Flashback: Bottomless Lakes State Park, NM

As was so often the case, New Mexico surprised me when I visited Bottomless Lakes State Park in April 2013.

Below is my post from back then:

Tuesday, May 7, 2013

Bottomless Lakes State Park: Another New Mexican Surprise

Bottomless Lakes State Park, New Mexico 

I didn't have high expectations for Bottomless Lakes State Park. The photos on the New Mexico state parks page are a bit shoulder-shrugging, but since visiting all of New Mexico's state parks is one of my goals, I made my plans and went.

(A note to the state of New Mexico: I like your "find a state park page," but once you click through, the information for each of the state parks is inadequate in presentation and content. There aren't even directions to get to the parks. And wouldn't a link on each park page to your parks events calendar be nice? And because New Mexico is so rich in federal public lands, perhaps a link in that direction, as well?)

One of the coolest things about New Mexico's geography is that in one spot, you can look out over the horizon and see an uninterrupted plain of scrabbly flora and sandy soil. But take a few steps forward and a new world opens at your feet.

Thus Exhibit A at Bottomless Lakes State Park:

Exhibit A, Bottomless Lakes State Park, New Mexico

 And Exhibit B, just a few steps into the frame, so to speak:

Exhibit B, Bottomless Lakes State Park, New Mexico

Thanks to the very pleasant volunteer at the park's visitor center, I learned how deep are the sinkholes - or cenotes - that dot the park, and how salty the water.

Bottomless Lakes State Park, New Mexico

   

Visitors can swim in one of the sinkholes. At that lake are a couple of pretty stone buildings and shade structures with picnic tables.

Bottomless Lakes State Park, New Mexico

On the day I visited, there was lots of activity at the swimming hole.

Just across the street from this large sinkhole was a quiet boardwalk trail (the Wetlands Trail) with intermittent stick-built structures, I'm guessing birdwatching blinds, but also the perfect cool, shady places to lug your folding chair to and have a cool lunch, with only the sounds of birds, bubbling water, and sweet breezes to keep you company. I had this pleasant boardwalk trail entirely to myself.

On the surface, the wetlands soil is a mass of white or off-white crystalline crusts, some flat against the surface; others clustered around twigs, plants, or objects. If you push your finger into the surface just a little bit, you'll bring up water.

Do you see the perfect little paw print below?

Bottomless Lakes State Park, New Mexico

I placed an earring close by for a size perspective.

Bottomless Lakes State Park, New Mexico

It's funny how there's a thin, red layer of silt over the white gypsum at the park.

The tamarisk, aka the Water-Sucking Soldiers, were in bloom the weekend I visited. 

A slide show:

And a video below, which wasn't in the original post:

Flashback: "I Don't Like Your Music."

Cajun jam, Lafayette, Louisiana. December 2014.

In June 2013, I wrote this post in memory of what someone had said to me about my music. Since that post, I've added some ska, border band rockabilly, among other things.


June 9, 2013

I Don't Like Your Music

I was listening to a shuffle of my music today, and I began to chuckle. I remembered the comment someone made to me a few months ago.

"I don't like your music."


I was taken by surprise, and I think I just said, "Oh."

What I wish I'd have said was: "Which of my music don't you like? Is it my: 

Blues
Classical
Jazz
Bluegrass
String-band
Country-western
Country-rock
American folk
Mexican folk
Americana
Rock
R&B
French
Spanish
Ethiopian
Georgian
Cajun
Rwandan
Congolese
Malian
Irish
Scottish
Motown
Modern swing
Zydeco
Cuban
Navajo
Reggae
British pop
Electronic
New Age
Gospel
Soul
Tanzanian
Burundi

You can find nothing in there that you like? Really?

Some recent acquisitions:


Dolor de Aquí by Jarana Beat (indeed, the entire album, Echalante). Two of the musicians are New Mexican - Albuquerque and Las Cruces. There's so much going on this video visually, physically, and aurally you have to watch it at least, I don't know, 60 times.

The Missouri Waltz, as sung by Missourian Merideth Sisco (and the entire Winter's Bone soundtrack)

A modern, East-LA version of a Son Jarocho song (regional music of Vera Cruz, Mexico), La Bamba. Very rich. Complete with the jawbone of an ass.

Hellhound on my Trail, by Big Joe Williams. Oh, that deep Delta voice.

Lianne La Havas' Age. Can you watch this without smiling? I don't think so.

Over the Rainbow/It's a Beautiful World by Israel Kamakawiwo Ole

Enjoy.

Flashback: Dubai: Leaving, Losing, Loose Ends, and Getting Home

In a quest for warmth, I traveled to Dubai in January 2012.

This was my final post from that trip.

Thursday, January 26, 2012

Dubai: Leaving, Losing, Loose Ends, and Getting Home

Dubai, UAE. January 2012.

Time to leave Dubai. Loved the weather. It was exactly what I sought before getting back into the cold Georgian winter for the next few months.

I also liked my first foray into the middle east. Liked it in the sense that I made the foray. My experience pushed some cultural buttons of mine that I know will be interesting to explore more deeply in the future, such as how what a person wears, i.e. an abaya with full head covering, can provoke such complex feelings in me.

(By the way, one sunny morning I walked behind a man who was wearing the traditional white Arabic dress. It was transparent; I wasn't close enough to discern if he wore underwear.)

I saw nary a dog in the five days I was in Dubai. A number of cats, though.

Some photographic loose ends

A metro entrance. Each metro entrance has a distinctive design. This is the Dubai Mall metro station. 

Flats for rent in Deira neighborhood. In USD, the prices translate, left to right, at $490, $544, $599, and $680 per month

Metro station interior. Dubai, UAE. January 2012.

No fish allowed on metro. Also, no gum chewing. Dubai, UAE. January 2012.

Approach to Palm Deira metro station. Dubai, UAE. January 2012.

Typical toilet in Dubai. Note the spray nozzle on left. Ubiquitous for cleaning oneself, and then toilet paper.

Dubai airport misadventure

Dubai, UAE. January 2012.

Went through two or three security checks upon arrival at the Dubai airport. Was walking down a corridor toward my gate when I did my periodic body check for all of the necessary artificial appendages: purse, backpack, camera ... camera.... camera? Damn. Looked in my backpack and my purse. Not there. I backtracked to the security station I'd just left. (This required me to walk up a ton of steps that had going-down escalators and no going-up escalators.)

Arrived back at the security station, explained I'd left behind my camera either at this station or the one before, and the staff there gave me a negatory and pointed me to a supervisor. Snippy supervisors exist in all countries, all cultures, and she was one of those creatures. She was immediately on the defensive, stating that no one had taken it. (Who said anything about taking it? Sheesh.) Did I have it in my purse, perhaps?

In a deadly polite voice, I responded, "Madame, I don't believe it was taken. I have looked in my purse. Would you care to look there yourself?" and I opened it up for her.

"Where do you believe you left it?"

I said I wasn't sure at which station I might have left it behind.

To which she responded, "So you are unsure where your camera is."

"Madame," I said. (If I were a cobra, this would have come out as a hisssssss.)  "It is either at this station or a previous one."

By this time, a call had been made to the previous station, and it had been reported back that there was no camera there. Which she reported to me. And she'd called out to the station nearby - did they see such a camera? Nope, they said, no camera here.

I said, "May we just walk over and look?"

Which we did, she reluctantly so. As we approached the station, I cast my eyes about, and by God, just as she was confirming that there was no camera to be found, there I saw it, on the floor next to the x-ray machine. It had fallen out somewhere in the process of being pushed through - NOT by me.

So I retrieved my camera from her hands and as I was about to utter the words, "thank you," she trumped me with "you're welcome."

There's a little coda to this story. During my layover in Azerbaijan, I realized my wristwatch, which I keep looped around my purse's handle, was missing. I'm willing to bet it got pulled off (accidentally) at that same security station in Dubai. I'm hoping so. Every morning at 6:45, it beeps for 20 seconds. In my imagination, it startled the bejesus out of that pompous little group before they tracked it down.

Azerbaijan

Airport in Baku, Azerbaijan

In-flight movie on Azerbaijan Airlines

The airport cat was still hanging about.

Same in-flight movie on the leg to Tbilisi.

Back to Rustavi

Took a taxi from the airport to Rustavi.

In short order, I climbed into a comfortable bed. My hostess, Nely, gave me two hot water bottles to keep me warm.


Related posts on my trip to Dubai here.


And a slide show here:

Flashback: Georgia: Sighnaghi: City of Love and Crunch

Can't believe it's been more than six years since I was in Caucasus Georgia! Here's the original account of a visit to Georgia's (the country not the state) City of Love.

It amuses me no end how much I amuse myself when I re-read some of my posts. An important quality for an introvert to have, wouldn't you say?

Saturday, November 12, 2011

Sighnaghi: City of Love 'n Crunch

"Oh, whoops, budishi! Are you, like, getting married right now? I'll just take this little snap and be on my way, then."

 

Mission: Visit Georgia's City of Love and eat Mexican food. If necessary, look at a church.

Sandy came in to Rustavi from Gori yesterday to spend the night so we could get an early start from Tbilisi to Sighnaghi. We were to meet Marie and Eberle at the Samgori metro/marshrutka station, where we'd take the 9:00 a.m. marshrutka to Sighnaghi. This was a 1.5 hour trip. Six lari.

I'd learned already that there's a marshrutka from Rustavi to the Samgori station in Tbilisi, and Nely had cautioned me, when we flagged down a driver, to ask, "Tbilisi metro Samgori?" and not just "Samgori?" because there is also a village named Samgori.

So in the dark and rainy dawn of our departure, Sandy and I pulled out some lari from the ATM on the square, then walked toward Rustavi Bazari for the right marshrutka. There's one! It has #15 on it.

We hailed it to a stop, and opened the door. "Tbilisi metro Samgori?" I asked the driver.

"Ki, ki." was the reply. "Yes, yes."

As we got on, I asked again, "Tbilisi metro Samgori?"

"Ki, ki!" was the reply from both the driver and a passenger.

Sandy wondered aloud at my purpose in repeating my question when the answer was so obviously answered affirmatively the first time.

Sidebar: It is a blessing/curse that my brain is a factoid-attractant. Some of my family members, both nuclear and extended, enjoy/suffer the same gift/affliction. (And, as you can see, there is also a need to be precise in one's language.  I happen to think the two are connected as part of a syndrome, perhaps Asperger's Lite.) 

I replied that it had been my observation in life that people's brains operate similarly to the auto-complete computer application. (Which has been confirmed by research.) That is, we think we hear what we expect to hear. So if the driver hears my accented voice, his brain is going to struggle a bit, but catch up in time to hear the last word I say, "Samgori," and maybe conclude, erroneously, that we're looking for the village and not the metro station in Tbilisi. So I just ask twice to give him time to process the entire phrase. And save myself stress.

Sidebar: Another blessing/curse that runs in my family is to give tediously detailed thorough explanations in response to questions. Sometimes, though, based on prior negative thoughtful feedback from more normal people, we catch ourselves in time, and just say, "Umm, I dunno." Which creates other problems, but ... 

So while I'm responding to Sandy's question, I'm not noticing where our marshrutka is heading until I realize, "Hmm, this is a different route than usual through Rustavi .... uh, oh, .....this is feeling like a ride on Marshrutka #22 or, God forbid, #4. ... why are we turning here ... and wait ... are we going over that bridge there?"

And out of my mouth to the driver: "Budishi [excuse me], Tbilisi metro Samgori, yes?"

"Ki, ki." [Yes, yes.] said the driver and two passengers.

OK, then. And I see that we're back on familiar territory, albeit a new route for me via marshrutka. ... and then, we take a turn, heading for not-Tbilisi and not-Rustavi .... whoa. And then we go by the cemetery ... now I'm really getting tense ... and now we've passed the cemetery into new lands that are decidedly rural and going-to-the-village-and-not-Tbilisi-metro-Sambori-lke, and....

"Budishi," I say to the driver, "Tbilisi metro Samgori?"

"Ki, ki!," responded the driver and several passengers.

And then we turned left and entered the Azebaijani-Georgian village, whereupon the mashrutka slowed to granny gear to pick up villagers. By this time, I've resigned myself to accept wherever the marshrutka takes us.

I tamped down my concern about getting to Tbilisi by 8:30, using Sandy as my cue. After all, she was calm and apparently unconcerned. .. and then she asked, "What time is it?"

When we looked at the time, we saw we only had 15-20 minutes to not only get to Tbilisi, but get to the metro station. No way was that going to happen; we were still out in the hinterland. And I told Marie that very thing when she called a second later.

But miraculously, the universe tilted in a certain way and we spilled out from the village onto this highway and into Tbilisi and into the metro station only 5 minutes late. Wow.

Fast forward ... Sandy, Marie, Eberle and I are on the marshrutka to Sighnaghi. Six lari one way. The Sighnaghi marshrutka leaves Samgori station every two hours on the odd hour.

En route to Sighnaghi, we whizzed past the monument to the First Tractor in Kakheti, which I only knew about because Nely had pointed it out to me when we went to Kardanakhi a few weeks before. The monument is the actual tractor, ensconced upon a pedestal.

We also, thank God, whipped briefly down and to Bodbe Monastery where St. Nino is buried, thereby technically speaking, complying with Nely's wish that we visit that sacred site. My protestations of church overload had fallen on deaf ears.

A hot chocolade

Yes, -lade. Hot, thick, chocolate-y to the max. A pudding, really. A demitasse-sized, sensory experience for the delicious warmth of the cup and the intense chocolate taste. We consumed this in a restaurant/hotel in a courtyard adjacent to Sighnaghi's cultural museum.

Mexican food

Homemade chips, maybe even fried with lard. In a country with very good food, but a shocking lack of crunch, this was the highlight of the meal. Crunch.

Sighnaghi, Georgia

Wait, the second highlight was the spiced coffee - cinnamon, cloves, orange peel. Fabulous.

Sighnaghi, Georgia

Beautiful view of the mountainside and faraway valley, framed by a happy orangey wall.

The museum

The museum was nice. I wish I could be more descriptive, but I'm just not a museum person. You'd think I'd learn that by now, and just go have a cup of coffee while companions take all the time they wish looking at important historical stuff in glass cases. Yes, I know this is sacrilegious, but I'm not getting any younger, and I think from now on, I'm going to take a pass on such things. I can count on one hand the museums that made an impression on me.

Terrific, postcard views from one of the windows, though.

Sighnaghi, Georgia

Sighnaghi, Georgia

Sighnaghi, Georgia

 

The church

Sighnaghi, Georgia

Even though all of us were pretty done with churches, Sighnaghi's old church was compelling. So much so, we walked up the stone steps to check it out. And then, damn, we heard singing emanating from within.
 
And walked into a wedding.

Sighnaghi, Georgia

As we left the church, another wedding party was arriving.

Sighnaghi, Georgia

The wall

One of the things Sighnaghi is known for is the remains of the 8th century wall that originally surrounded it completely. The photo below is poor quality, but you can make out the wall.

Sighnaghi, Georgia

Pheasant's Tears

I'm not going to talk about the taxi ride that ultimately was for a distance about 500 feet but which cost 4 lari. I've released that incident. Pretty much.

Pheasant's Tears winery is brimming with the ambiance of living a good life. Good food, good wine, good friends and family. Traditions held dear. Fire in the fireplace. Brick and stone work. Lovely blue baticky (but not) tablecloths.

Menu read beautifully on the chalkboard on the wall. Still sated from our Mexican (chip) feast, we had coffee and tea. It was a great way to enjoy the pleasing environment without putting too much of a dent in our wallets.

I was hoping to get a photo of the co-founder, John Wurdeman, to take back to Nely, but he was not in town.  

Sighnaghi, Georgia

Pheasant's tears kitchen. Sighnaghi, Georgia

Pheasant's Tears pantry. Sighnaghi, Georgia

Sighnaghi, Georgia

So, summarizing Sighnaghi. Certainly it's a tourist town, and one could argue that it's been a town Disneyfied. It's also an expensive place to visit, with most eateries and lodging being upscale. Overall, though, I was pleasantly surprised at how much I saw that still felt "authentic," whatever the heck that means.  It was definitely worth a day.

Sighnaghi, Georgia

Flashback: Travels With Carol: Kansas City 2010 Trip Report, Day 3

Carol is my mother. We have taken a number of road trips together. One dreary winter we went to Kansas City for a long weekend. I wrote the part called Mzuri's Report. My mother wrote the part called Carol's Report. 

Kansas City 2010 Trip Report, Day 3

In January 2010, my mother and I took the train to Kansas City, Missouri. This is Day 3 of our trip report, which includes comments from our original trip-report recipients. 

City Market, Kansas City, Missouri. January 2010.

MZURI'S REPORT
 

Tuesday, we visited Steamboat Arabia, which is within the City Market.

In brief: Steamboat sank in Missouri River in mid-century 1800s. All contents still within, tho all humans escaped. River course changed. Boat encased in muck and mud til 1990, when museum owners dug it out. Contents preserved and on display. Sort of a snapshot in time of everyday items - many totally new at the time, as they'd been intended for mercantile stores along the river route.

I'm not all that interested in all of the minutia arrayed in the museum, although there is power in the sheer quantities of like items, e.g. boots, nails, buttons, coats, tools, etc. The thing that I like is that the individuals who unearthed all of this are still a daily part of the museum, and they introduce themselves to visitors. Also, the docent is very knowledgeable about the dig and the museum contents. I was especially interested in talking at some length with one of the textile preservationists.

There was a bit of an incident when Carol was talking to one of the museum owners, one of the men who led the whole adventurous gamble of the dig. The boat was in a field owned by a local judge (a mile south of Parkville). Carol asked about legal threats to the ownership of the boat's contents, to which the museum owner replied there were none. Carol noted that it was likely a good thing the landowner was a judge and not  "an ignorant ..... " at which time my hand suddenly, without any warning to me, shot out and struck her thigh. Carol and the gentleman looked startled, and Carol asked, "what, were you worried what I was going to say next?" I allowed as how, yes, I was. Carol asked what I thought she was going to say, and I said I didn't know, but whatever it was, it probably wasn't going to be good.

Carol might have been really angry except that only moments before, the museum owner had exclaimed that she couldn't possibly be old enough to be my mother. So Carol was like a lion who'd just eaten, willing to let small prey live.

City Market, Kansas City, Missouri. January 2010.

I liked the City Market. There seems to have been some effort by the powers-that-be to ensure some interesting diversity there. The restaurants include: Italian, middle eastern, Vietnamese, Ethiopian, Indian, Mexican, Chinese, and American. We lunched at the middle eastern place; Carol had a chicken gyros and I had a lamb/beef one. She had a great salad with feta, olives, etc. and I had hummus with my gyros.

I picked up fresh dates at the middle eastern market, ginger at the Vietnamese market, and berbere spice at the Ethiopian restaurant. Carol picked up a used book at Auntie Em's, an antique store.

CAROL'S REPORT
 

When the gentleman said I didn't look old enough to be Mzuri's mother I was wearing the red coat.  

Mzuri punched my leg; it startled me and I knew she was cautioning me to watch my rhetoric which puzzled me, but am getting used to my children expecting some untoward remark made by me.  Beekeeper [Carol's 4th son] even asked me to refrain from sighs at his son's recent concert.  Anyway Mzuri explained later that she thought I was going to say "ignorant farmer" instead of what I did say which was ignorant person.  By the way, the group responsible for digging up the boat were a father and his two sons all in the family air conditioning business.  The City Market was unique - as Mzuri said many cultures and native food choices present.
 

My passport card was Discover.  Today, the Art Museum.

EMAIL RESPONSES TO ORIGINAL LOG:


FROM LABARQUE:
 

I love these reports. They are great escapes. Thanks for sharing them. ....I especially enjoy the two different reports.  I love Mom's clarifications.  It's the difference in the two perspectives that I find the must humorous and interesting.


Relevant posts: 

Kansas City 2010 Trip, Days 1 and 2
Kansas City 2010 Trip, Day 4

Flashback: Georgia: A Story of Poo

I ran across this story recently. It's the kind of experience that's not funny at all at the time, but crazy-funny looking back.

Friday, October 21, 2011

Georgia: A Story of Poo

When I thought of the things I'd be doing in Georgia, I thought of a lot of fun and interesting things.

Carrying a stool sample on a marshrutka, en route to the doctor's office, was not one of those things.

Marshrutkas, Rustavi, Georgia. 2012.

And yet there I was. 

A cold and rainy day. Plagued with diarrhea for the previous five days, now on the sixth.

On Wednesday, I finally went to the doctor's building to get things checked out.  

I often say there are no secrets in Georgia. This is especially true in Georgian medical facilities. Privacy? Confidentiality about medical matters in Georgia? [Insert laugh track here.]

No, two doctors share an office, their desks side-by-side. Patients describe their complaints simultaneously to their respective docs, while other patients sit on the examination table awaiting their turn.

So I did all that on Wednesday, describing my symptoms. The doctor eventually prescribed a bag o' drugs for me, and then asked if I wanted to bring in a stool sample the next day for testing. Yeah, I did, because I don't think I've ever been afflicted with diarrhea for so long, and I wanted to nail down the cause, if possible.

Nodding agreement, the doctor then gave me a specimen container.  Hahahahahaha! That's a complete lie! No, they don't have such things at this medical building. It would be up to me to figure something out.

I went home to my empathetic hostess, who, nevertheless, was confident that the nature of my problem was simply the "change in the weather." At this point, I was feeling a little exasperated with the firm beliefs, held by most Georgians, that the following cause illness:

• Change in the weather
• Drinking cold water in cold weather
• Not wearing slippers in the house

I had a bit of a tantrum, pointing out the Missouri sometimes experiences HUGE swings in weather from one day to the next - FAR more volatile, in fact, than Georgian weather, thank you very much - and that, by God, Missourians could kick Georgians' asses any time of day from our hardiness, and that I have been around the block a few times, for Christ's sake, and I think ..... oh well, need I go on?

At any rate, Nely, who graciously remained unfazed, rooted around in her medical-supply drawer and pulled out a round-bottomed, unlidded, glass thingie. A pretty little thing. In the past, she used it for home-remedy "cupping" where you heat the glass then apply it to the sick one's back to create suction. She said this would make a good specimen container. I protested, saying it was really an antique and had value, but she shrugged and insisted that I use it. She boiled it in readiness for the big do the next morning.

[Note: Since we're talking about poo anyway .... When we were children, my siblings and I were taught to use the word "go-go" to indicate the need to use the toilet, as in, from parent: "Do you have to go-go?" Or from one of us, desperately: "I have to go-go!"  In Georgia, "gogo" means girl. Thank God my siblings are grown-ups now because if we weren't, we'd be giggling every time we heard the word. Though I think we brought one sibling to tears once when we called him "gogo-wicki" over and over and over again.]

So the next morning the specimen was captured and pretty well sealed and I carried it gingerly within my big festival bag and onto the marshrutka (with the plan to look meaningfully at a fellow passenger in the event an odor emanated in the van, hoping to deflect suspicion onto that innocent soul and away from me), then off the marshrutka and up to the doctor's office.

The actual bag in which I carried the poo.

Oh wait, I forgot to mention that I'd forgotten that the container had that round bottom, so when I did the capture, I set it atop the toilet tank and .... oops. Fortunately circumstances were such that getting an additional specimen was not an issue.

Is all this TMI? Hell, don't blame me; you made the decision to read this far.

So I carried my little specimen to the doctor and subsequently found myself, still carrying it, following a woman through the corridors of this building to the lab. Robust women populated the lab; none looked pleased at what I brought for their consideration and review. My escort, however, prevailed upon them to take it and do something with it. Based on the body language I observed, I'm guessing the conversation went something like this:

Lab woman: "What the hell are you bringing us here? We don't have time for this shit!"
My escort: "Yeah, I know, but this American woman, you know, we have to deal with her because she's part of that program the president has."
Lab woman: "I get so tired of this shit!"
My escort: "Yes, I know my darling, but you know what they say -- shit rolls downhill, so what can I do?"
Lab woman: "Goddammit! Give it to me, then, and get out of here. Jesus. Same old shit every day. My job is shit ... ."

So we left my specimen in the lab woman's capable (and ungloved) hands and returned to the doctor's office to await the results.


Word arrived that I had a lot of something or another in there. Next step - blood sample. Back to the lab. A woman (ungloved) pricked my finger, and then sucked up the rubber collection tube to allow more room for the blood to flow into it. She also smeared some blood on a glass slide, then put another atop it.

I went back to the doctor and she escorted me from one office to another, consulting with other doctors about my situation. Then we returned to her office, where she informed me that she wanted me to to the Infection Hospital for more testing. I'll cut through some of the attempted, aborted, language-barrier conversations to the point where Nana, my excellent TLG regional representative, arrived to translate and to escort me to the hospital.

We took a taxi, walked through mud to the rear entrance (hospital under renovation), wound through some corridors to an office with the infection expert, who asked me various questions, then palpated me, then ... ok I'm boring myself. Moving forward .... an employee delivered to me a sweet little glass jar with a glass stirrer, which she had poked through a hole in the paper-towel-like covering that was bound to the jar with sort of a blue ribbon. It was like a little gift package. In which I was to provide another specimen. Which I did.

Fast forward to Monday afternoon when results in. Anti-climactic. Everything normal.

Not sure what did the trick, but by Sunday, things were fine. It could have been any of the following: 

• Time
• Salt mixed with chacha (which does not taste good, btw)
• The various "enzyme" drugs I took

Ah well, as long as things turned out in the end.

Flashback: Ethiopia: From Nazret to Addis, Part 2: Immigration Hell

I first published this post, Ethiopia: From Nazret to Addis, Part 2: Immigration Hell, in February 2011.

I'd like it to be known that I sure as heck don't believe my experience in a series of waiting rooms on a particular day in Addis Ababa in any way, by any stretch of the imagination, compares to that suffered by women, men, and children currently caught up in a web of arbitrary and capricious political theater. 

My story is simply a good tale to tell over dinner with a glass of wine.

Ethiopia: From Nazret to Addis, Part 2: Immigration Hell

Ah, the visa extension process. Forget everything the Ethiopian Embassy says on its U.S. website. A three-month visa at Bole Airport? Forget it! A three-month visa at the Immigration compound in Addis? Forget it!

Source: Ethiopian Embassy (US) website

 

[Note: I've sent an email to the Ethiopian Embassy in D.C. asking that it provide correct information on its website. I'll update the outcome in future.]

The extension process is a little like an old Twilight Zone episode where it turns out Hell is where one spends an eternity in a waiting room.

First, I climbed a wide cement staircase, noting two entrances to the compound: women on the left; men on the right. A woman guard at the top of the steps, when I asked where I needed to go to extend my visa, waved her baton, and said "end of the line." I explained, yes, that's fine, but I wanted to know about where to go for my visa extension. "I know. End of line." Yeah, OK. To the end of the line I went.

The women's line moved fairly quickly, and I met my friendly guard again, and she pointed me to the immediate left through the gate. There, an attendant logged my name, passport info, and a painstaking description of my camera into a large ledger. She took my camera, gave me a laminated card with a number on it, put a similar card in my camera case, and put it into a drawer. I understood that I'd use the card to reclaim my camera when I left the compound.

Next stop: Body pat-down.

Photo credit: Kigaliwire

Then to the adjacent glass building where I entered a largish waiting room with a table in the front of the room. Another waiting person obligingly gestured to me to take a seat. I asked "Do I take a number?" He said, no, there weren't many people at present, so shouldn't be a problem. In short order, I was called to the table, and a pleasant man gave me a form to complete, and instructed me to go outside the compound and have my passport pages photocopied (the page with my main info plus the one with the E. visa pasted onto it). I asked rather incredulously, "I go OUTSIDE the compound to get a photocopy. And then I bring it BACK?" Yup.

I left the compound (I realize now I likely left by the men's entrance. Oh well. No lightning struck.) I asked the woman guard where the photocopy place was, and that happy person gestured with her baton to a stone outbuilding immediately below her. I saw a clutch of humanity hovering round a barred window. I asked a man if he was in line for photocopies, and he said, yes, but then he said, no need to stand in line, just go to the window. So I presumed this was one of those dog-eat-dog situations where the assertive bird gets the worm (the early bird be damned). Then I learn, "no photocopy." Well, hell.

So I cast about for an alternative, feeling irritated with this stupid system, and tried to ask the male guard, whose first concern was that I NOT walk through the men's entrance, but once he understood my question, he pointed in a general direction to the left, where all I saw was a phone booth. So, to the air in a rather loud voice to anyone who might hear and know the answer, "Where is the photocopy? That guard over there [and I pointed to the woman guard] told me to the right, but there's no photocopy there!"

Thankfully, a man pointed me to the precise location, and said, "one birr" per copy, and then, "watch your bag."

Much appreciative, I walked down the rest of the steps, only to have one of the circling wolves glom on to me. "Do you know where the photocopy is?" "Do you have the $20 for the visa"? "Do you .....?" I curtly said I had all I needed and made my way to the copy store, with him glued to my side. While he stood at the doorway, I successfully negotiated the photocopy process and picked my way back through the wolf pack and back up the steps, through the women's entrance, through another body pat-down, and back into the glass building. I found a seat to wait my turn again.

Photo credit: Excel Math

I noted a woman, possible Ethiopian, at least in origin, and a large, Caucasian man, perhaps Italian, enter. The woman was rather sour-faced with an imperious air; the man smiled and mumbled. Both were in their 40s or 50s.

Presently, the pleasant official called me back up to the table, jotted some notes on my form, and instructed me to go to Room 77. Next building.

I walked to the next building and found Room 77, encountering a lot of people sitting on chairs and a bench outside the room. Clueless, I raised my eyebrows in a universal Ethiopian sign that can mean: "Hello!" or "I see you and acknowledge your presence" or to wait staff, "Please come here." Or in this case, "What do I do now?"

The same kind man who helped me out in the glass building indicated I should just take a seat, which I did, trusting that the process would be revealed to me. At first glance, though, there was no apparent system for people getting to the next immigration official in an orderly fashion. But soon I saw there was a woman in charge of tending us sheep, keeping us moving from one seat to the next, when, as a lucky petitioner came before an official, s/he created an opening at the "head" of the chair line. How quickly we became trained to the system.

When I finally got into Room 77, that imperious woman and her mumbling, smiling companion waltzed straight into the room! She walked right into the middle of the room and the large mumbling man plopped himself into a chair! The chair I was to sit in, as a matter of fact! I told him, basically, "Hey! All of those people out there (gesturing to the corridor) have been waiting a long time! They're in front of you!" He just smiled and mumbled at me ineffectually as if to say, "Gosh, I'm just doing what I'm told. What can I do?" I made a similar comment to the woman that I'd made to the man, and she just looked at me unblinkingly, without apology or movement.

Photo from Manchas: Espectador emancipado

Anyway, it was presently my turn at one of the official's desks, where a behemoth CRT monitor served as an excellent barrier between me, one of the unwashed, and her, the official. And that damned imperious woman attempted to inject her business in front of me, at which I presented her with another raised brow, Ethiopian-style, this time meaning, "what the hell do you think you're doing?" Same response from her as she'd given me before.

The official talked on the phone, looked at the monitor, looked at my passport, repeated the above, then said, "Inside!" Fortunately, I had observed another official give the same command to another petitioner, so I knew this meant, "Go inside the draped area next to me so I can take your picture." So I hopped to it. I walked inside and sat on the chair in front of the camera, just as I heard her disembodied voice command, "Sit down." I looked up at the camera, and I heard the same disembodied voice say, "Down." So I obediently lowered my chin. Snap. I figured it was OK to emerge from the draped area and sit again by her desk. She informed me that new regulations meant I could only extend my visa for 30 days at a time. Because my departure date is March 23, this would require me to go through this laborious bureaucratic process again just for two days extra time in Ethiopia. Not to mention having to pay another $20 for the privilege. I tried to explain this to the official, but she was immovable from the policy. She told me to proceed to Room 78.

And so I went. Fortunately, only a handful of people was there. Being now broken in to the ways of immigration, I slid into the appropriate chair and moved into one closer to the "head" as each person before me was processed and moved out. When it became my turn, I explained again about the mere two extra days over 30 that I needed on my extension. The official appeared empathetic, but expressed powerlessness. Luckily, another petitioner (I think a naturalized U.S. citizen originally from Ethiopia) helped me out, saying basically, "Wow, this makes no sense!" He suggested I go to a manager who would have the authority to exercise flexibility. To Room 80 I went!

By this time, I had a headache. From the shortage of caffeine thus far today, the return to some altitude, the bureaucratic web I was in, or all of the above, I don't know.

Daoist Hell: Feudal Government. Photo credit: This Trolleybus Goes East

I entered Room 80, where I encountered a number of seated men,and an unoccupied executive desk. I sat in an empty spot on a couch by the wall, and attempted to gain a sense for the process in this room. Gleaning no hints from the men, I asked generally, "Will the manager return"? Yes. Good. I continued to wait. When the manager did enter the room, the men in the two couches immediately in front of the desk stood up, ready to make their petitions. Once one left, a man from "my" couch moved to one of these couches. OK. I've got the hang of it now. I watched the other petitioners closely to get an idea of how I I should best present my case. In fairly short order, I made my own way to a couch in front of the desk, and awaited my turn.

Meanwhile, damned if that woman and her mumbling man didn't show up in Room 80! Jesus!

When it came my turn in front of the manager, I attempted to dazzle him with my tiny bit of Amharic, a dash of obsequiousness, and a pretty smile. Of course, as an experienced problem solver who deals with plaintive petitions all day and every day, he wasn't fooled for one moment. At first, he took the hard policy line, but as I pointed out my flight itinerary and appealed to his reason, he took my passport and left the room. I followed, but quickly lost him, thinking he went down the hall to Room 77, but not finding him there, I retraced my steps and encountered a woman in the corridor (a fellow traveler "in the rooms" this afternoon) who gestured toward an entirely new room. I entered that room, where I found the manager, still holding my passport, engaged in a lively discussion with a sturdy woman official in uniform. He completed the discussion, left the room, and I followed him like a duckling back into his office. He wrote a note on my paperwork, told me he approved a visa extension of 35 days, and told me to go to Room 77. Thank you, thank you!

I walked briskly back to Room 77, found my appropriate place in line, and commenced to waiting again. When I saw a couple who had been in Room 80 bypass the seated queue and enter directly into Room 77, I ventured the same, showing my note to the "sheep herder." Merciless in her sense of order, she directed me back to my place in line.

In this go-round for Room 77, I sat next to a Sudanese man. We came to a tentative philosophical agreement that Life is About Waiting. He suggested the two of us swap passports. A Rwandese man on my other side had questions about replacing a woman's visa (presumably his wife's). I asked the Sudanese man to save my seat while I walked the Rwandese man to the glass building where one gets the form (before getting the photocopies), but we found it closed, so we returned to our places in line outside Room 77. I allowed as how there is a tiny chance I might go to Rwanda in July. Sadly, this man probably was unable to complete his business today, as an immigration official seemed pretty insistent the woman needed to present herself in person, even though the man stressed that she was very sick.

[We meet in these bureaucratic halls and our lives connect for moments, each with our little sagas, but then, like molecules, we bounce off again, never to know how things end up for others.]

Finally, I got back into Room 77, and holy hell! That imperious woman and the smiling mumbler marched right into the room again! I gave her a hostile look, which slid off her customary unblinking, stolid stare. I got to the same immigration official I had before. She perused my stuff and eventually instructed me back to Room 78 for payment.

For the second time, I entered Room 78, and took my place after the Sudanese man, who preceded me. We chatted again, practicing how to say "no problem" in Amharic (chiggray-yellum, sort of). We watched one of the officials insert a $20 bill into a machine that seemed to check it for suitable crispness. (Ethiopian officialdom does not like worn dollars.) Looked like this one was rejected.

In time, I sit again by the immigration official. I paid my money, she kept my passport (!), and told me to return Monday afternoon (at 4:00 p.m.!) to pick it up.

I left the building and stopped at the pat-down vestibule to retrieve my camera. The attendant got it out of the drawer, carefully checked the camera, the reclaim card she'd placed in the bag, the reclaim card I gave to her, and the ledger entry, then returned my camera to me. In a friendly way, she repeated my first and middle names, and we exchanged thanks and goodbyes.

I left the Immigration compound, walked down the steps and into the thick of the wolves, all eager to sell me something. As I negotiated a taxi fare, twice someone touched my butt about where my faux rear pocket is. OK, the first time could have been inadvertent, but the second time it happened, I exclaimed, "Hey!"

The taxi took me back to the Ankober, where I relaxed, although I still suffered that headache. Later, I went out for a take-away pizza and bottled water.

When I asked for napkins to take with me, the waitress helpfully told me that in Amharic, this was "soft." Ah, so now I know "soft" can mean napkin, kleenex, or toilet paper. I'm glad to add this bit to my little repertoire of Amharic knowledge.

I was happy to end the long day in a spacious room, cool air coming through the window, water in the flush toilet, and the BBC and familiar American shows on the television. I went to bed, I think at 7:30!

Flashback: Fear and Adventure: A Skydiving Story

Sabine NWR - Wetland Walk, Louisiana. June 2015.

I originally wrote this post in May 2015: Fear and Adventure: A Skydive Story

Sunday, May 3, 2015

Fear and Adventure: A Skydive Story

Starting with an Important Birthday Milestone years ago, I decided to create an adventure for each of my future birthdays. The criterion for choosing the adventure was that it had to challenge me emotionally, mentally or physically.

One year, I was pondering on what my birthday adventure should be. In this particular year, three choices came to mind, all of them very challenging. One was to go out dancing. Another was to participate in a gestalt therapy exercise, which entailed the exploration and release of great emotion, culminating perhaps in that proverbial primal scream of pent-up feelings. The third option was to jump out of a plane at 10,000 feet. After considering these options over a number of weeks, I decided that of all three choices, jumping out of a plane was the least frightening.

I didn’t really want to do this by myself, so I invited family members and friends to join me. Many said, yeah, that sounds cool! Maybe I'll do it! As the time for the jump loomed closer, however, those who’d expressed interest dropped out, until at the end, no one intended to go with me - not even to watch.

One of the things I've learned about life is that if I really want to do something, I’ve got to be willing to do it alone. Otherwise, I may never get to do it.

Truman Building parking lot. Jefferson City, Missouri. Decembe 2006.

I decided to do a tandem jump, where I’d jump while connected to an experienced skydiver.

I drove alone to the airport and upon my arrival, started a series of bathroom trips every five minutes. I also watched a short video that provided a bare-bones review of what it would be like to jump and that I’d need to pull up my knees upon landing so the instructor with whom I’d be connected by a strap could hit the ground first, as he’d be immediately behind me. The video also noted how dangerous the sport was, that I could die or become paralyzed or suffer any myriad number of other bad things. After watching the video, it was time for me to read and sign the consent form,which again told me in HUGE PRINT that I could die or suffer serious injury and I waived all liability from the jump school, the airport, the instructor, the airplane, the fuel supplier, the road construction crew, and the guy who mowed the lawn. If I were going to die through this exercise, it was going to be by my own free will. I signed the papers.

The next step was a five-minute “training” in which someone had a small group of us show him that we could jump off a picnic table bench while bending our knees and holding on to them. I passed this with flying colors.

The next step was to get into a jump suit. Now, at this point I was feeling no fear. Some nervousness, certainly, as evidenced by my frequent bathroom trips. But I was feeling no fear because my brain had checked out. It was waiting in the parking lot in my car, refusing to have anything to do with this ridiculous enterprise.

So anyway, it was now time for the jumpsuit. Let me tell you about this suit. It was bright pink and it was Spandex. You know how Spandex is, right? It fits you like a second skin. It shows everything. It reveals every flaw. I was not a svelte woman.

I put the suit on. I was so relieved that it fit! I was feeling OK. I walked around a bit, getting the feel of it.

I walked in front of a full-length mirror.

I gasped. The sight of myself in this Spandex suit was so preposterously preposterous I had no other words to describe it. I JUMPED out of the view of the mirror.

From then on, I stayed out of range of any mirrors, and convinced myself that if I could not see myself then no one else could either, like a toddler who believes that she's invisible when she covers her head with a cloth.

The next step was to get me into a harness. This was a leather contraption with wide straps that went between my legs and around my thighs, with a brace up my back, and then straps that went around my shoulders and upper arms. It was pulled VERY tight. The result was that it affected my ability to walk with my legs together or lift my legs, and my back was pulled so straight with the brace, I could hardly bend over. Therefore, that entire five-minute exercise of jumping off the picnic bench in a tuck was utterly pointless. I could barely walk.

Ah, but too late. It was time to board the plane. I walked to the plane just like one of those science-fiction robots from cheesy sci-fi movies in the 1950s.


And then I saw I’d have to climb two or three steps to get into the plane. Oh my God. Carefully and awkwardly I somehow managed to do this. The next challenge was to bend over as I moved to the front end of the plane because the ceiling, of course, was low. The plane was outfitted with two benches along each side of the plane, and everyone straddled a bench, one person tucked in front of the other, like a roll of Lifesavers. My instructor went in before me, straddled the bench, and I straddled the bench in front of him. It was REALLY hard to be bent into a sitting position with the harness on. I was like a stuffed animal with legs that are permanently outstretched, and when you try to sit it on its butt, it keeps tipping over onto its back. My body kept wanting to fall backward, into the instructor, and I grasped for something to hold to keep my balance. I found the tiniest ridge above the window to clutch, but the instructor yelped a little bit and said not to hold onto that, as it could pop the window out.

Somehow I negotiated an uneasy balance until it was time for me and the instructor to get up in preparation for the jump. We would be the last ones to go. As I walked toward the plane door, I concentrated on bending over sufficiently so the instructor - much taller than I – could use some of the space over my head to bend over himself so he wouldn’t hit his head on the ceiling. I focused completely on taking one robot step after another while trying to bend down.

I arrived at the open door and I could see down into the depths of sky and land so many feet below me, and I was suddenly appalled. Not because I was about to hurl myself from this tiny plane into the empty sky. (Remember, my brain had washed its hands of the whole affair.)

No, I was appalled because between the airplane floor and the open doorway was the tiniest little lip of a ridge. Maybe a half an inch tall. And I knew that somehow I would have to lift my foot that infinitesimal height, while bent over in this harness, and stand on the lip before I could jump. I didn’t know if I could do it.

Somehow I did and thus FELL out of the plane.

Baby bird, Jefferson City, Missouri. June 2007.

They don’t really tell you how to land until you’re in the air and falling. Therefore, as we plummeted to the earth, the instructor told me, “OK, now we’re going to practice how to land. What you’ll need to do is practice pulling your knees up and grasping them so my feet can hit the ground first.” Now remember, I had lost most of my flexibility due to the harness. So here was the instructor asking me not only to pull my knees up, but to bend over to grasp my knees – and to do this all the while I’m plunging to the earth.

But it seemed pretty important, so I tried it. I pulled my knees up, or thought I did, but there was barely any discernible movement. The instructor observed this, and said, “Well, we’ve still got plenty of time to practice this, so let’s try it again.”

I did, and again there was only the tiniest of movements. And the instructor said, “Well, we’ve got some time still, but that’s not quite going to do it. Let’s try another way. Why don’t you do this: Stretch your legs straight out in front of you and hold them up straight.”

So I tried it, and asked, “Is that enough?”

“Well, no, but let’s just try it again. Next time, hold your legs out straight and hold onto the seams of your jumpsuit to help keep them up. ” I tried it, and asked, “Is this enough?”

“Uh, no .......... but we’ll figure something out by the time we get to the ground. Just try to do the best you can.”

And I said, “OK!”

In the end, I basically landed on my stomach. It didn’t hurt. It worked out OK. As a matter of fact, I laughed. Relief. Embarrassment. The absurdity of it all.  Or all of the above, I don't know.


Here's what I do know: In order to jump out of that plane, I had to give up control and trust that it was going to be alright. If I was going to practice living my life to the fullest, I had to be willing to do something I wanted to do by myself, without waiting for someone to do it with me. I had to be willing to look really stupid. I had to risk embarrassment.

Something I'll always remember is that the instructor never treated me with anything other than the greatest respect and kindness. He was professional and calm at all times, and he played a big part in the positiveness of my experience.

It took weeks before I fully appreciated what I did – before my brain was willing to talk to me about it, so to speak. One night in bed, just as I was about to fall asleep, I relived my experience of falling out of the plane – no! - VOLUNTARILY jumping out of this plane 10,000 feet in the air – and it was only THEN that I felt fear. WHAT HAD I BEEN THINKING!?!?!?

Long-tailed bird, Gorgora, Ethiopia. January 2011.

 

Flashback: Laying the Groundwork for a New Career

Seven years ago, I marked this important event: Laying the Groundwork for a New Career.


Here's what I wrote on November 7, 2010: 

Laying the groundwork for a new career 

 

Today I am in Playa del Carmen, Mexico. I've rented a condo for a month. And for that month, my worldly possessions fit into a small wheeled carry-on and a backpack.

Tomorrow I start a CELTA course in teaching English as a foreign language.

When I finish, I should have a certificate that, in theory, will let me work just about anywhere in the world. Which is really what I've wanted to do from the time I was an adolescent - travel the globe.

During the month, friends Pam and Jackie will join me for a week; later, my mother and Brother3 will join me for a week over Thanksgiving.

As I write this, I hear nearby church bells sounding the hour.

 

 

Palm fruit, Playa del Carmen, Quintana Roo, Mexico. November 2010.