Flamingos at Lake Nakuru in Kenya.

After a few days at Kenya’s Shaba National Reserves, we moved on to Lake Nakuru National Park. This entailed a bone-rattling six-hour drive, although the first part of the journey was through the Buffalo Springs game reserve. It was interesting to casually drive by groups of zebra, giraffe and gazelles on our way from one destination to another. Quite a contrast to our normal morning commute at home.

By mid-afternoon, we’d arrived at our destination in the Rift Valley, a geographical crevice that runs through the middle of Kenya and stretches more than 3,500 miles across the continent. Nakuru is one of several soda lakes in this region, all of which have warm alkaline water as a result of ancient volcanic deposits and thus an abundance of blue-green algae. Fortuitously, for tourists at least, this algae is a staple of the daily diet for Kenya’s pink flamingos and hundreds of thousands of birds make their home in the area.

It began raining during our afternoon game drive at Nakuru, but we still saw an abundance of zebras, along with buffaloes and hippos by the water and a tribe of baboons along one of the roadways. We also saw two rhinos from close range and had a medium distance sighting of three leopards. This gave us the satisfaction of knowing that we’d completed our sightings of the so-called Big Five, as we saw lions, elephants and buffalo in Shaba.

We asked our guide, Zach, why these particular animals made up the Big Five. After all, they weren’t necessarily the five most popular safari animals.

“It has nothing to do with safari popularity,” he explained, “but with toughness. These are the five ‘toughest’ game animals.”

Lisa and I later decided there should be a Big Ten for safari purposes. The Big Five can retain their importance, of course – who are we to argue with them? But then we decided that giraffes and zebras should be included on our Big Ten list, being that they are unique, fun to gaze at and popular with tourists. Also, gazelles were Big Ten worthy, since they are extraordinarily graceful and beautiful to watch.

For the ninth and tenth members of our club, we added animals that were top attractions in Kenya. These included the wildebeest, a popular sight during part of the year at Masai Mara, and pink flamingos, which are predominantly found at the soda lakes of the Rift Valley.

It was our experience at Lake Nakuru that prompted us to include flamingos on our Big Ten list. We’d heard they were an interesting sight, but we weren’t prepared for the full impact of seeing tens of thousands of pink flamingos strutting around the perimeter of a single lake. This was one of the most visually interesting spectacles we saw on the safari. From a distance, it appeared the water was ringed with stretches of pink sand. But as we approached, it became apparent this was an illusion, caused by the presence of more pink flamingoes than we ever knew existed, all living together on the edge of a lake.

This was the only time all week that we were allowed out of the safari vehicle to approach animals. We walked along the beachfront and gaped in amazement at the thousands of pink flamingoes squeezed together in front of us – feeding, walking, flying, landing. And the noise! It’s remarkable, the volume of sound that can be produced by all of those squawking animals.

Interestingly, as we walked towards the birds, who formed a ring perhaps 15 or 20 feet deep along the perimeter of the lake, they edged away from us in unison. They moved calmly, and not in panic, but a giant pink wave would invariably form opposite whichever direction we moved. If we walked straight towards the water, the birds in front of us would disperse into a semicircle. If we walked left or right, the wave would move in that direction. We felt like flamingo conductors.

It was raining fairly steadily at this point, but we were entranced and didn’t want to leave the flamingos. So we stood there for long minutes on the edge of the lake, hoods pulled over our heads, no sound but for the clamor of birds and the drumming of raindrops, thousands of pink flamingos forming a dreamlike picture in front of us, and we breathed in the sweet smell of rain on a warm African afternoon.

Photo credit: Syllabub via Wikimedia Commons.

Buddhist monks on the street in Cambodia

From the early 1970s into the mid-1990s, Cambodia was an unlikely tourist destination, as it endured a U.S. bombing campaign, a war against the Vietnamese, a civil war and the genocidal brutality of the Khmer Rouge regime. Today, though, peace has thankfully returned to the country and it’s a fascinating, if occasionally disquieting, place to visit.

The Cambodians are a devout people and there is a certain spiritual charm that pervades the land. When we were there, the streets of Siem Reap teemed with monks, strolling through town in their orange robes and sandals. At various temples the monks would interact freely with visitors and answer questions about Buddhism or the monastic life. Cambodian Buddhism, in fact, seemed very much like what we’d experienced in Thailand. Perhaps for good reason, since Cambodia, Thailand and Laos were all historically affected by India and the traditions of Theravada Buddhism, whereas Vietnamese culture (which did not have the same palpable sense of faith) absorbed more influences from China.

We also found the Cambodian people to be open and sociable. Perhaps it was the elation of being at peace and of finally being able to welcome tourists into their country, but it seemed a genuine part of who they were. They greet visitors in the same gentle way the Thais do, which is to place their palms together at chest level and then bow slightly from the waist. This greeting (the wai in Thailand) is called a sompiah in Cambodia.

There were, though, enough captivating quirks about the country to make it obvious that we were in an alien and unfamiliar culture. We marveled, for instance, at the women who sold baskets of fried crickets, spiders and cockroaches by the side of the road. They apparently flavor the insects by putting a peanut in their bodies before frying. We also smiled at the incongruity of some cars being driven from the right side, while others were driven from the left. The traffic flowed along the right half of the road, but there was no pattern as to which side of the car the steering wheel was placed. If you’re buying an automobile in Cambodia, apparently, you have to take what you can get.

As in Vietnam, we were also astonished by the dexterity of the motorbike drivers and the people and items they carried with them. I made a list of some of the more peculiar items we saw being transported around town by motorbike:

• A crate of chickens.
• A half-dozen pigs, tied upside down to the back of the bike.
• A piece of furniture strapped to the front.
• A large mirror, balanced between the driver and a second passenger.
• A bag of fish in water, hanging from a pole attached to the bike.

Then, of course, there was the one unique feature that interested only me. In Cambodia, I had my first experience spending Riels. Since the national currency is called the Riel, if you ever go to Cambodia you too can spend my last name.

The Cambodian currency is the Riel.

On the other hand, not everything is gentle or delightfully different in Cambodia. The country has suffered greatly in recent decades and is quite poor compared to some of its neighbors. Thailand is the wealthiest nation in the region and Vietnam is making significant economic progress, but Cambodia and Laos lag further behind. This was evident just from wandering the streets of Siem Reap. The infrastructure was barely developed, there were few street lights, the roads were rough and scarred and the sidewalks were crumbling. The river, meanwhile, was a murky brown and there was trash and sewage floating in the water.

Equally distressing were the beggars, many of whom were amputees and victims of land mines. Wherever we went, we were inundated by individuals who pleaded for cash. A few of the more enterprising ones would sell postcards and trinkets with a sign on their cart saying, “I decided to stop begging, please help support me.” Whichever way you cut it, though, it’s heartbreaking.

One night at a restaurant, after watching a one-legged person appeal for bits of change, Lisa went over and gave him a few bills. As soon as she did so, several other people immediately descended on her and asked for assistance. So what to do? Does a single small donation really make a difference, we wondered, or does it perpetuate the cycle of begging? Are we giving these individuals a reason to not seek work, or merely recognizing that job opportunities (particularly for amputees) are severely limited in this impoverished economy? They asked for so little money that it seemed like an easy gesture to help a few people who were less fortunate. Then again, there were so many of them that it sometimes became overwhelming and it was easier to just ignore everyone.

The paucity of the local economy was also driven home to us by the way the tuk-tuk drivers would battle ferociously over small fares. One evening, leaving another restaurant, we were overwhelmed by at least 10 drivers all vying for our business.

“I saw you first.”

“You come with me.”

“Sir, please.”

“Ma’am, not fair. No go with him.”

They encircled us and shouted for our business until we were finally seated and on our way. And what were they battling for? A $1 fare to our hotel. To be fair, it could have turned into more than that, since the drivers would often take customers on other days to local tourist attractions. But many times it was just for that $1 fare.

Street traffic in downtown Siem Reap.

It was unsettling, frankly, to have individuals fighting so energetically for a dollar here and there, when we were thrilled that a multi-course restaurant dinner for two only cost us $10. What is more, although Lisa and I stayed in a locally-owned budget hotel in Siem Reap because we had to keep expenses down for a longer journey, there were no shortage of five-star accommodations in the city. There aren’t many greater contrasts between the Western and the developing worlds, since some of these high-end hotels, complete with luxurious bedding, spa services and gourmet meals, were literally situated next to rickety street stalls, unpaved roads and muddy fields.

We did have a chance to put more of a human face on our Cambodian experience through some conversations with Jorani, a guide whom we hired for one of our visits to the Angkor temples.

One day, when she wasn’t working, we invited Jorani to join us for lunch and she suggested that we eat at a small, family-run restaurant in town. We sat on bamboo chairs, at tables with pink and white checked tablecloths, next to maroon and gold walls that were decorated with artistic photographs of local scenes. The dish that I ordered, Khmer curry with fish, was the best meal I had in Siem Reap.

I was intrigued when part of our conversation with Jorani turned out to be remarkably similar to the one we’d had with Linh, a female guide on a Halong Bay boat in Vietnam. That is, about the expectation that all women would get married and start a family by the time they were in their early 20s. As in Vietnam, the majority of married women in Cambodia did not work outside the home.

“When I begin work, I was the only woman in my class at tourism school,” said Jorani. “And even now, there only five other female guides, I think, in Siem Reap.”

Jorani had the same inner conflict that Linh did. She wanted to have a career but also recognized that she lived in a traditional society in terms of gender roles. Hence, she was expected to choose between devoting herself to work or to family. That is, if it were even still possible for her to be married.

“I like to be married,” said Jorani, “but I am 25, so I think maybe no one interested in me now. Men sometimes call me ‘tough chicken’ or ‘left over food.’ ”

I was sad for Jorani, as I had been for Linh. Although, as Jorani also noted, the corollary to this is that there is an evident value for the extended family in the Cambodian culture. “Cambodians have three rules for life,” she said. “Eat well, grow up, and take care of family.”

Photo credits: All photos by Bob Riel.

Small villages with names like Batubalan and Sukawati drift past our window as children splash in rivers along the side of the road and adults in woven conical hats work in lush green rice paddies. Our driver talks to us about life on Bali. He describes the village ceremonies that are organized for births, marriages and cremations, the flowery offerings to the gods that are ubiquitous on every street, and the island traditions of black magic. As we chat, every curve in the road brings another startling panorama. The rice terraces form long emerald staircases as they tumble down glittering green hillsides.

Photo credit: Purploony via Creative Commons.

Chichen Itza

The Americas are strewn with the ruins of ancient Indian civilizations. However, apart from a few renowned destinations, such as Macchu Picchu, Mesa Verde or Chichen Itza, most of these sites are not very well-known. This is particularly true for Mexico, which has numerous impressive ruins, several of which are World Heritage sites. So here are seven ancient Indian ruins in Mexico worth visiting:

Chichen Itza

Chichen Itza, in the central Yucatan Peninsula, is the most famous and visited of the Indian ruins in Mexico. In 2007, it was even voted as one of the New 7 Wonders of the World. Chichen Itza was an important Mayan city and is home to many temples and pyramids. The most popular is perhaps the Temple of Kukulkan, a step pyramid that is also known as El Castillo, or “the castle.”

Calakmul

Calakmul, near the border of Guatemala, was one of the largest Mayan cities and has hundreds of ancient structures to see. It once rivaled Tikal (in Guatemala) for power in the Mayan world. Additionally, the site is within the Calakmul Biosphere Reserve so visitors can at the same time explore the flora and fauna of a tropical forest.

Teotihuacan ruins.

Teotihucan

Teotihuacan, 30 miles northeast of Mexico City, was one of the largest cities in the world in the 6th century, with a population exceeding 150,000 people. Today, visitors to this World Heritage Site can marvel at the Pyramids of the Sun and Moon, or walk down Calle de los Muertos and glimpse the palaces and temples that once lined this two-mile long boulevard.

El Tajin

The city of Veracruz is on Mexico’s Gulf coast and there you can visit El Tajin. This ancient city was apparently abandoned in the early 13th century and thus was never discovered by Spanish explorers. Another World Heritage Site, it is considered to have some of the most unique architecture of any of the Mesoamerican ruins and its most famous structure is the seven-story Pyramid of the Niches.

Palenque

Palenque, set in the jungle of Chiapas, is often described as one of the most magical and interesting of the Mayan sites in Mexico. The most famous building at Palenque is the Temple of Inscriptions, but there are many other intriguing buildings, including The Palace and the Temples of the Cross.

Tulum

Tulum is a small site but is popular because of its location. For one, it’s near the vacation towns of Cancun and Playa del Carmen (as is Chichen Itza). For another, its location on a bluff overlooking the Caribbean makes it perhaps the most picturesque of all the Mayan ruins.

La Venta

Just outside the Mayan lands of the Yucatan Peninsula is the town of Villahermosa, home to the ceremonial Olmec site of La Venta. These ruins are most well known for the discovery of 17 massive stone heads. These heads can weigh several tons each and are thought to have been carved as early as the 9th century B.C.E.

Blooming purple jacaranda flowers weave a labyrinth of wonder. Their sight and scent seeps into every moment of a day spent wandering through the picturesque town of Colonia. We gaze at faded colonial buildings by the Rio de la Plata and meander along uneven cobblestone lanes in the historic district. We watch meats being cooked over a wood fire in a special oven called a parrillero and sample a chivito sandwich that is piled high with steak, cheese, tomatoes, onions, french fries and eggs. Through it all, broad trees lean over stone walls, their branches swaying in a soft breeze and their flowers draping the world in a veil of purple.

Photo credit: Kahuroa via Wikimedia Commons.

The Acropolis dominates the skyline of Athens.

I leaned back in my seat and looked out through glazed bus windows as we wove our way through a concrete urban landscape, past blocks of apartment buildings strung out along car-choked streets. The roads were lined with supermarkets, banks, clothing stores, fast food outlets and auto repair shops. These weren’t the gleaming marble monuments of ancient Athens, I mused, or the idyllic whitewashed villages and olive groves of the Greek tourist brochures, but rather the typically jumbled accumulation of structures that one could find in any overcrowded metropolitan area.

Still, none of that mattered all that much at the moment, I reminded myself. We were here. We were on the road. Lisa and I had made a decision to take time away from work, time away from our lives at home, in order to embark on an eight-country trip. It was an opportunity for us to have an adventure together before starting a family, to experience more of the world and to take stock of our lives. Athens was the first stop, and this bus trip from the airport was the first tiny step in a journey that would soon take us to Africa and Asia.

“It’s kind of amazing, isn’t it?” said Lisa, “We’ve been talking about doing this for so long, it’s hard to believe it’s actually happening.”

“Yeah, you’re ri…,” I started to say, but my words were swallowed when our bus suddenly veered into the next lane.

A small car had darted in front of us, prompting our driver to swerve and then to erupt in an outburst of exasperation.

“Idiot! What do you think you’re doing? Learn how to drive, will ya?!”

Or something like that. Since the insults were hurled in Greek, I can unfortunately only guess at the words; it’s entirely possible that I’m relaying a polite version of the encounter.

A few minutes later, a similar incident took place, only this time it was the actions of our bus driver that elicited angry hand signals from another Athenian, who had a strangely protruding vein on his neck. After the third such episode, it didn’t take a genius to comprehend that there was a pattern to this road conduct. None of the drivers, apparently, wanted to relinquish an inch, and this battle for space was obviously more important than any abstract notion about public safety or traffic laws.

In retrospect, I should have perhaps taken these skirmishes as a warning about local driving behavior, but at the time I just laughed. So the Athenians infused their vehicular battles with an extra measure or two of zeal. It was amusing to watch, at least.

The bus eventually made it to Syntagma Square, near the parliament building and the old royal palace. We got out amid the bedlam of frenzied traffic and honking horns, then consulted a street map to help us navigate the final half-mile to our hotel on foot. Although it appeared to be an easy walk, the first step involved crossing a busy boulevard, where we quickly noticed that a stream of cars was galloping by without stopping while Greek pedestrians were brazenly stepping into the street and expertly weaving their way between the hurtling vehicles. After pondering our options for a minute or two, a break in the traffic luckily gave us an opening to cross the road more safely. Or so we believed.

Halfway to the opposite sidewalk, we heard the unmistakable squeal of rubber being burned into the pavement as a speeding automobile strained to stop its forward momentum. A car had just sprinted around a nearby corner without looking only to discover two unsuspecting pedestrians crossing the street with their luggage. Regrettably, we were those two pedestrians. From the corner of my eye, I could see the vehicle’s front bumper heading straight for our knees. Hmmm, not a good way to begin our trip.

Thankfully, the car’s brakes worked. Or we lunged for the sidewalk in time. In any case, the only real damage done was to our nerves, and perhaps to the tires that left strips of rubber on the road. After the vehicle swerved to a stop just a few feet from us, the driver saw that we were O.K. and then sped off on his merry way. It was only later that I read this warning on the U.S. Embassy website: “Visitors should exercise caution when crossing streets and exiting vehicles. The fast pace of traffic … and at times disregard for traffic rules can create dangerous situations for pedestrians.”

Well. So began our Greek education. The landscape of greater Athens may have been somewhat drab but no one could accuse the Greek drivers of being anything but colorful.

Once we had steered our way past that first scare, the rest of the trek was much easier. The traffic-filled boulevard morphed into a warren of narrow lanes that were filled with shoppers, tourists, sidewalk restaurant tables and a small fleet of buzzing scooters. The scooters were slightly annoying, in the way that a swarm of gnats are annoying, but at least they didn’t leave us praying for our life. All in all, it was a pleasantly quaint neighborhood and in less than 10 minutes we had found Adrianou Street and our hotel.

“Welcome to Greece,” said the desk clerk. “Your first time in our country?”

“Yes.”

“Ah, you will love. Very much fun.”

“Yes, we can see.”

Photo credit: Rob & Lisa Meehan via Wikimedia Commons.

(Note: A version of this story first appeared in the now defunct Travel Blogger magazine.)

Boston, Massachusetts – Birthplace of Independence

Samuel Adams statue in front of Boston's Faneuil Hall.

An obvious place to begin is in Boston, Massachusetts. The Boston Tea Party, the Boston Massacre and the Ride of Paul Revere are legendary moments among the 18^th century events that led to American independence and you can learn about all of them along the Freedom Trail, a self-guided 2.5-mile walk that connects 16 historic sites.

The trail begins near the Boston Common and the Massachusetts State House. The early part of the walk will take you to such stops as the Old South Meeting House, where a 1773 meeting led to the Boston Tea Party; the Old State House, where the Declaration of Independence was read to the public in 1776 and near where five men were killed during the Boston Massacre in 1770; and the Granary Burying Ground, where John Hancock, Samuel Adams and Paul Revere are laid to rest. Later, you’ll pass Faneuil Hall, the Paul Revere House and the Old North Church (of “one if by land, two if by sea” fame).

Together, Faneuil Hall, the Old State House and the Old South Meeting House will introduce you to the rooms and buildings where John Adams, Samuel Adams, John Hancock and others led some of the most vigorous early debates about the idea of American independence. Just off the Freedom Trail, at Fort Point Channel, the Boston Tea Party Ships & Museum is being renovated and is slated to open again in the spring of 2012.

There are also important Revolutionary era sites on the outskirts of Boston, starting with Adams National Historical Park. This is the birthplace and home of two presidents: John Adams and John Quincy Adams. The first Adams was the country’s second president and one of the leading figures of the American Revolution. He was the main writer of the Massachusetts Constitution, which served as a model for the later U.S. Constitution and is today the oldest functioning written constitution in the world. The national park is in the town of Quincy and is close enough to Boston to be accessible via the city’s subway system.

The suburban towns of Concord and Lexington, meanwhile, are where the first shots of the Revolutionary War were fired on April 19, 1775. At Minute Man National Historical Park you can see Lexington Common, the site of the first battle, and Concord’s Old North Bridge, where the colonial militia fired the first shots against the British. These historic locations are connected by the five-mile Battle Road Trail, which also encompasses the Paul Revere Capture Site and the Hartwell Tavern Historical Area.

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania – Where America was founded

If the first stirrings of independence were sounded in Boston, then it could be said that Philadelphia is where America was founded. This is where the Declaration of Independence was written, approved and first read to the public in 1776, and where the U.S. Constitution was debated and adopted in 1787.

The Liberty Bell in front of Independence Hall.

Independence National Historical Park in the center of Philadelphia encompasses more than 20 sites but the main attraction is Independence Hall. It was here that the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution were born. As you tour the building, you can see the Assembly Room where debates were held, a silver inkwell that was used for signing ceremonies, and the Rising Sun Chair that George Washington sat in during the Constitutional Convention. Just across the street from Independence Hall is the Liberty Bell Center, where you can see the most famous bell in American history.

Many other historic sites are within easy walking distance. These include Congress Hall, home to the U.S. Congress from 1790 to 1800; Carpenters Hall, where the Continental Congress first met in 1774; Graff House, where Thomas Jefferson wrote the Declaration of Independence; and Franklin Court, the site of Benjamin Franklin’s home.

The history doesn’t stop at the national park. Other sites that are worth a visit are the National Constitution Center, where you can learn about the nation’s founding document via interactive exhibits; the Betsy Ross House, home of the woman who sewed the first American flag, and City Tavern, where you can still get a meal in a place that was a favorite hangout of the Founding Fathers.

On your way out of Philadelphia you may want to visit Valley Forge National Historical Park. This celebrated location was the winter home of the Continental Army during the winter of 1777-78 and is where the soldiers first developed into a more cohesive and disciplined unit. Visitors can see the home that served as George Washington’s headquarters, as well as reconstructed cabins that were used by colonial soldiers.

Virginia homes of the Founding Fathers

The next stops are in Virginia, where you can visit the historic homes of some Founding Fathers. Then we’ll circle back and end the journey in Washington, D.C.

Thomas Jefferson’s home at Monticello – Charlottesville, Virginia

Begin in Charlottesville at Monticello, the estate where Thomas Jefferson lived for much of his life. Jefferson first became famous as the author of the Declaration of Independence and later served as the country’s third president. Monticello is currently the only private residence in the country that is a World Heritage site. This is due not only to Jefferson’s political achievements, but also because he was a talented architect who incorporated innovative design ideas into his home. There is a 42,000-square-foot education center on site with exhibits on Jefferson’s life and work.

While you’re in Charlottesville, it’s also possible to visit Ash Lawn-Highland, the estate where James Monroe lived for a quarter century. Monroe was the fifth U.S. president and as a young adult served in the Continental Army, including at Valley Forge. Additionally, you can tour the grounds of the University of Virginia, another World Heritage Site that was designed by Jefferson.

James Madison’s home at Montpelier – Orange, Virginia

James Madison was the country’s fourth president and is regarded as the prime architect of the U.S. Constitution. About an hour from Charlottesville, in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, is Madison’s Montpelier estate. Visitors can tour the home and learn about Madison’s life and philosophies of government in an on-site educational center.

George Washington’s home – Mount Vernon, Virginia

Further east in Virginia, you can pay tribute to George Washington, the country’s first president. Several stops should interest you, beginning with Washington’s boyhood home at Ferry Farm in Fredericksburg and then his birthplace in Colonial Beach, where the George Washington Birthplace National Monument has a replica of the house in which he was born.

Then just outside of Washington, D.C. is Mount Vernon, which was Washington’s home for four decades. The property on the banks of the Potomac River looks much as it did when the Father of the Country lived there in the late 18^th century. After touring the house, you can pay your respects at Washington’s tomb and explore educational exhibits in a visitor’s center.

Washington, D.C. – Experiencing the nation’s capital

The U.S. Capitol building in Washington, D.C.

The final stop on our Birth of Democracy road trip is the nation’s capital of Washington, D.C. For our purposes, the center of the action is at the National Mall. It’s truly difficult not to feel at least a twinge of awe as you make your way past the buildings and monuments located here. If you begin at the U.S. Capitol building, it’s a 1.9-mile walk to the Lincoln Memorial. Along the way you’ll pass the White House and Washington Monument. Just off the Mall is the Tidal Basin where you can visit the Jefferson Memorial.

If you plan ahead, you can arrange public tours of the Capitol Building and the White House, which are must-see stops for anyone with an interest in American democracy and U.S. government. Also nearby is the National Archives, which is a nice way to wrap up this road trip. There, you can see original copies of the Declaration of Independence, Constitution and Bill of Rights on display in the Rotunda.

While you’re in the area, of course, there are numerous other attractions along the National Mall that aren’t connected to the birth of democracy but are still worthwhile stops. These include the Franklin Roosevelt, World War II and Vietnam War memorials, as well as such Smithsonian institutions as the Museum of American History and the Air and Space Museum.

Map and directions

Below is a map of this road trip. If you click on the “Birth of Democracy” link, it will take you to a larger map and detailed directions.

View Birth of Democracy road trip in a larger map

Photo credits: All photos by Bob Riel

We hop on the Gornergrat railway one June day for a ride that will take us 9,000-feet high in the Swiss Alps. The shadow of the Matterhorn looms overhead as we curve past mountain lakes and flowery meadows. Then the trees slip silently away and snow rises alongside the tracks. A trip that began in springtime ends amidst a wintery panorama of Alpine peaks. We disembark and stagger into a world that is entirely, mesmerizingly white – a blinding mix of snow and sunshine for as far as we can see. Later, we take the train back below the tree line, to where it’s spring again. Then we get off and hike the rest of the way down to Zermatt, past pine trees and wildflowers, thinking all the while about a world that dissolved into white.

Photo credit: Ch-info via Wikimedia Commons.

A view of the Blue Mosque from across some nearby rooftops.

Many hotels in the Sultanahmet district of Istanbul, even the inexpensive hostels, have roof terraces that provide jaw-dropping views of one of the world’s most beautiful skylines. On our first morning in the city we ate breakfast on one of these terraces, under an explosion of sunshine. We looked out over the Blue Mosque and the Aya Sofia, which shone against the backdrop of an azure sky, giving the appearance that we were looking at a canvas and the buildings had been painted there. In the distance, the Sea of Marmara glittered diamonds in the morning light and blew a faint salt-water breeze in our direction.

After fortifying ourselves with bread, yogurt and coffee, Lisa and I set off to explore Istanbul. We walked down Divan Yolu, a busy boulevard that slices through the historic heart of the city, passed the ancient Hippodrome where chariot races were once held and found our way to the 1500-year-old Aya Sofia. We were dismayed to discover a long line to get inside the building, but soon struck up an amiable conversation with a local man, Selim.

“Where you from?” he inquired.

“America.”

“Ahhh, beautiful country. What state?”

“Massachusetts. Near Boston.”

“Boston. Boston Celtics!” he exclaimed.

“Yes, uh, you know the Celtics?”

“I love NBA basketball. I first like Celtics when Larry Bird play there. I still follow them.”

“Wow. Well, nice to meet you, Selim.”

“You know,” he said, “there long line here at Aya Sofia. Line not so long at Blue Mosque. And mosque close early for prayers. It better to go to mosque first, then come to Aya Sofia later. It very nearby. If you like, I can show you entrance.”

We were slightly suspicious, but we had seen so many other examples of Turks being helpful merely out of kindness that we accepted his offer. Soon, though, we began to have doubts over our haste when we realized Selim wasn’t going to let us out of his sight. Even when we were obviously within sight of the mosque entrance, he was firm about staying with us the entire way.

“Don’t worry, I don’t go inside with you,” he replied, walking alongside us. “I just take you there.”

Then we arrived at the mosque entrance and he insisted on making sure we got inside. It seemed as if there had to be a catch, but we couldn’t figure out what it might be. We were in the middle of crowds of tourists, he wasn’t carrying anything to sell and he had walked us straight to the mosque. But, still, he wouldn’t let go of us.

“It’s very nice of you,” I said, “but, really, we can figure it out.”

“Mosque very big. I just make sure you find right entrance,” he said. “You go inside on your own. Don’t worry.”

He showed us to the entrance, where there was indeed a much shorter line than at the Aya Sofia. So far, so good. He pointed out a box of scarves for women to put over their heads before entering and to the place where we were to remove our shoes.

“You go inside now,” he said. “Take as long as you want. I will wait for you. When you come out, you come to my store, just one block away. Very nice souvenirs.”

Aha. There was a catch, but Selim was very smooth about making sure the ploy wouldn’t become apparent until the very last moment. Not only did the mosque not close early, we now realized, but the tourist entrance was at one end of the building and the exit was at the other end. He knew that he was leaving us at the only place we could enter the mosque and would be waiting for us at the only place we could exit.

That is how we were introduced to one of the spectacles of international travel and to the business of touts, who are ubiquitous not just in Istanbul but on the streets of most major cities in the non-Western world. They usually want nothing more than to make a bit of money, but they can still be pesky antagonists. Like most travelers, we were never completely successful in avoiding them, but we soon became more aware of their tactics. Although it was frustrating to be taken in by this ruse on our first day in Istanbul, we at least had to give Selim credit for creativity.

It’s easy enough, after all, to steer clear of people who are pushing their wares on the street and whom we could walk away from, but it’s much harder to avoid those individuals who disguise their goal by being helpful in some way. It is also especially difficult to shun anyone who exhibits humor or personality. In fact, it was just a few days later in Istanbul that we heard one of the funniest lines ever from a man who was trying to entice us into his store. We initially walked past him, pretending not to hear his plea. But then we couldn’t help but laugh.

“Don’t run away,” he shouted. “We don’t eat people, we’re vegetarians!”

Photo credit: Cem Topcu via Wikimedia Commons.

Traffic jam in Calcutta.

“You’ll love India.”

“You’ll hate it.”

“India is only for advanced travelers.”

“India is a breeze – it’s not as bad as people make it out to be.”

We’d heard it all. And, what’s more, it’s all true. India is every good thing that you’ve ever heard, and it’s every bad thing that you’ve ever heard. The country is a mind-altering drug that will challenge the perceptions of anyone who thinks they understand life on this planet.

Our Indian explorations began in Calcutta. This was partly because I had a friend, Kate, who was based there as an expatriate. The chance to stay with an old friend was too good to pass up as we eased our way into India.

During our first few days in the city we visited the usual local sights, from the Victoria Memorial to the Pareshnath Jain Temple. But we soon learned that Calcutta wasn’t about tourist attractions. It was about impressions. Almost everywhere we went in the city, the images kept slapping us in the face, yanking us from one extreme to the other.

First, and most obviously, the poverty is inescapable because it is so visible. As we traveled through the city, it was impossible not to notice the throngs of impoverished residents who slept on sidewalks. The people who bathed on street corners with a bucket of water and soap. The dilapidated, barely standing shacks that passed as homes. The men who urinated in plain sight against walls or in gutters. Or the heaps of rotting garbage on the side of the roads, some of it being eaten by dogs and birds.

But then, in the midst of this destitution, we walked into a sparkling, contemporary shopping mall that made us recalibrate our image of the city. Inside, fashionably dressed Indians shopped at Benetton and Levis, snacked on ice cream from Baskin Robbins (“100% vegetarian ice cream”) and enjoyed Bollywood and Hollywood movies in a brand new theater.

The second notable impression of Calcutta was the sense that it existed in a perpetual state of movement, noise and confusion. Nowhere was this more evident than in the city’s bewildering array of traffic patterns, where cars, trucks, buses and rickshaws moved about in a state of barely controlled pandemonium. There were no traffic lanes, every vehicle relentlessly strove to nose ahead of every other vehicle, and cars drove within inches of each other and squeezed into miraculously narrow spaces. I can’t count the times I braced myself for the crunch of crashing metal, only to open my eyes and discover that no collision had occurred.

But again, just when we thought the city was in complete bedlam, we’d see two women parading serenely down the sidewalk in stunning maroon and gold saris. Or a group of schoolchildren giggling contentedly on their way home from school. Or, most unexpectedly, a man sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk, silently lost in his thoughts and enigmatically pounding away on a manual typewriter. An unusual sight perhaps, but he was at peace amidst the commotion.

Finally, visitors to Calcutta must deal with the clamor of the streets. The sidewalks are a place of business for people who spend their days concocting novel ways to extract rupees from passersby. We were continually approached by locals asking for a tip or a payment. Some wanted to be paid for leading us on an unsolicited tour, or for providing directions, or even for taking our picture. I couldn’t blame them, really, since there simply isn’t enough work for the immense population and this is one way to make a living or supplement a meager income.

Nonetheless, it does take some getting used to, at least for a Westerner who is accustomed to having a zone of privacy on the street. At one market we went to, a young man offered to lead us to shops and carry around our purchases in a basket. A nice offer, maybe, but we politely declined his assistance. So he followed us anyway. For 40 minutes he walked alongside us and talked nonstop, telling us about products that were available in the various stores. We tried everything to deter him. We courteously told him that we were only looking and not buying, we sternly told him to get lost, and we even succeeded once in ditching him in a crowd, only to have him pop back in front of us like a jack-in-the-box two minutes later.

When he saw us departing, finally, he said: “Maybe tomorrow I help you.”

And yet, just when we began thinking that perhaps everyone in Calcutta made a living by wringing tips from visitors, we’d walk into an internet café overflowing with young Indians doing schoolwork. Or see well-dressed businessmen talking shop in a café. Or find dozens of locals browsing in a bookstore.

It was all part of the Indian paradox. Every impression had two sides. There was uplifting spirituality and abject poverty, technological know-how and confounding disorder, vivid beauty and dreadful filth, and all of it was blended together in a staggering mass of humanity. Ultimately it was this – the paradox of Calcutta, and of India – that made the strongest impression on us.

Photo credit: Biswarup Ganguly via Wikimedia Commons.