worries…”

    I’m sure everyone can finish that sentence–especially those who, like me, grew up on The Lion King and other Disney movies.

    Except, did you know “hakuna matata” actually does mean “no worries” in Ki-Swahili? Maybe I’m the odd one out, but I didn’t!

    Hakuna, “there are no,” matata, “problems” (or worries, colloquially).

    Incidentally, Simba, our favorite main character’s name, means “lion,” Rafiki, our favorite supporting monkey, means “friend,” and Nala means “gift.” The list actually goes on and on, fatally crushing my (totally baseless) childhood assumption that Disney had made it all up. That I can recall, no credit was given. Classic.

    What I find really fascinating is the way the phrase “Hakuna Matata” has come to define tourism along the Swahili Coast in many ways.

    The following are my observations and hypotheses only, and in no way represent a comprehensive study or survey of tourism in the region. With that caveat in mind, I think we have some good old-fashioned Orientalism at play here.

    Very briefly put, “Orientalism” describes a process (first laid out by Edward Said in his 1978 book by the same name) by which Western, largely fictional accounts of an exotic, Eastern “Other” serve to reinforce existing cultural stereotypes. This “knowledge” is then internalized by those “Others” when they observe themselves through Western lenses and reflected back to Western observers as reality. The original sense of Orientalism was limited to academia and a particular corner of the globe; however, the concept can have far-reaching applications.

    When it comes to the phrase “Hakuna Matata,” Disney’s The Lion King effectively fed generations of Americans (and others) a heavily fictionalized and distorted portrait of Swahili culture without our realizing it.

    Now, in the parts of Tanzania and Kenya I have visited, it’s a catchphrase for rastas on the beach, shopkeepers, souvenirs (T-shirts, pottery, paintings, postcards, keychains, sarongs, and every form of kitsch) and tourism.

    Photo Credit: The Hunt

    It has managed to insinuate itself into the most mundane of daily interactions between tourists and locals: “Hi, how are you?” “I’m fine.” “Everything good? Hakuna Matata?” Or: “Coconut oil? Bracelet? Sister, you want something?” “No, thank you brother, I’m okay.” “Okay. Hakuna matata.”

    And even in intrusive non-interactions: “Wei (You)! Where are you going? Just walking? Very good, Hakuna Matata.” Or muttered, half-interactions: “Helloooo.” “Hi.” “Jambooo. Helooo. Hakuna Matata…”

    I don’t know what role those words played pre-Lion King and multi-million dollar tourism industry, but I doubt they were quite so widespread. Now, for the tourist world and the people that cater to it, those words are everything. I’ve started thinking of this as the “Hakuna Matata Complex,” though perhaps that’s undeserved.

    My point is, whatever the initial impetus (did tourists’ expectations start the trend? did an enterprising salesman realize the opportunity for profit? I don’t know.), Hakuna Matata has become more than a catchy phrase to print on souvenirs.

    It’s an identity and a brand. The East African coast seems to be turning into a caricature of itself—or, at least the face it presents to tourists is:

    The carefree, “no worries” attitudes of the young men who roam the beach offering boat rides, bracelets and (sometimes) romantic flings. The escapist, happy-go-lucky language covering hotel brochures and tourism websites. The one-dimensional, highly stereotypical idea of a culture that is packaged, sold and summed up in two words: Hakuna Matata.

    Most interesting are the many manners in which our favorite Swahili-turned-Disney slogan is used. Sometimes there is irony, and a look that I interpret as, “I am making a lot of money off your daft willingness to believe my culture boils down to two silly words, so I’ll follow the script.” Sometimes I read eagerness and sincerity: “Welcome to the land of Hakuna Matata. Really.” And sometimes I perceive something like resentment, which, considering the veritable flood of foreigners, would be understandable.

    Sometimes, when I’ve heard “Hakuna Matata” for the thirtieth time that day, I want to tear someone’s Hakuna Matata T-shirt to shreds. I don’t. I just file it away in the Hakuna Matata compartment in my brain and keep walking… at some point, I will open that box and sort out what I’ve collected there. (This is a first attempt.)

    I wonder: How many tourists go home thinking, “This is East Africa”?

    I don’t know.

    How many of the young men on the beach present this idea of themselves with sincerity, and genuinely identify with the Hakuna Matata Africa of brochures and T-shirts?

    I don’t know. If they do, though, then these old and tired cultural stereotypes have triumphed, and indeed a limiting caricature has been made reality.

    Or. Or maybe the joke is on us. Maybe there is more self-awareness and agency than I can observe from my position as an outsider. Maybe it’s not tourist demand driving Hakuna Matata supply, but a cheeky, ironic or simply pragmatic internal effort to determine how and by whose terms outsiders may experience Swahili culture.

    I draw no conclusions as of yet, and only offer my working theories as food for thought. If anyone has been to this region and has a different perspective to share, I would love to hear it.

    One thing is certain: It’s a wonderful phrase!

    ***

  • The Difference A Word Makes

    [Greetings from Nungwi, Zanzibar, my new home-for-the-moment! It was a tough choice, but I decided to switch tracks and will now be living here and teaching yoga for the summer. Come visit. J]

    ***

    Considering I will be here for so long, and mostly on my own, I decided my favorite method of dealing with unwanted attention and attempted sales—the “ignore and conquer” tactic—may not be my best option here. After all, I don’t really want to be that rude muzungu lady who never talks to anyone for three months (even if, secretly, I would be totally happy to have three reclusive months free of dealing with strangers).
    Instead, I’ve decided, I will engage. Stop to chat with, or at least greet, everyone. Practice my increasingly passable Ki-Swahili.
    And it’s amazing the difference a few words make. Knowing that “poa” is the response to “mambo,” the most common greeting. Even better, greeting with “mambo vipi,” a more colloquial version, rarely used by tourists.
    Five basic words of greeting are all it takes to distance myself from foreigners “fresh off the Zanzibar ferry.” The fact that I can hold an introductory conversation and explain that I am here to live and work, all in (broken) Ki-Swahili? Just icing.
    Being able to decline, politely, in Ki-Swahili when offered goods and services means I usually only need to say “no” once, rather than six or seven times. Already, I think I have probably avoided hours of pointless sales pitches for jet-skiing, fishing trips and spice tours.
    It is truly incredible to observe the difference a word or two makes. Some seem to appreciate my effort, smiling or laughing with good-natured surprise. Others just respond in English, but my language skills are far too rudimentary for me to take offense at that. Overall, the response has convinced me to share my experience here.
    To those traveling or living abroad who are tired of being treated as wallets (or breasts) with legs, try learning a few words of the local language. You’ll still stand out (and women, you’ll still be harassed), but you’ll also stand out from other tourists.
    You don’t have to be fluent—no one expects you to be—even ten words will often make a huge difference.

    Have you ever experienced the difference a word makes? What was it like?
    ***

  • The Tropical Beach Paradox

    Walk along Miami Beach in a string bikini, and you’ll fit right in. Opt for boy shorts, and you’ll probably feel overdressed.
    Now, do the same thing in Zanzibar, and unless you are on a truly private beach, chances are you’ll feel very uncomfortably exposed.
    That’s why many large resorts have private beaches. That, and the fact that nothing says luxury like owning your own piece of the ocean.
    Zanzibar is between 95% and 99% Muslim, depending on who you ask, and though local women express their faith in various fashions—some wearing full sleeved dresses and somber-hued veils, others donning brightly colored and fashionably tailored items, and still others wrapping vast kangas (traditional patterned fabric) around their bodies and heads—all of them do so modestly.
    Women don’t show their bodies in public, so men don’t see many bodies. Thus, as my partner once—rather rudely—pointed out, for local men, “seeing exposed skin is like porn.” Harsh, but not inaccurate.
    There’s a paradox here, because Zanzibar’s major industry is tourism.
    This industry packages Zanzibar as a remote, tropical island paradise escape and sells this vision to tourists looking for beach holidays, water sports and romantic adventures—for the most part. The people who populate the island, however, are Muslims, the female half of whom does not swim, does not frolic, lightly clad, in the surf (like the beautiful images on brochures) and seemingly finds it quite entertaining to observe the foreign antics of ever-growing hordes of visitors. (How they really feel about these foreigners, I will not presume to guess.)
    It’s a paradox because we are looking at a massive (and growing) industry built on a beach culture that never before existed and, in context, appears shocking and clumsily out-of-place.
    (A foreign woman visiting Zanzibar is left with three options. She can:
    A. Wear the swimsuits which would feel appropriate or even modest at any American or European beach and feel very uncomfortably exposed.
    B. Not swim. (Not a real option.)
    C. Find a truly deserted beach—as most of the coast is populated by fishing villages or mangrove forests, this last option is unlikely, unless she books her stay at an exclusive, gated resort.
    D. Why is there no D?)
    (It’s not as deserted as it looks.)
    This paradox is hardly unique to Zanzibar. If you follow the equatorial belt around the world, you won’t find many places where short shorts and bikinis seem appropriate. And still, as travelers seek more exotic, more remote, more different destinations, anywhere with a nice beach is liable to become “the next Thailand,” or the next “place you need to visit in the next decade.”
    Why the hurry? I think that’s a story for another day.
    Meanwhile, many of these tropical paradise escapes are rather unlikely and incongruous candidates when you really think about it. I mean, I want to comfortably lie on a beach without offending anyone’s religion, attracting large amounts of attention, arousing anyone’s fantasies of “Western Women,” or shocking anyone with different expectations of modesty… I can’t be the only one!
    Where’s the solution?

    I don’t think there is one… anyone have any better ideas?
    ***

  • Where the Tourist Things Are

    There is a road in Stone Town, Zanzibar. It is a big road, compared to most of the others, and on that road there are many big hotels.
    This road marks the edge of the most touristy part of an increasingly touristy town, cross it, and prices triple—or quadruple—loitering groups of young men disperse and much of the decay and jumbled details that lend the rest of Stown Town much of its charm is conspicuously absent.
    This is where the tourist things are.
    Not that you won’t find tourist things elsewhere. You will.
    The same painted bowls and beaded bracelets, colorful print shirts and cleverly packaged spices, are quite nearly everywhere. But not in this concentration.
    This is where the human tourist things are, too.
    Faced with so many wazungu (foreigners) in such high concentrations I find myself at a loss. Next to my quiet neighborhood interspersed with local cafes and dukas (small food shops), such foreignness is jarring.
    Yes, I know, I am a tourist thing too, and no one would let me forget it. But the groups of backpacked, sneakered oddities nonetheless throw me off. They happily pay two dollars for a mango or fifteen for a kikoi (sarong), making it all the more difficult for me to obtain fair prices. They meander in groups of five or six, shoulders bear or covered heads incongruously juxtaposed with short shorts, and no matter how I dress or walk or talk, I am just like them.
    And yet, I am comfortable where the tourist things are. No one looks at me as they would an alien invader. One of many, I do not attract the same attention I do in residential neighborhoods.
    Here, on this side of the big road, surrounded by other white faces who will never blend in, no matter what, I fit somebody’s paradigm, if not my own.
    Oh yes, I could stay where the tourist things are, surrounded by other tourist things “like” me, but I don’t want to. I will go back to my room at the edge of this quickly changing, quickly gentrifying center and cook maharagwe on a kerosene burner. I will take off the extra layers of clothing I don in a futile attempt to deflect attention. I will finish writing for the day, and I will live the life of my making, uniquely between the tourist things I don’t want and the local things I could never be.
    That is where you will find me.
    (Update: Irony of ironies, you will in fact find me ‘where the tourist things are’ beginning late May. Earl and I will be working at a boutique hotel in Michamvi, on the southeast coast of Zanzibar, for the next 6 months! More to come on this soon.)

    (Stay tuned for pictures. The rainy season does not lend itself to photography.)

  • Sometimes We Don’t Take Pictures: Camping on the Beach and Other Undocumented Adventures

    Greetings from Tanzania!

    In the week since I returned from the U.S., I have not taken a single photograph.
    In that time, we have spent five days camping on the deserted Tiwi Beach south of Mombasa, two days exploring Mombasa—one of them very soggy–and one day on a very long bus ride to Dar Es Salaam, Tanzania.
    At low tide in Tiwi, a treacherous trail through sea urchin mines and slippery pathways of rock led to two wide, deep tidal pools, called Africa Pool and Australia Pool respectively. Africa Pool had a shape remarkably reminiscent of the African continent… Australia Pool less so.
    The pools receded into the overhanging cliffs, and in these dimly lit recesses I could float on my back staring up at a small patch of blue sky revealed by a hole in the stone ceiling. Roots and vines and glimpses of the greenery overhead trailed from the opening, and bright sun, too, at the right time of day.
    One of these caves echoed with the calls of kingfishers and the steady sound of water dripping from pockets collected at high tide. Magic. With goggles, I could explore the meter-high seaweed at the edges of the pools and try to follow the paths of schools of fish—yellow and black striped, iridescent gray with a black line along the top—and observe the forbidding stillness of sea urchins.
    The journey, though only 10 or 15 minutes from camp, felt like an enormous expedition due to the various perils along the way. The sandy beach by our tents (we had joined two friends already there) felt like home when I returned.
    As I floated in the tidal pools watching the clouds pass and the water ripple, I couldn’t help but wish I had brought my camera with me—though how I would have managed it in the pools (water well above my head in places) is beyond me. What lovely pictures I could have taken and shared with all of you.
    Mombasa, gray and narrow upon our rain-soaked arrival, looked far more appealing the following day in the sun. Old Town proffered windows into other eras: curio shops, mosques, cafes and old architecture nestled into every alleyway, a sea view always just minutes away by foot.
    Again, I left my camera at the guest house—and perhaps even had I brought it could not have taken pictures for fear of theft or unwanted attention—and found myself observing picturesque doors and street-fronts longingly. If only I could capture this fascinating swirl of urban culture and take it home with me.
    Finally, the 12-hour bus ride to Tanzania… I was probably awake for half of it. I alternately dozed and gazed out the window, watching the landscape change. As I daydreamt, the earth grew redder; the trees thicker, and the sea more distant and, finally, out of sight altogether. The women I watched on the side of the road when we stopped wore different styles of clothing—some shoulders bare, more and brighter colored fabrics, and somehow more “African” to my eyes.
    Snacks available at rest stops—offered in baskets held up to the high bus windows—shifted too. Plantain chips appeared, mishkaki (skewers of barbecued meat) became more seasoned, and exchange rates grew by a factor of 20.
    As we rocked and bounced and sped along the road to Dar Es Salaam, I felt the old, familiar feeling of excitement return to my gut. 
    New country. New city. New adventure.
    I would have loved to document this leg of our journey. The doorway to a new chapter. The doorway to Dar Es Salaam, House of Peace.
    I did not, however, photograph any of it.
    Typically, I take pictures on designated days during a long trip, opting to leave my camera at home the rest of the time. This choice results in some odd collections of photos—a hundred pictures of Angkor Wat, and none of Phnom Penh; fifty photos of Kilifi Beach, and none of Tiwi—but I prefer it to constantly watching the world through a viewfinder, which I find hugely alters my experience.
    Sometimes, I don’t take pictures. 
    Sometimes, I just travel. For a travel writer, that’s a hard choice to make. It limits how I can record and share my experiences with others. It limits how I can record my travels for myself, restricting me to journal writing, or worse, the incomplete caprice of memory.
    Still, I think most who travel reach a certain point—once or twice, or on a regular basis—where a camera becomes an unwelcome companion.
    We then can choose to bring it along anyways and bear the burden, or we can leave it behind for a day, a week or a month. We might regret the choice later on, when left with no means for capturing the most amazing view, most engaging face, most extraordinary sunset, or we might thank ourselves for creating this space to simply enjoy, imbibe, and, quite possibly, forget.
    Sometimes we don’t take pictures, and we have “nothing” to show for our journey. No evidence. No documentation. No justification.
    And you know what? It’s okay.
    It’s okay if we forget the view from an epic bus ride, the sunset on a remote island, or the face of the old woman we bought vegetables from every day for a week. It’s okay, and it’s even natural, I’d argue. We don’t have to remember every detail, carefully wrapped and preserved in slideshow form.
    I think experiences are most valuable not for the memories they bestow us, but for the subtle changes they initiate within our minds. These we cannot photograph, anyways.
    And so sometimes I don’t take pictures, and all I have to offer are these words.
    ***

  • Kenya V United States (A Fun Chart)

    This blip of time back in the U.S. has offered me some perspective on both Kenya and my home country, and a chance to reflect on how the two compare. So I had myself some fun and made this chart.

    Granted, some of these are generalizations based only on my own experiences; nonetheless, I think the following juxtaposition could be both entertaining and illuminating. Enjoy!

    ***

    Kenya
    United States
    Airport employees mostly smile.
    The women working security at the Mombasa International Airport are delighted at my attempts to speak Ki-Swahili, try to convince me to find a Kenyan husband, and totally crack up when I joke that I already have seven and I don’t want any more.
    Airport employees rarely smile.
    I try to make a joke with the woman directing the passport control line about the man who seems to be trying to cut in front of me. The look she gives me is closer to shock than anything else.
    Pedestrians are responsible for themselves.
    Crossing the street is on you. Try not to get hit.
    Pedestrians are the drivers’ responsibility.
    There are crosswalks. Cars stop at them.
    Metonyms.
    Salad could be anything made from vegetables, be it mango salsa or tomatoes and onion… or mixed greens!
    Divisions (or the corresponding linguistic term).
    Caeser salad; cobb salad; garden salad; waldorf salad… you get the point. So many kinds of salad out there, and we will name them all!
    Mpesa.
    People have been using digital currency for a while. Not a big deal.
    Apple Pay.
    You can pay for things with your iPhone now. It’s a big deal.
    Music.
    All the time. Everywhere. Buses blast awesome music (sometimes too loudly), as do shops, restaurants and motorcycles. Usually I like it.
    Music.
    The usual suspects (restaurants, bars, retail) play the usual tunes, and then yoga classes, of all places, blast terrible hip hop. I don’t like it.
    Corruption.
    Police take people’s money and call it Christmas. (As in, “So, what did you get me for Christmas?”)
    Corruption.
    Police take people’s money and call it the law.

    (See the excellent John Oliver clip below.)

    Cats…
    Are nuisances so problematic in Lamu that they were loaded onto boats and shipped to a remote island (Kiwayu), where they continue to be nuisances.
    Cats…
    Are beloved pets.
     Obama:

    Love him (from what I can tell). I even bought playing cards with Obama’s face on them a couple weeks ago.
     Obama:

    Apparently at least 50% of citizens do not love him. And I’ve never seen Obama cards, though they might exist here too.
     Local food is the norm.
    The main fruit and veg market in Kilifi features whatever is grown (which is a lot!). Imported foods are exorbitantly marked up.
     Local food is a trend.

    I hope it’s a trend that will stick, but the supermarkets I’ve seen still stock masses of produce from around the country and the world.

    ***

    And there you have it! Kenya V United States… Not so different? Not so similar? Maybe a venn diagram would have been better..
    .

    Youtube video


  • Just a Little Bit of Culture Shock

    Piles of fruit in Malindi, Kenya.
    ***

    I’ve always scoffed at the concept of culture shock.

    I go somewhere; there I am. Okay. I go back to the U.S. There I am. Great.

    Depending on where you go, toilets smell worse or better. Water is more or less potable. People stare openly, or pretend not to. Buses leave on time, or they don’t. I could go on and on. Yes, everywhere is different–sometimes exceptionally so. Still, I maintain: What’s the big deal?

    We may be creatures of habit, but we’re also highly adaptable. This is, in my opinion, one of humankind’s greatest assets.

    Meetings and discussions to prepare for “reentry” (offered by any self-respecting study abroad program) struck me as mildly ridiculous. “You might be overwhelmed at the supermarket… blah, blah blah…”

    How could anything top the embodied chaos that are foreign marketplaces? Food shopping in Kilifi replaces my exercise for the day as I lug bags of fresh produce through narrow, narrow lanes between food stalls. Attempting to haggle in my limited (though growing) Swahili, I am rewarded by an incomprehensible verbal assault from the usually serene, matronly mango vendor. Dust and flies and sweat hold court in a small room filled with giant sacks of grain.

    Shopping, much to my delight, is an adventure in other parts of the world. And I’m supposed to be overwhelmed by an American supermarket?

    Street food in Shanghai.

    Now. Here I am in Southfield, Michigan to visit my grandmother. (Sorry to everyone everywhere else in the U.S., I’m here for four days and then I’m flying back to Kenya. I’ll catch you next time.) I arrived yesterday to the shoddy basement International Arrivals hall of Detroit Metropolitan Wayne County Airport. I used a payphone to call my Uncle (When’s the last time I used a payphone?!) and, as has become our routine, we stopped at Plum Market to buy groceries on the way to my grandmother’s house, her fridge being very full of a very limited variety of foods.

    Now. I will happily eat my own words if you would be so kind as to serve them to me, because I was, indeed, overwhelmed.

    I thought I could get pretty much anything at Nakumatt or Tuskys–two Kenyan supermarkets boasting aisles of imported foods.

    Market in Barcelona.

    I was wrong.

    This supermarket truly had everything…

    An entire aisle devoted to bottled juices, smoothies, kombucha and specialty water of dubious benefits.

    Floor-to-ceiling (almost ceiling, anways) choices of canned beans and bagged chips.

    Another whole aisle of cheese. Cheese! I missed cheese much more than I realized. As I stood frozen before the bright display of savory abundance, a man came over to ask if I needed help finding anything. I replied that I was simply overwhelmed by choice.

    He smiled knowingly, but he didn’t know.

    Produce three times larger than what I am now accustomed to teetered at eye level. Onions bigger than baseballs and elephant garlic of the same proportions. Fat eggplant and butternut squash, and apples to feed giants. And these were, supposedly, the organically grown foods!

    How many brands of pasta could there be in one place? I grabbed the first pack in sight, worried that if I stopped to examine my options I would be standing there for an hour.

    And let me not start about prices, because when you live someplace where just about everything seems to cost fifty cents or less, a dollar for a lime is obscene.

    One-stop (one-person?) shopping in Nepal.

    I love to go food shopping. I love to take my time selecting produce and comparing options. I love to wander through piles of promises–ingredients waiting to become meals–anywhere I go.

    But yesterday, for the first time, I understood how a simple supermarket could be overwhelming–the lights too bright; the prices too high; the air too cool; the clientele too calm; the selection too bewilderingly massive.

    I rushed through my list, knowing that if I took the time I wanted to look at everything I would be there until nightfall. Such an overabundance of everything! I was–almost, but not really–in shock.

    I still feel culture shock is too strong to describe my experience. Shock is a sudden death or a push from behind. Shock leaves you paralyzed… I’m still functioning, breathing and standing on two feet. I’m just a few hairs shy of indifferent.

    How about “culture pinch,” that slight twinge of strangeness we experience when we show up someplace new, or return somewhere that used to be familiar but now doesn’t quite fit. Or “culture” bewilderment,” when we’re just kind of confused, but dealing with it all the same. Or, better yet, “culture wonder,” when everything inspires a mild form of awe with few symptoms beyond wide eyes.

    (Any other “culture shock” alternatives to offer? I’m all ears!)

    I’m starting to think that all of those lectures on culture shock and “reentry” shock weren’t wrong; they were just exaggerated and alarmist. So extreme were the warnings that I could never take them seriously. This isn’t an illness we need to carefully monitor and shield against. It’s not a disease that will lay us up in bed for months. But it’s not entirely delusional, either.

    I suspect that we (I) could learn a lot about ourselves (myself) by paying attention to when we feel uncomfortable, overwhelmed or bewildered, and why.

    Food for thought.

    Vermont summer blueberries. Now there’s another thing I miss.

    More importantly though, cheese! So much cheese.

    ***

  • Lamu, Kiwayu and the Danger of Playing it Safe

    For those of you who have been following recent events in Garissa, Kenya, and who were aware of the proximity of Lamu and Kiwayu Island (my location this past week) to the Somali border, you will be happy to know that I am back safe in Kilifi, several hundred kilometers away.
    As events progressed and the news of Al Shabab’s brutal attack on Garissa University broke, sitting on a bus for eight hours while following updates on Twitter, stopping at multiple police checkpoints and traveling with a police escort could have been a nerve-wracking experience, but with the company of my three travel mates and the shaky consolation that lightening rarely strikes twice, we managed to comfortably ride out the journey.
    I don’t want to write about Garissa today, though. (I’ve done that already here.) I want to share a little about the gorgeous regions in the north of Kenya devastated not just by attacks, but also by foreign travel advisories. 
    At 7:30am on Friday, March 27th, three friends and I boarded a bus bound for Lamu, a Unesco World Heritage Site on the north coast of Kenya accessible only by boat.
    Well, to be exact, we waited at the bus stop for three hours first, bags baking in the sun, and then boarded…
    ***
    Day 1: Friday
    At 3:00pm, we pull off the road and wait a couple hours more for an armed convoy to escort us and the other buses of the afternoon through the more forested area north of Garsen. The roads become increasingly rough as the buses continually race past one another for no apparent reason.
    We arrive at Mokoi Port around 7:30pm and crowd into an already packed ferry. The stars grin overhead as we move towards Lamu Island, and I trail my fingers in the dark water.
    After a quick meal of the best nyama choma (grilled kebabs) I have yet tasted in Kenya, I sleep heavily.
    Day 2: Saturday
    I rise at dawn in order to wander the alleys of Lamu before the town and the sun are fully awake. 
    Winding stone pathways tinted with just the slightest bit of tension (or perhaps desperation would be more precise) speak eloquently of Lamu’s prosperous past as a key Swahili port. The sunlight glows on the waterfront, casting in shadow the men who accumulate around boats and food stalls, hoping for better business. 
    We are the only tourists in sight so far. Gorgeous old houses filled with guest rooms stand empty.
    At 6pm, we learn that the dhow (boat) that should have carried us on to Kiwayu Island (originally at noon, then at 7pm) will not leave until the next day. We make a split-second decision to take a speed boat instead, and are spirited away in the night to an even more remote location. We hurriedly load water, produce and other supplies for 5 days and head out into open water.
    The stars are bright bright and curved around the sky like a snow globe.
    Around 9pm, we arrive at Champali (a luxury camp made available to us four grateful travelers through family connections). My room is quintessential island paradise in one room-sized package: big bed, balcony overlooking the ocean, woven mats and open windows on all sides.
    Day 3: Sunday
    I wake again at dawn in a pool of light, the soft sounds of birds and water lapping at the shore welcoming me into the day. I move slowly, from morning yoga to a brief walk away from the camp, to cooking breakfast.
    We play cards and lounge for a while, then make the fifteen-minute “trek” to the other side of the island and eight kilometers of wild, empty beach. Strewn with seaweed, backed by sand dunes and with an unobstructed view of the Indian Ocean, this beach is the definition of remote. My definition, anyways. You would never guess, to stand there, that several hundred people inhabit the island, residing largely in two villages.
    The cicadas in the trees here are terrifyingly loud at times, their buzzing so pervasive it seems to be coming from inside my own head. A noise like that could drive you crazy if you were stuck in a tree with it for long enough.
    Day 4: Monday
    This time we bring boogey boards to the other beach, and for the first time I really understand why people find this activity fun. The waves are just big enough to carry me all the way to shore when I catch them right. I stand up dripping seaweed and sand, and feel decidedly like a six-year-old mermaid version of myself.
    A walk into the village later in the afternoon reveals the hub of human activity that the exterior of the island obscures. The women are beautiful, dressed in a style that looks almost Indian to me, and the children are utterly enthralled by our appearance, trailing behind our small group as we wander a web of thatch-roofed homes and dirt paths speckled with shells—remnants of an aquatic time long past.
    As the sun begins to set we start for Champali, stopping at a beach along the way to watch the color show.
    Day 5: Tuesday
    We all wake up before dawn to race to the top of “Conical Hill,” the tallest point on the island, in time for sunrise.
    Afterwards, we visit Mike and his camp a long walk further down the beach. He, like Kenya’s tourist economy, is struggling. Since two English tourists were kidnapped in 2011, Kiwayu has hardly been a popular destination. All of Lamu region, really, has suffered.
    Gorgeous island getaways stare out at a magnificent ocean view, empty and waiting to be filled again.
    That afternoon, I return to the village and a local woman covers my left arm—from fingers to shoulder—with bold henna designs.
    Day 6: Wednesday
    I wake up slowly, recovering from the long day on Tuesday, luxuriating in the comfort of my big bed. We savor our last hours on Kiwayu, knowing that we will leave at 4am the next day.
    We sit on my balcony to watch one more sunset, the day fading from yellow to orange to dark.
    Day 7: Thursday
    Our boat is late bringing us back to Lamu. We leave at 5:30 instead of 4:30. When we sit down at La Banda, a reasonably priced restaurant overlooking the water, for breakfast, the first news on the Garissa attacks plays on a television at the back of the room.
    The bus ride back to Kilifi is as long and dusty as the first. I feel refreshed and content, though—despite the danger, despite the unrest, I feel secure…

     ***

    I describe my trip in such detail not to brag, but rather to make a point.

    I almost didn’t go.
    When Earl backed out days before our planned departure, I considered doing the same and making the trip another time. Finally though, despite increased travel advisories, Kiwayu’s proximity to Somalia, and the general tone of fear set by foreign governments, international media and even some locals, I decided to go.
    I do not believe I put myself in any serious danger, but I certainly did not “play it safe” according to the conventional wisdom of travel. As more and more tourists opt to visit Tanzania rather than Kenya (playing it safe), unemployment rates here continue to rise (48% for Kenyan youth). These are not conditions for recovery, stability or growth. There is a serious danger there.
    The region of Kenya I just returned from is among the most beautiful areas I have ever visited… the whole coast of Kenya is, in fact. Following yesterday’s events, this hardly seems the moment to encourage anyone to visit, and yet, I want to remind you that there is more here than what you see on the news. That is true everywhere—everything is more than what you hear secondhand.

    Everything you see is certainly true, but it is only one piece of a 1,000-piece puzzle.

    ***

  • The Paradise Mask

    Diani Beach, South Coast, Kenya, 4.3222° S


    “Everybody—everybody who is escaping from something ends up in Diani. Shady people, criminals, expats… everybody.”

    Such was the prognosis of a Diani resident and regular at the South Coast Backpackers bar (where I have been working for the last three weeks), and I am inclined to believe he is right.
    Though it doesn’t seem it outright—packed with tourist shopping centers and hotels as it is—Diani Beach is kind of a final frontier. A “la-la land” for expats and Kenyans alike escaping from their pasts—or simply fleeing the big cities (“Nairobbery,” I have learned, is actually a common nickname for Nairobi). A no-man’s land where many normal social conceits do not seem to reach.
    What does that mean? Allow me to illustrate:
    Here in Diani Beach you have the “beach boys,” the name by which everyone—and I mean everyone—calls the men who pass their time at the beach, either trying to sell something—coconuts, jewelry, boat trips, sunglasses, aloe leaves, safaris and anything else you can or can’t think of—or just loitering… or betting on a Roulette of foreign women. They almost always lose that bet… after all, only so many women will respond kindly to verbal assault: Hey! Beautiful-lady-how-are-you-Where-are-you-going? Why-you-don’t-want-to-talk-you-are-very-beautiful.
    Local bars, however, are brimming with those who have won. Young Kenyan men and women share cocktails and seductive glances with much, much older foreign women and men. The Kenyan men wear their good fortune with a touch of arrogance, while the women adjust their skin-tight dresses and scan the room for something better.
    Residents and long-term visitors prove a bottomless repository of stories—bar brawls, unsavory characters, intrigue—leading a new arrival to wonder how Diani manages to appear so… idyllic. The ever-swaying palm trees, smoldering white sand, jewel-toned water and algae, beachfront thatch-roofed restaurants and resorts, technicolor kites speckling the sky, two resident Diani Beach camels—it all belies a much less serene, much duskier palette of hidden shadows and secrets… Or so it would seem.
    She who ventures out at night must not walk along the road for pickpockets; must be wary of piki pikis and taxis for drunk drivers; must avoid matatus for questionable passengers.
    A guest in a five-star, gated compound on Diani Beach might easily—very easily; too easily—forget that Kenyan law allows for detention in jail up to one year on suspicion of terrorism; might refuse to acknowledge that police checkpoints on roads are no more than systematized bribery collection centers; might overlook the streets lined with garbage and the fact that most of the young local women at the bars are probably prostitutes.
    Here is a carefully imagined idea of a paradisiac tropical hideaway spread like a semi-translucent shroud atop the reality of Kenya: corruption and a starving tourism industry. At times (most of the time, even), I have certainly overlooked it all, lulled into la-la land by the breeze and the sun and the sand and the coconuts.

    But then again, Diani Beach is hardly unique in these regards. What earth-bound paradise is truly what it pretends to be?
    ***

    ***