I’ve been in Pokhara for several days, and after detoxing from the Kathmandu pollution, I was ready to take on some adventurous hiking. I was holding out for the clouds to dissipate in order to have a great view of the Annapurna Himalaya Range at sunrise. Today was my last day in town, so I decided I would finally go even if I didn’t have a good view. I casually mentioned I was walking up to the World Peace Pagoda to watch sunrise to a young women, An, I met the night before. She asked if she could join me as they advise women against walking there alone due to theft problems. I told An I was going to take the boat across the lake at 6 am, not knowing if she would be up for an early morning start.

I arrived at the boat terminal a few minutes late to find An sitting on the steps waiting for me. We hired a canoe to take us to the trailhead, and were silently paddled across the tranquil lake. The hike to the pagoda was harder than I expected, considering I was just trekking at high altitude for nearly two weeks. We walked around the peace pagoda in true peace as we were too early for the young hawkers, but sadly only a tiny glimpse of the mountain peaks was visible. I told An I wanted to see the waterfalls my Dad had described on the other side of the hill, and she said she would join me for the exploring. As I had come to find out, the waterfalls have become a major attraction, named after a Mrs. Devis who fell down them in the 1960s bathing just upstream of them. We also found out there was a cave across the street you could enter to see behind the falls.

An and I decided to check out the cave first, and then walk over to the falls. We were ushered down a corridor lined with shopkeepers selling us a wide variety of Tibetan handicrafts and other assorted souvenirs. The cave entrance was a manicured concrete descent into the limestone below, but the ticket salesman said there was no power now for lights. It happened that both of us had flashlights with us. After a few moments of staring at our flashlights in disbelief, we were allowed to enter. A wedding procession started to come down as we entered, at which point I guess they had enough business to warrant firing up the generator and our flashlights weren’t needed by the time we were in the cave.

There are two parts to the cave, the first being a stalagmite in the shape of Shiva where pictures were not allowed, and the second part the steps down behind Devis Falls, where we were free to carouse. As we went into the cave we were told to go under a sign that said, “Cow Shadow,” politely we started winding into a small spiraling walkway until reaching the center where an attendant sat with a small box. He explained to us that this lignam was a place worshipers gave offerings of milk, and now we could do the same for 10 Rs…. except the new technicolor advanced version of this involved buying a small marble which the attendant dropped down a tube. This would cause the multi-colored lights in the ceiling to light up, and more importantly spout milk out of the udders of a plastic cow about 4 feet in height. Content with the ridiculous proposition, we made a high-tech milk offering, but no milk came out with the 5 second light and sound show. The attendant dropped a few more marbles with no luck, grabbed a small wire crawled under the cow and started clearing the udders until milk came out and he was shouting, “See! See! Milk Offering! Milk! Milk!” As respectfully as possible we left the winding “cow shadow” to get on with the cave tour.

Unsurprising, the Shiva Stalagmite was less spectacular, and we quickly took off for the bottom of the falls. The cave was simple, but the crevice where the falls peaked out with a beam of sunlight was spectacular. I found it ironic that after so many miles of traveling, I was looking at the same falls as my Dad from about the most opposite side possible. I waded out in the calf deep shallows and looked up as high as possible at the falls. After sitting and enjoying the cool cave temperatures and calm pools, my curiosity got the better of me, and we decided to check out an unlit part of the cave.

As we were marveling at the reappearance of the river below us, several pools of water were being scoped out by some locals. They were spotting a fish and loudly whispering back and forth. We saw some more people up another section with flashlights and decided to check it out. The two men we had just seen came by us and asked if we wanted to explore the cave, and we said, “Yes, but how far does it go?” They told us it was about 1.5 km and “outside new exit, no inside return.” They also had a backpack filled with candles and flashlights and quickly upgraded our lights as we started to climb through the cave.

As we continued, they kept spotting fish with their lights, the older guy constantly was running ahead of us and shouting to his friend. They were fascinated with the fish, some of which were easily 3 to 4 feet in length. It took some prodding but we eventually found out they come here to catch fish for food. We laughed and kept walking until we started to hear the bats.

After a few more minutes of walking we could see the cave entrance, and the massive bat colony which was occupying the heightened alcove of the cave. Noticing the guano covered floor I consciously kept my head down until we got to clear ground before looking up. There were so many bats flying around, they had made their own air current…which sadly kept wafting the acrid smell of the guano to my nose. We finally pressed through the colony and into the open air which was surrounded by high unstable cliffs. We took the moment while actually looking face to face to make introductions and ask them a few questions.

The older man, Bukun, has lived in the Tibetan Settlement near the falls since 1962. He doesn’t even speak Nepali well, and relied on Golinda to translate. Golinda is a Pokhara native who owns a nearby shop, and had a good command of English. He told us he was happy to show us the cave since he knows it, and didn’t want us to explore on our own and possibly be lost without any light. I asked Golinda how they went fishing, he responded by reaching into his ever trusty bag and pulling out a sickle. He told us they sit by the edge and wait for them to get close enough, or try to corner them. Certainly a different style of fishing, but apparently effective enough to keep them coming back to the cave every week or so.

Content with our trusty guides, we started to hike out of the river overflow. They, like the tourists at the cave entrance don’t go inside the caves during the monsoon season, which has spectacularly carved the loose soil and limestone around us. As we hiked out, An slipped off the steep trail. Golinda grabbed her wrist as she fell, and I turned around in time to help pull her up as she had no footing below her. We slowed down our pace for the rest of the climb up and emerged at the far end of the Tibetan Settlement.

The Tibetan Settlement here is vastly different from when my Dad visited it, instead of being fenced off from the Nepali population with nothing to do, they had a functional school, housing, and were allowed to interact with others while trading handicrafts. After a brief stop at Golinda’s shop for some refreshments, Bukun insisted we come see his home. He pointed to the H#60 above his doorway as we were ushered into the living room. An felt compelled to buy some things in return for their hospitality and saving her at the cliff’s edge, so some handicrafts were bought and we sat in Bukun’s living room with his son. Bukun’s son, Prabhu was timid at first, but we bonded over the football on TV and his Michael Jordan jersey. Once he became comfortable with our presence he showed us his sketches, football clippings, athletic certificates, sports magazines, and American pop lyrics. After looking at school certificates for ten minutes he started playing Enrique Inglesias’ Greatest Hits for us. Prabhu and his sister Dawa were great athletes and two of the smartest children in school; Bukun had a proud smile on his face. We were happy to visit Bukun’s family, but knew it was time to depart from H#60.

Our final stop was the top of Devis Falls. Nowadays it would be hard to stumble upon the falls as there is an admission gate, gardens, and wishing well. I wandered down the concrete path and marveled at the waterfall as it disappeared below us. My natural reaction was to lean over the side of the railing as far as I could; much like when I was 4 years old at the zoo again, desperately wanting to see more, …. except this time I knew what was at the bottom.

An and I went back to town and sat on the edge of the lake to watch sunset over a once again calm and peaceful lake. Watching men set fishing nets and tourists landing after paragliding, I was sad to see such a place tainted with concrete and gasping tourists. I suddenly started thinking of all the attractions I have seen on my trip and started to wonder what they looked like before we made them into the monstrosities they have become… I relaxed and realized how beautiful this place still was. I was still in disbelief of the adventure we had today, but with some fear of my own adventure in the cave being exploited in future years I hope others will caution themselves to keep similar small adventures small and off the pages of guidebooks and tourist maps. Today would not have been such a perfect day without the genuine help of the underground fishermen.

PS Ive been able to finally upload some videos from my trip. Check more of them out on the Photos/ Video tab!

Arambol is a bizarre little town of chilled out locals, gracefully aging hippies, and a smattering of tourists. We took a scenic two hour bus ride on back roads to reach the town. Everyone seemed to be very happy with a quiet scene and a healthy choice of beach-side restaurants. People were friendly, but tended to stick to their social circles and stay unimpressed with the two day tourists. We managed to hear some mediocre live music, and find some excellent food in between diving into the ocean and watching the locals use surf nets to catch fish. This was my first time in the Indian Ocean, and it was bathwater warm. I wish it was a bit cooler, as to be refreshing, but once you were in it was hard to get out. Happy with our short time in Arambol we boarded a night bus from Mapusa to Hampi.

There was a magic bus to India from London, but don’t fall into the disillusioned thought that buses in India are happy times. India’s past-time of installing speed bumps and growing potholes has left a symphony of oscillations ready to make souls dance as they sleep. The compartments on the bus would have been spacious if made for one person, but they were actually for two people. Sam and I crammed into our assigned sleeper compartment on the upper level, and mentally prepared for our next transportation saga.

Throughout the next twelve hours, we managed to attempt many things. Our sleeper flat was in the very back of the bus, when sitting up there were only a few inches of clearance. The catapulting bus managed to foil card playing, reading, typing, and steady eye contact. It succeeded in consistent head banging, sleeplessness, and aerial awakenings in which our bodies would be completely air borne from the constant bumps as we were on the brink of sleep. We laid down most of the trip out of sheer comfort, and on average were thrust into the air at least once every ten minutes.

As dawn brought scenery into view, we were graced by a playground of giant boulders and rice fields, occasionally passing an ancient ruin or tractor filled with locals. Our bus drove right into the ancient bazaar and unceremoniously left us there before taking off. We took a small ferry across the river to our hotel with breathtaking views of the rice paddies, river, and ever-present giant boulders.

We had two full days to explore Hampi, and immediately decided to rent bicycles to pedal around the ruins. There was little wildlife, but some great views of the countryside. We spent the day riding around the ancient and royal centers, exploring temples, walking through giant crevices in the boulders to nondescript temples, and fording the river with the help of some locals. Around sunset we visited the main temple, and I splurged on buying a 20 Rs armful of bananas to feed the temple elephant. Apparently he had eaten too many bananas by the time I was done, and left, so we hiked up to the flat rock to watch the sunset with a small family langurs in the trees below us.

At first we though it was a coincidence there were a lot of Israelis on our bus to Hampi, but after biking around, wading by the river, and hanging out on the patio of our hotel soon realized this was a hotspot for Israelis. Unfortunately, many were silent, elusive of meaningful conversation with non-Hebrew speakers, and overall protectors of their svelt club. We did manage to hear about a nice reservoir around the us.

The reservoir was in the hills a couple villages away, so we made a tentative plan to day-hike to it, and walk along the boulder strewn shore back to our hotel afterward. Laden only with the bare necessities in a water-proof bag, we hiked for several hours before finding the reservoir. Upon arrival we were greeted with a large sign warning us of crocodiles in the reservoir. We could see a handful of foreigners swimming and jumping from the rocks, but decided to not be as carefree. We eventually found a couple of Danish guys near the drainage point for the reservoir, along with a few locals with inner tubes. The locals told us the sign was to keep the residents from drowning since many didn’t know how to swim, and it was perfectly safe to swim around.

After cooling off, we took up the locals offer to rent the inner tubes to go down the reservoir release and pick us up with the Danes motorbikes. We proceeded to unceremoniously jump in backwards with the tubes and float through a small canyon before floating at a more relaxed “lazy river” pace for 20 minutes. We all had a blast, and decided it was time to head back to civilization.

This sounds like a normal task, but in reality it involved 6 guys, 4 inner tubes, and 2 motorbikes. The two Indian guys drove the bikes while myself and a Dane sat on the back of the bike holding an inner tube each off the side of the bike. If we were going faster than a crawl I would be worried, but as it was we had to get off the bikes each time we encountered a small uphill section, and after many laughs, were delighted to get back to our hotel.

In reality we weren’t staying at the hotel, but picking up our bags and boarding another sleeper bus back to Goa. Unexcited and hesitant we loaded onto another sleeper bus, and although we were located in the middle of the bus, the compartment managed to be a bit smaller with walls on the aisle side this time. We slept head to toe, and by 4 am I had managed to keep my eyes shut and become completely exhausted. Wondering why the bus was stopped, we found out it had broken down. We both slept in the stillness until the sun came up and started to get unbearable, at which point we flagged down a local bus with a few other passengers and managed to get to Palolem in Goa.

Thankfully, the train we were supposed to catch to Kerala stopped in Palolem, so we stowed our bags at a trustworthy looking shop, and promptly went to the beach. The warm water was delightful, and we both sat at a beach side restaurant to recover. I was nursing a bruised right side of my head from the bus ride, and it was a spectacularly lazy day. Palolem is a more party oriented town, and we managed to collect quite a few flyers about parties and silent discos. The silent discos are an innovative response to noise violations from locals and trendy club scenes. The basic premise is everyone wears headphones and listens to whatever music they want, if you take them off, its quiet. We sadly missed out on this, but were ecstatic at making our sleeper train, and getting some real rest.

Over the pedestrian bridge we cross the tracks, into a piece of divided land. This heap of reclaimed land is pinched in by two divergent rail lines, and sealed on the third edge by the wetland it used to be; close but far from the stereotypical divide of a 20th-century growing American town “on the other side of the tracks.” This triangle of land is the Dharavi Slum, arguably the largest slum in Asia.

Although filled with impoverishment and unbelievably poor work conditions, there is also a glimpse of pride and hope in people who came here from rural villages to make a living, who work their entire life only to send back the money to a far off home they may get to visit once a month if they are lucky. It is this constantly turning wheel of self-sacrificial hope and opportunistic businessmen that helps Dharavi output over $650 million per year.

My explanations and insight into this slum are limited and composed mostly of fleeting glimpses and morsels of information fed to me and a half dozen like-minded people over a period of several hours. If I answered the question from any of you: “What was it like?”

I would say:

“Wow.”

“Where do I start?”

“Well, there were two rules on the trip:
#1 No Cameras – They will be broken, and some images are best to be forgotten after being burned into the conscious.
#2 No Loitering – It is not safe to stay in one place too long. Foreigners are not welcome.”

“Dharavi is a fascinating place that delves deep into the heart of India that so many people don’t hear about. It is a quintessential potluck of the deeper darker side of life here. Dharavi isn’t a tourist stop, it is a slum where people have come to work long lives of long hours in bad conditions. Its hard to really put what I saw into words”

If I were to spurt out glimpses in an appropriately illogical manner to describe my surroundings it would read as follows:

Progressive Government Work #1:
Three hours of running water a day

A goat in a small stairwell to nowhere,
Adjacent shelves hold three shivering kid goats.

White plastic bags as large as oil drums towering above
Filled with plastic to be processed in Dharavi Recycling

Building metal contraptions; blips of welding, grinding sparks,
A lone man sports protective glasses, only he smiles.

Steady feet carrying a steel beam squeeze by…

Two eyes locked on the low-cut shirt in front of me, emotionless.
They glean with excitement after she passes.

Rusty corrugated sheets slapped together
Dangling electrical wires hang over muddy ground.

A turquoise shirt in broken grey print, “KNOWLEDGE SPEAKS, WISDOM LISTENS.”

Aluminum Recycle: From Cans, to Shards, to Molten, to Blocks, with Dust
Thick aluminum dust covers the rafters, eyelids, and food.

A bouquet of smells: Sewage, Industrial Chemicals, Rotting Matter

Bang out dents in oil cans, weld leaks, send them back for next week

Strings of light stand untouched in the acrid air
A darkened bearded face walks by untouched by our presence.

Rooftop views: feet shuffle newly colored plastic chips drying in the sun
Corrupt buildings stopped mid-construction
Sam points to a sign, “LG. Life’s Good.”

Government Fact: Average Daily Income – 2 USD
Don’t forget to send money back home to the family

The contrast of light and dark is my saving grace and enemy,
Curiosity begs me to look in farther to stand starstruck.

The adjustment from the bright cloudless sky allows little;
Faces barely recognizable from the darkness inside the open doors

The waterways. Dark, bubbly film suffocates hopes of life below
The flotsam of slum debris solid as ground, waveless and motionless

… I need a break. This is ridiculous. My only solace are my sunglasses. A barrier, a disconnection, however small, however insignificant. The stare is one-sided, the sympathy on hold. I don’t want to look, but part of me keeps demanding I absorb my surroundings. My mental capacity is drained, and yet I have spent a mere fraction of time here…

Progressive Government Work #2:
A boy lifts his dholi and defecates on dusty garbage
He stares at the new public latrine across the clearing

Dark, grim, narrow, low ceiling corridor
Ladder-like stairs ascend to second floors

Electrical wires form a jungle of twisting cables
Walk the plank over the garbage mud batter

A child sits in the mud staring at Tom and Jerry,
Escaping in the wordless imagery, we go unnoticed

Blackened hands of children playing in rank matter proudly await me
I shake them with feeling, but there is no reciprocation, no grip, simply a physical touch

Hummingbird chatter of sewing machines
A dozen men cramped in a dorm-size room piled high with cloth
Designer labels added here; if you pay enough

Single women make pappad bread
Profits saved to pay their dowry

Mud shipped from Rajasthan
Twirled and formed by day, hardened by fire at night

The road out is buzzing with traffic,
Large apartment buildings enclose the street.

Small balconies are caged in,
The view is better, the cage still present.

I left my tour questioning life, questioning my ideals and standards, questioning basal humanity. I left knowing that 80% of the fee for the tour went directly to an NGO working in Dharavi. I left knowing there are people here who care about more than making money. I left.

I sat on the train back to the glimmering lights of the other Mumbai silently. I was glad I indulged in Dharavi. I felt inadequate for needing to indulge in this place, inadequate in my ability to relay what I saw to others.

I am saddened by the idea Dharavi is not a unique place.

I hope more people see these places, because it is impossible to truly relay them outside of our personal perceptions. Pictures cannot portray trembling thoughts, video cannot convey the stench of decay, nor sound clip the silent lips of a pleading child, nor I the words to complete a description worthy of Dharavi. Some things can only be experienced in person.

I check into my hotel, and after shooting out a quick e-mail set out for the small town of Chirali, which is the closest village to the eternal flames, which are referred to as Chimera, Yanartas, and more colloquially, “fire rocks.” I took a mini-bus as directed to the drop-off to Chirali, but after several minutes of sitting around with a Russian couple, realized the bus wasn’t coming to drive us the 11 km. So we started to half-happily walk down the hillside to Chirali. After 3-4 km, a truck driver offered us a ride in the back of his truck to the village, where we could walk the rest of the way. The truck was filled with orange crates, which we arranged into a nice seating arrangement after several minutes of precarious planning.

Smiling at us, the driver let us off at the crossroads indicating it was the village of Chirali, and I left the Russian couple heading for a hotel, and walked the expected 3 kilometers to the Chimera. The walk was refreshingly rural with smells of freshly turned fields, mandarins, oranges, sandalwood, and fire. I was happy to be simply hiking with no salesmen offering me tea in their carpet shop, or a shoe shine, and the hills buttressed against the coast were a welcoming and warm change.

The last kilometer of the hike was inside the park, and a large change of scenery from the farmlands into rain freshened pine forests. The pathway was well manicured with large stone steps cut and piled onto the hillside, which meant you had to watch where you placed your feet every time. After a countdown of distance marked by local rocks I arrived at a small outcropping devoid of foliage, and surely enough on fire.

It took me several minutes of just staring to completely comprehend what was happening, but it was definitely a surreal moment. Yes, I understand the physical science behind it, but part of me was simply regretting not having friends, marshmallows, graham crackers, and Hershey’s chocolate bars. The small area doesn’t have just one flame, but several openings where gas seeps up, and continually combusts. I was the only person visiting the sight and was happy to have the alone time. Once I was satiated with visiting the ruins, envisioning ancient stories of Chimera being captured below the ground here, doomed to spend eternity breathing flames to the surface to guide ancient sailors and feed local folklore, I started my trek back to Chirali.

The hike was uneventful back to this small farming and tourist city nestled in a large park, and I crossed the eventfully large river back to the main road out of the remote area. A few locals drinking beers helped flag down a car to drive me back to the bus “station” 8 kms away, and more importantly all uphill. I waited by the side of the road until sure enough the mini-bus arrived from around the bend, and welcomed me back inside. Happy with my day-trip I promptly passed out and occasionally woke up on the 1.5 hour bus ride back to Antalya.

The next morning I wandered around the city, mostly out of curiosity and was offered an arrangement of opportunities from trying tea, buying leather coats, playing backgammon, and taking a 3 hour boat tour. The tourist driven city was more or less in steady state boredom. There was always a half-hearted attempt to try to get you to buy something, but the shop keepers were content to smile and be friendly. I left the following night back to Ankara to pick up my India visa, and immediately head to Istanbul to catch a flight to India. Once I’m in India, I plan to meet up with my first planned EWB project in Abheyour, Haryana, India. The team will be building a rain water harvesting and filtration system for a local primary girl’s school.

Sadly, this means I am agreeing to not travel overland as my father did to India. I am very envious of what my Dad was able to do, but realize the safety risks. When my father made this trek, they went overland from Turkey through Iran, Afghanistan, and Pakistan before reaching India. It will probably be a couple weeks before I post again, as I am unsure of internet availability in rural India.

The theory of getting a visa from a consulate seems straightforward, the reality is a whole other story. As I am not as well connected as other people, nor willing to post sums of money to be vouched for in order to get into Iran, I decided it would be best to fly to India. Even if I made it into Iran, I would be flying over Pakistan into India for safety reasons. I arrived in Istanbul and thought I would have more flexibility in traveling if I got my visa from here, where I would be flying from versus the capital, Ankara. You might be asking why I didn’t get this before-hand (a simple one day turn around process requiring less information). The answer is it must be used within 90 days of issue for a 6-month visa, and I wouldn’t be in India until approximately 120 days after issue. I figured I could use embassies and consulates to get visas.

So, as I had mentioned in my last post Brad and I looked for the Indian consulate, and were pretty much given a run-around on its whereabouts. We were able to call and make sure I had all the necessary forms. Included in those was a ‘note verbal’ from my consulate, verifying my citizenship and giving me permission to travel. Pleased with finding this out beforehand I found directions to the American Consulate and planned to go early the next morning.

I arrived at the American Consulate, which is 1) on the outskirts of town 2) a massive complex on a hill 3) attacked in a gunfight last August.
Aware of all this, I politely stood in line with the other people outside of the building waiting to approach the security desk. When they found out I was an American Citizen I was whisked to the front of the line, flew through security, and was ushered up to the second floor. The room before me was packed full of people. I was prepared for this, and a long wait. Again to my surprise, they had a separate line for American Citizens, and I was ushered into a different room and given the next number to be called. I told them what I needed from them for my Indian visa, and they immediately went to work getting the appropriate papers. I received my papers along with a letter to hand to the consulate, paid my 30 USD consular fee, and happily walked out the door. Unfortunately, the consulate is so far away, I kenw the bus couldnt get me back in time to put my application in at the Indian consulate (applications are only accepted until 1130), which I was ok with as the bus ride was a great way to see the freezing cold Bosphorous. There wasn’t much else I could do during this time, so I waited until the following morning to go to the Indian Consulate, and played tourist.

I arrived to the area where the consulate should be early, as I still didnt know exactly where it was located. I thought I had the right building, and went up to the doorman who told me I was in the wrong place, it wasnt here, and looked at me like I was mad. Thankfully, a patron of the building overheard us and told him he was wrong, that it was in the building but on the other side. (Its not a big building, he was just that dense.) Red-faced, the guard apologized and I walked around to the other entrance to find the usual security set-up. I arrived upstairs, waitied my turn and happily handed in my application. After an brief pause of half-heartedly looking through my papers, she looked at me like I was an idiot and told me I had the wrong papers.

A little annoyed, but still knowing that killing with kindness is the best way to work these things out, I listened as she explained to me the US Consulate in Istanbul doesnt give them the right paperwork. Every other consulate is able to produce a one-line memo which states the following: “ [first name] [last name] is a citizen of [country of citizenship], and should be allowed for consideration of a visa.” That’s all they needed. Frivolous, simple, and annoying. As I mentioned earlier they also handed me a long winded letter, at the heart of which is the following excerpt:

…The possesion of a United States passport by the individual named therein is proof of that person’s citizenship and of the fact that United States Government has no objection to the travel of that citizen outside of the United States. Neither this Embassy nor Consulate in Adana or Consulate General in Istanbul or any other office of the United States Government will provide additional documentation or statements to private American Citizens stating that the United States Government has no objection to travel…1995

I kindly pointed this section out to her, and asked for them to consider it, as I understood this was as much as they could give me. She politely handed it to the Vice Consular who about ten minutes later told me the following: “You should apply for your visa in another country, as it is impossible for you to get one here.” He stated a lack of information infrastructure as not being able to do without such a letter. A bit frustrated with the situation, I realized there was nothing more I could do here. My only hope was to return to the US Consulate and attempt to get this ‘note verbal.’

I knew this would be a most frivolous trip, but as most of you know I exude some characteristics that might be categorized as stubborn. The bus ride almost 2/3 of the way up the Bosphorous was again enjoyable as I watched the passing mansions of yester-years and mighty ships parting the water. I again ascended the hill to the mighty complex, and decided I would play dumb, and again try to get this ‘note verbal.’ This time the lady who helped me immediately told me what I already knew. The only piece of paper they could give me would not work, and I shouldn’t waste the money. After making sure I understood her, I produced for her that exact sheet. Frustrated I didn’t have her to help me the first time, and trying to understand our foreign policy better, I asked her why exactly they couldnt provide this superfulous piece of paper. “We don’t have the power to do that.” she replied. I responded, “So you are saying the US Consulate, that the United States of America’s Consulate, is the only consulate in Istanbul who doesn’t have the power to write this one sentence.” Politely, she said she couldn’t account for other consulates, but they didn’t have the power.

Stubborningly, and trying to make a self-satisfying point, which I’m sure more enraged Americans have mentioend since 1995, I asked her if this was serving citizens of the United States abroad, and if there was a supervisor I could talk to about the matter. Of course, no one was available for comment. I felt at home. I felt at home in a way I so dislike. I’ve seen much worse in places like Italy. It was at this point I realized the difference. In a place like Italy where you can’t see past the density of red tape, people accept it for what it is and with patience wait for it to take its course. In America we are emboldened by our freedoms. True, it is our right to speak up, it is our right to scream in the face of powerless employees over policy made by elected officials, because we inherently believe we can change the world one vessel-popping fight at a time. Too many times on this trip I have seen Americans lose their temper faster than a mad Irish woman, over the smallest detail, and I realize with our instilled freedom to talk and rant we sometimes forget to choose our battles wisely. In a blatantly stereotypical comment, Americans tend to fight with their mouth open and eyes and ears shut. Take the truth of it as it is, but its no way to see the world.

As for this battle, it scared me a bit. I felt powerless, like a mignon in corporate America, dancing to the tune of those above me; I thought I had certain freedoms, rights, power. i didn’t. I could see the stances of each consulate. I could see a simple solution; grow up. I decided it didn’t really matter. Both consulates at some point in the process were dishonest, and politics aside there is no reason for deceitful behavior. The only reality is this is a fairly cut and dry example of politics, and a great example of its inefficiencies. Inefficiencies annoy me (as it should most engineers.)

Dear American travelers, head my warning. Get a visa ahead of time, or just go to Ankara.

(UPDATE: I applied for my visa at the Embassy in Ankara. They require a bank statement to verify address and funds to spend, and flight details. They said my visa would be ready in 4 business days. I dropped off the form with necessary attachments, and picked up my visa 4 days later. I had no problem traveling around Turkey with a copy of my passport and the receipt during that time.)

It is quite odd to get off you train and step onto a boat with steep stairs rising to the decks above. I was groggy and actually slept well, so I decided to just get out, snap a few shots and climb back into my cozy nook. Around 6:30 am I was woken up by a small Italian going “Problema, Problema,” and motioning us to the doors. I got off the train in Messina, and after a good bit of confusion and unhelpful personnel found out a strike had just started, and no trains would be going anywhere today.

I laughed and immediately thought of how this would be met in America: PANDAMONIA. I can envision CNN’s coverage of the ‘Thanksgiving Day Strike 2008′ and creating a sensationalistic portrait of crying families, filled with angry screaming in the background as news reporters fought through to bring back several heartfelt stories from people, “just trying to get home.” In Sicily though, the only chaos was the small mob for the buses. I wasn’t really in a rush, and knew if no other trains were coming, then this mob would eventually disappear, and I might avoid a cramped bus seat next to a man who doesn’t know what the word deodorant means. So I bought a ticket for a bus a couple hours later, found some breakfast, and sat by a fountain to the chagrin of several old wiry men.

The bus ride to Palermo was stunning. The roads follow the winding coast and are met by beautiful cove views on the north and green mountains and hills on the south. For about an hour of the trip my views consisted of looking at a beautiful valley in some degree of habitation for a minute, and then a dark tunnel for a minute or two. It was like watching a strobe light in super slow motion, but still a great Thanksgiving Day afternoon even without football.

I found my hostel easily, and settled down with my computer on my balcony. I was able to Skype home and talk to my family for several hours, and was quite sad when they finally left to attend the feast. The rest of tonight was spent eating delicious pasta, cannolis, and a Sicilian specialty called arronyo. Arronyo are a ball with meat and sauce in the middle surrounding by flavored rice, and the whole thing is then deep fried. It wasn’t pumpkin pie, but I would be back tomorrow for another!

Tomorrow I’ll spend some more time exploring this war torn city, but for now I’m wishing everyone a Happy Thanksgiving!

Venice is a city that is romanticized for its elegance and beauty, but I quickly realized everything is done by water. Garbage boats, construction boats, police and ambulance boats, and of course the gondolas. Being a boat lover my whole life, this was a fairy land destination that could only be improved if I could be water-skiing down the Grand Canal, and actually afford to live in Italy’s most expensive city. I decided to not worry about exact directions and would sort of walk in the general direction of where I wanted to go next. The first stop I wanted to make was the Piazza San Marco. This place is a monstrous square, comparatively speaking. Walking along waterways or winding streets seems to make the square that much more grandiose. The highlight is the Basilica of San Marco which is decorated with beautiful gold mosaics. It is unlike any other church I have seen, and it definitely a place to visit.

I bought a 12 hour ferry pass which was very useful for getting around, and out to the other islands. I went to the island of Murano, which is known for its glass-blowing. After wandering around waiting for the lunch break to end, I was able to watch several men make some glass sculptures. The main piece they made was a large horse head with a gold inlay in the middle. It was amazing how well they worked together to make everything, and how easy they made it look. Unfortunately, they weren’t about to let someone like me try, so I wandered back to the main islands.

I didn’t realize this until after leaving the city, but Venice has one of three bridges in the world with stores on it. The bridge didn’t seem out of place in Venice, as everything is built on or near water, but it was still really cool to check out. I’m on my way to Firenze (Florence) right now, and will make sure to check out another bridge with shops on it, Ponte Vecchio. Hope all is well back in the states.

The off season is in full swing now, which means my plan flopped. I showed up at the hostel only to find a chain, surveillance cameras, and a locked door. They were closed until February. I’ve been carrying a 4 lb 4 oz back-up plan with me for a while now, and after walking through a silent town with no one in the streets, I decided to explore the countryside outside the city. As I walked out of town and waited for my eyes to adjust, I realized I should say terrain and not countryside, since I was greeted by steep steps at times closer to ladders snaking their way up asymmetrical terraces filled with vines. This was the case in every direction. The village was a small speck near the sea with climbing terraces surrounding it on all sides.

I stopped for a minute and looked up. I was trying to remember the last time I could see the stars so clearly. The milky way was a ribbon of transparent white in the sky, my eyes didn’t strain to see it past the brighter individual stars. I remember the last time I could see the stars so clearly, and it was in Morocco on the roof terrace, and I remember what I was thinking at that moment. I was laughing how the closest thing to home is the farthest thing away. Sans the Southern Hemisphere (sorry Aussies), no matter where I am, be it lost or known, I know where I am, and I have that proverbial picture and all its stories right above my head.

I turned my gaze towards the village below me, and suddenly every thing looked quantized, real, and tangible again. I could see half the city streets, the three men near the church saying their goodbyes for the night, and watched the whole valley below me grow darker as each window turned blank and blended into the walls supporting it. I counted every light I could see. 63. I looked up, laughed, laughed some more when trying to think of the most efficient way of counting stars. 59. My view below diminishing, my view above gaining with every light extinguished.

The terrace I stopped on was bordered by thick brambles, and was protected nicely on two sides by walls. Since I had heard no sound but the distant pounding of the waves against the cliffs, and the occasional rustling of grape leaves around me I decided to check out the surrounding area to make sure I wasn’t missing out on a better site. 56. Happily, I returned to my pack and nestled myself in near the wall under the grape vines, leaving my 4 lb 4 oz back-up plan tucked away. 54. It wasn’t too cold, I put a sweater on and for the first time in a while slept on rocky ground with the smell of earth and autumn leaves melding together. I glanced one more time to look down at the city before gazing up through the grape leaves until I passed out. 53.

After a full day of walking around the complex, I took the time to visit a very unique area in Grenada, Sacromonte. This hillside opposite the Alahambra, has many homes in it. Yes, in it. The better known areas have been refined to look like real homes inside, and are still home to a large Gypsy community influential in the creation of Flamenco. The clay-like earth of the mount makes it ideal to carve out and maintain stability. As I walked up the side of the hill I found doors, ruined brick facades, and front yards ranging from tidy and welcoming to expulsed heaps of interior décor littered around a makeshift fenced yard. As I passed and made short conversation with people, I ran into a group of youngsters quietly practicing Flamenco on their guitars, apprehensively quiet but still recognizable. Farther up the hillside, I ran into a Senegalese man chopping wood. We talked for a while and he invited me in to his home for dinner. After refusing several times, I finally conceded. He and his neighbor had made a modest meal of pasta and a cheese sauce with bits of chorizo. It wasn’t fancy or extravagant, closer to a watered down version of kraft macaroni and cheese, but it was warm and welcoming with the mountain air starting to cool off outside. I had some chocolate in my daypack (as on most days) which was gladly accepted as dessert.

The cave was humble, but well maintained. White stucco was heavily applied to the asymmetrical walls and floor while various levels were covered with cushions and blankets provided comfortable seating. He explained to me how he added the fireplace made from of brick and mortar last year , and is working on making a porch awning currently. As happens after a relaxing meal, the conversation would die off at times, the crackling of an old handheld radio on the table outside would interrupt before quieting back down as the next weekly top 40 song started to play, sometimes prompting more conversation, sometimes providing an excuse to not make awkward conversation for the sake of it.

As I sat there in this whimsical home chatting by the light of a fire, I realized how similar people are no matter where or what their homes look like. Although this cave home was not as extravagant as others, this man has taken pride in it and is upgrading and is telling me all about it – a conversation that is not uncommon among men on the weekend in suburbia across America, about the porch they built or the problem they had while installing the new light fixture in the kitchen. Is it coincidence that I sit here in a cave overlooking one of the world’s most fought after fortresses speaking another language to a man from Senegal about something I could’ve easily talked to a neighbor about in America? I think not. The opening of doors, sharing of food, and warmth of genuine people and conversation are acts capable of single handedly stopping many problems or at least the ignorance found in today’s world.

We landed in Tangiers after a quick ferry ride across the Strait of Gibraltar from Tarifa. Our plan was to stay in a pension in the medina, or old town, so we naturally started to walk. If you hear someone talk about small windy streets it still doesn’t quite prepare you for the finer aspects of Tangier’s medina. Most streets are too small for cars (those that are allow just enough room for an anorexic body to miss the side mirrors), with erratic steps, twists, and turns capable of making your head spin enough without the mental stimulation of people, smells, colors, and movement.

There is an ominous and intimidating aura present of young men with crossed arms staring at you waiting to pounce on your slightest fallacy or hesitant move. As soon as you just touch sight of their eyes an immediate flood of language comes at you as they attempt to speak your language, to make contact. Every soul is eager to help you, to make sure you get where you are going, to make it efficient and pleasant, but always at a price. No matter what you hear, everyone will eventually want money from you for a service we refer to as a good deed or helping hand. The smells and sights are not of a spice bazaar, but more of stale water, grime, disrepair, and urine. This place is a sort of purgatory of helpless eyes held only high enough by the promise of money. There is no pride in their faces, for their work, or for their community. The streets are dirty, houses made with crumbling bricks, corners rank with piss, and dilapidated fountains. There are two types of hope in this place, the face of a child still young and cheerful capable of an innocent smile, yet wise enough to know of the other hope, your wealth. We are rich, we have bountiful lives, and the hands of small children reach to your pockets as if you were Robin Hood.

After settling in, we decided to take a breath from the hustle of the medina and check out the New Town area filled with wide streets, mosques, and glimpses of the Western World. It was at this time, while on a hill in a cemetery I experienced my first call to prayer. I had these visions of men in robes shouting from the peaks of the minarets to people below, and time stopping as everyone turned to Mecca and took time to reflect and pray. I was greeted by the crackling of a megaphone propped to the top of the minaret filling the air with sound, and slowly more minarets announced their presence as they created a cacophony of sound. I stopped to take in the moment, and it seemed as if I was the only person who stopped. Life kept moving, cars kept driving, and people kept talking.

Morocco is at the western edge of the Islamic world and is known as Al-Magrihb for short or “The West”, and thanks to a progressive head of state, also more progressive in womens rights and enforcement of Islamic law. However, for the first time I felt like I was truly in a foreign land. It took some time for me to process what made this place so alien to my senses. It wasn’t a different language, it wasn’t the type of people, it wasn’t the oddities of cuisine or marketing, it was the lack of sex. It is hard to fathom how much sex has impregnated our culture until you remove yourself from the equation. We are flooded with nuances, hints, and outright movies of lust which missed this place like a three year old misses adult jokes in a Disney movie. This place is fascinating, exciting, and truly different. I was warned about Tangiers, but I am glad I experienced it. I’m not planning to judge Moroccoo on this city alone, but it was been quite the introduction into a chapter of my trip.

Chelsea had heard from other travelers that if you only have a few days to go to Morocco to head to Chefchaouen. Its a small city about three hours south of Tangiers, that was founded by the last of the Muslim and Jews expelled from Spain and has been opened to the outside world for only the last 100 years.