I wouldn't recommend this, but Americans do travel to Iraq. I went out of my way to miss Iraq several times-- starting in 1969-- because I never had the feeling it was a safe place for Americans. And since Bush invaded and occupied the country and presided over the slaughter of tens of thousands of innocent civilians, the complete breakdown of civil society and the onset of a catastrophic civil war... it's no exaggeration to say it's considerably less safe.

One of my friends, Fred, is over there working. I tried to talk him out of it but he feels he owes the Iraqi people the completion of an important project that has been utterly botched by the incompetent and larcenous Bush Regime, a completion that will require his unique expertise and dedication. From time to time Fred sends me stories about life in the Greed Zone and I post that at Down With Tyranny. Today's installment talks less about politics and more about how one physically gets from Amman (or Kuwait) into Baghdad. I thought I'd share that part, although I recommend the whole piece for, at the very least, context-- like knowing water will be hard to come by and that there are some natives who may be less than friendly towards Americans for some reason.

Traveling to Baghdad under US Government auspices is a dilly of an experience. It was so fascinating that I took notes along the way. After arriving, everything seemed so surreal that I continued taking notes. I was here in mid-2004 but somehow I either was not exposed to the more weird aspects of life in the Green Zone or did not notice it. Anyway, here is the first part of my story for your amusement.

It took 20 hours to get to Baghdad by plane from Amman, Jordan. Prewar, one could drive it in about ten hours. The trip was bizarre to say the least. I even had written instructions and tried to follow them to the letter but alas, a few things were left out.

The delays started even before travel begins. Someone in Baghdad must first verify that you have a CAC or Common Access Card, country clearance, a Letter of Authorization (LOA, at the airport they referred to them as Travel Orders) and that there is room for you in the inn, i.e. is there an empty bunk in one of the several thousand trailers or other billets in the International Zone (better known as the Green Zone)? None of this happens in parallel, all must be done in a specific sequence. When all is gathered, a seat is reserved for you on a C-130.

Two days a week, a C-130 flies from Kuwait to Baghdad, then Baghdad to Amman, then Amman back to Baghdad and finally from Baghdad back to Kuwait; all very orderly, but intentionally (for security reasons) not on any discernable time schedule.

On the afternoon before the flight, specifically between the hours of 4 and 8 pm, you are obliged to telephone (or inquire via the Internet) the transportation people and ask for the Amman to BIAP (Baghdad International AirPort) ‘show time’. I telephoned at the appointed time and was told that show time at Marka airport-– an old airport now mostly devoted to general aviation-– was “oh-nine-thirty.”

At 8:15 the following morning, a colleague drove me to the airport. On the drive, I mused that the usually brown hills had turned green as the result of a tiny bit of rain a few days earlier and thought of it as a good sign. Such is life in a desert environment.

Marka airport dates from an earlier era. The terminal looks as though it had just slipped into a hole in the ground. It is small, nearly empty, dimly lit and dreary. Other than the employees, everyone in the terminal appeared to be headed for the same flight to Baghdad.

After standing in line for an hour, I paid the departure tax, gave someone at the ticket counter (no tickets were actually issued) my luggage bag and a copy of my LOA and was checked in. One carry-on is permitted – as long as you can carry it on your lap.

After checking in, we passengers gathered in a small open area overlooking part of the runway and waited some more. A forlorn looking Duty Free shop was open as was a stand that sold cookies, sodas and such but otherwise the joint was empty.

After a rather long wait, Jordan Immigration opened a departure counter and someone called out that the immigration line was open. So, I had the dubious pleasure of yet another line in which to stand. Having completed that task, everyone re-gathered into a glassed-off waiting area and, of course, waited some more.

At 12:45 pm, a bus pulled up and after more waiting, a group of us crowded onto the bus and were taken to the plane. This being a C-130 we boarded by walking up a ramp at the back of the plane. The seats are web mesh on aluminum frames. Down each side of the plane a row of seats faces inward; down the center of the plane two rows of seats separated by web mesh faces outward. I’ve attached pictures for your amusement.

The web mesh is the seat back. For those sitting in the middle rows of seats only the mesh separates each persons back from the back of the person on the other side. The plane narrows in the middle to accommodate the wheel wells. Passengers seated in that section find themselves sharing knee space as well. Amazingly enough, several passengers seemed to sleep or toil away (play?) on laptops that were truly on their laps, despite the rather uncomfortable arrangement. When one of the air force types (shall I call him the flight attendant?) went from the front of the plane to the back, he did so by stepping carefully between the knees of the passengers from one seat edge to the next.

Some 70 of us crowded onto the plane. The toilet on the plane is a bucket behind a curtain, if anyone is desperate for relief.

Our baggage, collected on a pallet and wrapped in plastic wrap like a piece of meat at the supermarket, was fork-lifted onto the plane, the ramp raised, the door latched and off we went. The plane jerked forward from a standing position but climbed into the sky quite nicely. The flight was noisy and uncomfortable but not overly long.

At 1:54 pm, the pilot landed the plane in a spiral motion-– rather reminiscent of the time I did my pilot’s biennial with a stunt pilot as my check pilot. In this case however, the reason for landing in such an unusual way was to avoid flying over areas where the troublemakers like to shoot at low flying planes. Touchdown was rather sudden and abrupt.

Even leaving the plane is an experience. First the luggage pallet is removed – we probably could not get off the plane otherwise – then a hippy-looking chap yelled “skull caps off” and “follow me." We stumbled off the plane, in two remarkably straight lines, for some distance behind the plane. The reason was immediately obvious. The engines were still running, the noise was deafening and the wind the engines generated was incredible. We next pushed off to a tent/building where our arrival was registered.

I was instructed to call upon arrival at BIAP but told not to give any flight times, etc. over the phone (seemed strange as the flight was over) but I followed the instructions. I had to borrow a phone as my Jordanian phone did not work despite receiving a SMS message welcoming me to Iraq from Fastlink Jordan.

It is not obvious where the luggage is placed upon arrival, and given the impression I had that the bags continued to the Green Zone with the passengers, I did not go fetch my bag-- a bit of a mistake-- but that’s another story.

For most folks who arrive on a C-130, getting to the Green Zone from BIAP is via steel-plated buses called Rhinos. The color, size and hulking shape of these beasts suggest that they are well-named. Unfortunately the Rhinos do not run until the wee hours of the morning (to avoid being shot at during the daytime, when folks can be along the road without appearing suspicious). So for those of us who arrived via C-130, it’s a 6 to 10 hour additional wait.

Having time to kill, I went exploring. I found a Dining Facility (in Green Zone-speak, a DFAC) but they would not let me enter with my laptop (security has its own peculiar logic) and there was no place to store it safely. I found a PX (Post eXchange) and cluster of trailers housing a Burger King, a Subway sandwich shop, a Green Beans (a Starbucks-like coffee shop found on military bases), a jewelry shop, a barber shop, a beauty salon and a gift shop. All seemed in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by churned up and hardened mud with large river stones in place of paving. The whole business was surrounded by concrete T-walls (blast protection).

Later I took a bus to Camp Striker (where the Rhinos pick up their passengers). The bus was accompanied by a van onto which they place any luggage that passengers are carrying (again, all in the name of security). At Striker, the waiting area is housed in a large temporary building with coffee, tea, television, and wireless internet (for a fee), etc. For those who can tolerate endless propaganda there are some couches and chairs around a couple of televisions with identical smatterings of Fox News and military pep talk pieces. There are also a few books and magazines to read.

At about 11:00 pm, the Rhino passengers queued up, identified themselves and had their names placed on a manifest and were told the number of the bus that they are to take to the Green Zone. Rhino passengers are required to have a flak jacket and helmet. Of course I did not have these items (and did not get any for several days). But I did receive a lengthy lecture on the subject. Just where, how or when I could have acquired this equipment was left out of the lecture.

The Rhinos finally arrived, an announcement was made and we we went out to meet them. The luggage was lined up in a row and sniffer dogs examined them after which the baggage and other boxes were tossed into a shipping container that sat on a flat bed trailer.

Five or six Rhinos (one purposefully empty) took us to the Green Zone. We were escorted by humvees with a pair of helicopters watching overhead. At the Green Zone, the luggage truck was unloaded, and again inspected by other sniffer dogs.

I was not told beforehand that I would be going into the Palace that morning, and thus did not get the necessary temporary badge. By the time someone came to get me, the badge person had left and my escort and I had to wait until someone of higher rank arranged for a temporary badge. The badge was needed simply to let me pass through the Palace on my way to a “Transient Hootch”, Hootch being the name given to the sleeping quarters that are trailers or modified shipping containers. It is a Vietnamese word for huts that serve as living quarters. The US military borrowed the name from the Vietnamese during the Vietnam war and have used it ever since. Once a temporary badge was issued, my escort took me to Billeting, picked up a room key and finally, at 4:00 am I crawled into bed.

So, you see the waiting is unbelievable, especially when you realize that everyone who enters or leaves the airport via this process loses a day in entering and a day in leaving. The drag on individuals and the cost to the USG must be enormous. I think the C-130 holds about 70 people. My guess is that the people cost alone easily exceeds $500,000 each trip. My logic: each trip 65 to 75 people travel to Amman and 65 to 75 from Amman plus similar numbers going through Kuwait – each person loses 16 to 24 hours in traveling this short distance-- the average fee expended for the services of these people likely exceeds $1,000 per person per day (my estimate may even be low)-- add in the cost of the C-130s, the security personnel, the Rhinos, the escorts and the number soon staggers the imagination-- all this in the name of security.

The costs go on. You cannot just change planes in Amman or Kuwait and fly on to Baghdad. Thus folks other than the military who are traveling to Iraq for the US Government must of necessity be lodged in a hotel for a day or more until such time as they can continue their journey.

I don't think the Baghdad Tourism Department is paying John McCain to do tv ads for them. I'd have to guess John McCain is insane.




UPDATE: AND AIR TRAVEL WITHIN IRAQ IS NO BOWL OF CHERRIES EITHER

Tomorrow's Washington Post carries a report from Josh Partlow, a journalist stationed in occupied Iraq, Flying Standby On Air Baqubah: Sun, Sand, Fleas. Sounds like Josh didn't have any more of a pleasant time than my friend Fred did. He was at a forward operating base north of Baghdad and wanted to fly back to lovely, historic, scenic, cosmopolitan Baghdad on a Chinook helicopter. The day started with a little sandstorm.

At 9:30 p.m. I reported to the airport lounge-- a gravel lot with one wooden bench-- to wait for my flight to Baghdad. I had a relatively clear view of the moon. How sandy could it be?

It turns out that pilots who don't want to crash also don't want to fly through sand, so we were on "weather hold." Not canceled and not subjected to some defined delay, just on hold. In this purgatory, I tried to amuse myself. This was difficult. The waiting area apparently was prime habitat for the notorious Iraqi sand flea. I'm not sure they were sand fleas. I never saw them. I just felt their tiny bites again and again and again, in places both public and private. In between swats I would look up, see the moon and remark to a fellow traveler, "How sandy could it be?"

The hours passed. At midnight I peeled off in search of food. Say what you will about the inhumanity of 15-month tours and denying soldiers beer in a desert, there is one indisputable example of military kindness: "midnight chow." After a hamburger, fries and banana milk, I felt renewed. The moon looked good. I counted a couple of stars. But the hold still held firm. Around 3 a.m. we got the word: all flights canceled.

So he was on standby for the next day-- and it was "somewhere north of 110 degrees hot." And boring. "Thursday morning, my colleague in Baghdad had to postpone his flight out of the country because I hadn't returned, and I woke up wearing the same sweat-encrusted clothes I'd worn the past three days." He fantasized about dressing up like an Iraqi and taking a taxi through the war zone, which is basically all of Iraq except, sometimes, on U.S. bases. Eventually, because he knew someone who knew someone who had a 'copter, he made it back to the Green Zone. "Just after 7 p.m., with a thick red pelt of bites and clothes that could stand on their own, I was home. In 46 hours, I had traveled 37 miles. Walking would have been faster."

Ohhhhh...I sooooo needed this. After a number of post-work drinks, I needed some food. And of course the first thing that came to my mind was a blazingly hot curry like a vindaloo from whomever was still serving it down at Boat Quay. I'm not even sure of what the name of this place was, but the spiciness of this thing totally hit the spot, especially when accentuated by those dried chili pods. Too bad that the fish in this thing was so nasty that I just let all of the protein go to waste. Note to self: next time, order the vegetarian option!

Yesterday this little message appeared on the Primal Quest Website


"Primal Quest 2008

Details about Primal Quest 2008 coming soon.

May 17, 2007

Stay tuned for more info..."


So, it looks like the biggest, baddest adventure race on the planet will be returning next year. But will the format remain the same? Where will it be held? What can we expect? I guess we'll have to wait and see. And hope this isn't another false start. But seeing as how it's on the PQ News page, I think we can expect some concrete details soon.

Like The Rock of Dunamase, Castleroache is positioned high on a rock outcrop that towers over the surrounding landscape. Castleroache is possibly the finest example of Ireland's mid-thirteenth century castles, it is thought to have been constructed by Lady Rohesia de Verdun in 1236 to serve as a bastion of defence for the Anglo-Norman colony in Louth against the Gaelic tribes of Ulster. Lady Rohesia was a formidable woman, and is said to have thrown the castle's architect through one of the tower windows so he could never reveal the castles secrets. 

The castle is nearly triangular in shape with a projecting tower at the north-east angle. It is protected on three sides by the precipitous slope that surrounds it, with the entrance on the eastern side protected by a deep rock-cut ditch. A wooden drawbridge would have led to the interior of the castle through the two massive D-shaped towers. The drawbridge may once have had additional protection from outworks or a barbican gate but no clear above-ground remains of that can be seen today. 

These towers are rounded at the front in the defensive style of the time with a number of arrow loops at varied levels to allow the archers defending the gateway to loose murderous volleys on the attacking enemy. The towers also  have four stories at the rear that would have provided accommodation and living space for the garrison of Castleroache. 

As you can see in the images of the eastern entrance side of the castle, there are a number of rectangular cavities regularly spaced along the wall near the top (the image above gives the best angle to see them). These are 'put-log' holes, and are evidence that once wooden battlements or hoardings, once hung over the side of the castle walls, similar to those that once surrounded the mighty Keep of Trim Castle, in Co. Meath. From these wooden hoardings, defenders would have been able to fire arrows and throw stones down onto anyone attacking the walls, adding to its already formidable defences.

Area of Great Hall

However, like Dublin Castle and Kilkenny Castle, Castleroache seems to have been a keepless castle, so there was no central defensive tower to retreat to had the walls been breached. This appears to have become the defensive fashion of the mid-thirteenth century, and instead of a keep there would have been a large great hall. In the case of Castleroache, the great hall was located on the southern side of the castle (to the left as you enter through the towers).

This castle still strongly exudes a feeling of power and dominance over the landscape today. It has to be one of the most impressive heritage sites I have visited in Ireland, and it is one of those sites that is so massive, so imposing and so breathtaking that pictures cannot do it justice – it is one you must experience for yourself to gain a true impression of its size and grandeur.

To find Castleroache from Dublin, head north on the M1 and exit at Junction 17. Take the first exit off the roundabout following signs for the N53/Castleblaney, continue out on this road until you see a right-hand turn signed for Castleroache and Forkhill, take this turn and follow the road, the site will be on your right hand side up a laneway. Park on road, and please be aware that the site is on farmland, please do not block any gateways and please ensure all gates are closed behind you. Simply walk up the slope through the field to access the castle, there is an interpretation panel on your right hand side when you enter through the gateway.

I hope you enjoy this blog, we're trying to cover as many sites as we can across Ireland. If anyone has any suggestions about sites you'd like us to cover please do leave us a comment. If you enjoy information and images of Irish heritage sites then do follow us on Facebook, Twitter and Google+ If you'd like to support us then please consider downloading an audioguide to one of Ireland's wonderful heritage sites. They are packed with original music and sound effects and are a great way of experiencing the story of Ireland. They only cost €1.99 and are fun whether you are at the site, or listening from the comfort of your own home. If you enjoy stories of the turbulent medieval period in Ireland try our guide to Viking and Medieval Dublin, visit us at www.abartaaudioguides.com for free previews and to download your free audioguide to the Rock of Dunamase  or the free audioguide to the wonderful heritage town of Kells in County Meath
All photographs © Neil Jackman / abartaaudioguides.com

St.Manchan's Shrine

‘The shrine of Manchan, of Maethail, was covered by Ruaidhri Ua Conchobhair, and an embroidering of gold was carried over it by him, in as good a style as a relic was ever covered’.

St Manchan's Shrine on display in the church at Boher

The small village of Boher in rural County Offaly holds one of Ireland’s real treasures, a breathtaking example of early medieval craft, design, ingenuity and religious practice. This is St. Manchan’s Shrine, thought to have once contained the remains of the saint himself. St. Manchan is said to have founded the monastery at Lemanaghan located nearby to Boher. He is thought to have originated in north-east Ulster, and originally served at the nearby famous monastery of Clonmacnoise before establishing his own foundation at Lemanaghan. St. Manchan died in 665 during the Mortalitas Magna, the Great Plague. His Feast Day is on 24th January. Our friends at Pilgrimage in Medieval Ireland have an excellent piece on Lemanaghan that is well worth reading, you can find it here https://pilgrimagemedievalireland.com/tag/st-manchans-shrine/

The shrine is thought to date to the twelfth century. It is quite possible that it was originally commissioned by the King of Connacht, Toirrdelbach Ua Conchobair, under whose patronage the similarly beautiful Cross of Cong had been commissioned. A reference in the Annals of the Four Masters for 1166 states that ‘The shrine of Manchan, of Maethail, was covered by Ruaidhri Ua Conchobhair , and an embroidering of gold was carried over it by him, in as good a style as a relic was ever covered’. Ruaidhri Ua Conchobhair was the son of Toirrdelbach, and inherited the Kingdom of Connacht and became High King of Ireland. Perhaps by redecorating and recovering the shrine he was establishing his own personal connection to the shrine, while reinforcing his father’s patrimony. The shrine is certainly a beautiful example of the patronage of Irish kings to the church.

The 'front' of the shrine

The 'rear' of the shrine

The shrine is made from yew wood, and in the shape of a gabled structure, not unlike a tent. Similar shaped stone shrines can be seen at churches of a similar date, like this example at Temple Cronan in the Burren of County Clare. The decorative elements of the shrine are of cast, gilt bronze, with interlaced beasts and snakes, and geometric designs featuring yellow and red enamels, and animal heads lead from the rings onto the shrine's border.

Detail of the figures

Detail of the figures

The front and back of the shrine are dominated by a large and ornate cross. The crosses would have been surrounded by up to fifty figures, though only eleven of those survive today, held in place with small copper pegs. These figures are represented in great detail, all are in loincloths or kilts (some of which are quite ornate) and they are bare-chested, displaying emaciated ribs, perhaps a representation of piety or sacrifice. Though we cannot say for certain who the figures represent, it is likely that they depict saints or key religious figures. One holds a small axe, that may be a symbol of his martyrdom or it may be a representation of the early Irish saint MacTáil , who was often depicted holding an adze (for more on MacTáil please see our free audioguide to the Kildare Monastic Trail). Another of the figures wears what appears to be a bishop’s mitre. Many of the figures have beards, some of which are forked, and they have short hair, in some cases with a centre parting. 

Tomás Ó Carragáin suggested that the shrine may have been modelled on the Ark of the Covenant, as described in the Old Testament. ‘Both the Ark and St. Manchan’s Shrine were constructed of wood overlain with decorative metal, and there can be little doubt that the supports at the corners of the shrine, and the pair of rings attached to them at each side, were designed to allude to the Ark ‘You will cast for gold rings for it and fix them to its four supports: two rings on one side and two rings on the other. You will also make shafts of acacia wood and overlay them with gold and pass the shafts through the rings on the side of the Ark, by which to carry it’. (Exodus 25:10–22). 

One of the rings on the shrine

Though none of the shafts have survived, it is possible to imagine the shrine being carried during processions or ceremonial occasions, like St. Manchan's Feast Day on January 24th. Perhaps four monks would have borne the shrine high on their shoulders, followed by the rest of the monastery, as they processed through the crowds of local worshippers and pilgrims. I wonder if it would have been a noisy, celebratory atmosphere, like some present-day processions in Cuba or other Latin countries, full of music and festival food. Or perhaps it was a more sombre and pious affair, with downcast eyes and solemn bells. 

Detail of the intricate decoration

One of the sides of the shrine

One of the sides of the shrine

In the seventeenth century, the shrine was taken to a chapel in the nearby village of Boher. St. Manchan’s Roman Catholic Church, in which the shrine is now displayed, was built in the 1860s. As well as the shrine, the church also has a number of stunning stained-glass windows, five of which are from the studio of the renowned artist Harry Clarke. These windows were ordered from Harry Clarke’s studio in 1930 at a cost of £320. Just one year later, Harry Clarke died at the very pinnacle of his career, aged 41. His unmistakable designs were the result of a painstaking process. After weeks of sketching and drafting the designs, he had the glass prepared with acid, etched and then painted in a wash of rich, vibrant colours that help to illuminate the interior of the church. One of his windows depicts St. Manchan standing above his shrine, which is beautifully represented by the artist. 

The shrine as depicted in the Harry Clarke window

This irreplaceable treasure was very nearly lost to the Irish people when it was stolen in 2012. Thankfully the Gardái recovered the shrine shortly afterwards and it was eventually returned to the church for display. 

The church at Boher is certainly worth a visit to see this remarkable shrine in the flesh. You can also see a replica of the shrine on display in the National Museum of Ireland, Archaeology on Kildare Street Dublin. 

The Roman Catholic Church of St.Manchan, Boher, County Offaly

Thank you for taking the time to visit our blog, and I really hope you find it helpful. If you'd like to support us please do consider downloading an audioguide from my website www.abartaheritage.ie, where we have a number of guides that tell the story of Irish heritage and the majority are absolutely free to download. 

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Photo © Paolo Evangelista-All Rights Reserved
Paolo Evangelista holds degrees in music and anthropology, but decided to pack his bags, his espresso machine (after all, he's Italian) and his cameras to live in Australia for a while. Currently based in Perugia, he traveled to Zanzibar where most of his galleries are of.

Most interesting are Paolo's street photographs in Stone Town.

It's the old city and cultural heart of Zanzibar, where nothing much has changed in the last 200 years. Its winding alleys, bustling bazaars, lovely mosques and typical Arab houses are exquisite backdrops for this sort of photography. Its name conjures sea traders, explorers, Sultans and the fragrance of exotic spices. It was also declared a World Heritage Site by UNESCO.

Also of interest to me is Paolo's gallery of Sydney's Chinese market, since I photograph in New York Chinatown.

Short answer: very, very safe. If you're looking for trouble-- in Mexico City or anywhere else-- you can surely find it. But all the hype about Mexico City being a dangerous place for American tourists seemed to me to be completely unfounded. I had a quasi-revelation while I was there about why. There's a subway stop at the airport. It costs 25 American cents to go anywhere in the city. I took it to my hotel and it was simple and clean and took 25 minutes. A taxi takes between an hour and an hour and forty-five minutes... depending on congestion caused by road building. And taxis cost... well, that's where the hype comes in. It's an oft repeated truism in Mexico City that if you take a "street cab" you could be kidnapped and held for ransom. It has happened-- only not to tourists. It has happened to rich and upper middle class Mexicans. There appears to be a ring of kidnappers in cahoots with some elements of the police who kidnap rich Mexicans and ransom them. The game doesn't work on tourists.

I took street taxis around Mexico City frequently. No problems whatsoever, although the fine folks at the hotel, especially the door staff, were adamant it was dangerous. A metered "street taxi" from my hotel to the great restaurants in the Polanco district costs around $3. The hotel cars that are always being pushed charge $20 for the same ride and the SITIO cabs the hotels claim are safe also try getting away-- no meters-- with $20. Those numbers explain the hyped up danger stories. The motive is very significant profit. The American ex-pats I spoke to in Mexico City laughed about it. They all take street cabs.

No matter where I travel, the employees at the upper end hotels always tell me "it's too far to walk." It never is. In Mexico City they also claimed it was too dangerous for me and my two robust friends to walk from Paseo de la Reforma to a market about a mile away. The walk brought us away from the architecturally stunning Reforma and into the "real" day-to-day Mexico City. Dangerous? Not even a little.

Last week I mentioned I was going to go to El Museo Dolores Olmedo in Xochimilco. It took almost an hour by subway and then a little train ride (25 cents on each). It costs $4.50 to get in, although they accepted my L.A. County Museum of Art membership card as a substitute and they accepted a teacher's ID from a friend. (All 3 museums I went to happily accepted the L.A. museum card for free entry.) Anyway, Dolores Olmedo, who died 6 years ago, was Diego Rivera's patron (and longtime lover-- and, rumor has it, also Frida Kahlo's lover, if more briefly). Her gorgeous, magical estate in the middle of the city-- although it certainly seems like you're far from any city-- has been turned into an art museum specializing in the works of Rivera and, to a lesser, but still significant, extent, Kahlo. I had been to Mexico City many times before but had never gone there before. I'm sure I'll be back... every time I visit Mexico City.

The Tamayo Museum in Chapultepec Park was a huge disappointment. I remember it as a spectacular building housing an even more spectacular collection of Tamayo art. The building is still super. The art... no. There were no Tamayos. Instead there were 4 absolutely wretched exhibitions that had to be justified with long explanations because they were so obviously mediocre. The first one we wandered into was 3 rooms of photos of toilet paper and urine by a radical Brazilian named Artur Barrio. A few years ago I decided to stop being a member of the Museum of Contemporary Art in L.A. because the work grasped at trying to be art and instead was just a bunch of ugly intellectual polemics. Barrio's work was far worse than anything I ever saw at MOCA.

Canadian photographer Jeff Wall had an exhibition that wasn't offensive at all-- nor was it remotely interesting. It just filled some space with big, well-lit photos. Swedish photographer Henrik Hakansson also had a huge exhibition. It could have been called "Snapshots from my dull trip to Chiapas."
Pablo Pijnappel I would have voted to pass on but my two companions are Dutch and they were fascinated by his Dutch last name. We gave his unremarkable video a minute before leaving, a minute more than it was worth. Almost any random YouTube clip would have been more interesting and artistic.

El Museo de Arte Moderno has a kick-ass sculpture garden

Fortunately I then remembered that across the street, still in Chapultepec, was one of the western hemisphere's greatest modern art museums, the Museo de Arte Moderno. There were plenty of Tamayos, of course, as well as a spectacular sampling of Mexico's greatest contemporary artists: Rivera and Kahlo of course, and Siqueiros, Gerzco, Orozco, Galan, Costa, Carrington, etc. Between the permanent collection and the unbelievable sculpture garden, it is easy to while away a day at this beautiful oasis. We also saw a career retrospective of Remedios Varo Uranga. At first I thought the work was by some hippie in the 60s who was smoking a lot of Acapulco gold. Then I realized she was born in 1908 and had a vision way ahead of the trends. Definitely worth checking out.

The other day I mentioned I had gone to the culinary apex of Mexico City, Izote. The following night my friends wanted to eat on the roof of their hotel, the Best Western Majestic, which has a great view of the Zocolo and the National Palace but extremely mediocre food. We made up for it the following night when I got the fantastic concierge at the Embassy Suites to recommend something as good as Izote. He did: Pompano. It's not far from Izote in Polanco and, like it, it offers a modern-- and healthful-- delicious take on Mexican cooking. It's a seafood restaurant and the sampler of 3 cerviches was, simply put, the best cerviche I had ever tasted. Everything each of us ate was spectacular and I can't recommend this place too highly. It's at #42 Moliere in the old Jewish section of town (and not far from a fully functioning synagogue at Eugenio Sue).


UPDATE: BUT THINGS ARE DETERIORATING

The good news is that prices are going down on hotels and tourist-related things. The bad news is that Mexico is rated about as likely as Pakistan to disintegrate! The U.S. Joint Forces Command warns that Mexico's "government, its politicians, police and judicial infrastructure are all under sustained assault and press by criminal gangs and drug cartels. How that internal conflict turns out over the next several years will have a major impact on the stability of the Mexican state. Any descent by Mexico into chaos would demand an American response based on the serious implications for homeland security alone."

OK, that thing turned out to have a few small shrimp in there. But when I first opened it, it looked like just cabbage and rice, which seemed a bit odd until I saw the dude next to me squeeze that little tube of Korean gochujang chili sauce into the rice and mix it up. There weren't any "chicken or fish" choices either...it was just this. Frankly I'm surprised that they even served us a meal on such a short hop out of Beijing. But this definitely was a nice and peaceful flight on Asiana.

by Michael Snyder

Every year, I head to New Orleans to participate in the pre-Lenten carnival. I’ve done this without fail for two decades-- even in February of 2006, mere months after the natural disaster-- and the less natural Bush-connected aftermath-- that has since come to define the area in many minds.

I choose the early weekend of the twelve-day festival that culminates in Mardi Gras, because it offers plenty of celebration with easier access to amenities, but fewer yahoos over-indulging, acting the fool, and making the rest of us pay for their folly. There is a stretch of Bourbon Street that should be overseen by the NCAA, since many nights, teams of drunken college students appear to be competing in the sport of distance vomiting. That sort of behavior increases during Carnival season, but it’s easy to avoid when you know where it tends to happen.

So I went back to New Orleans yet again. I couldn’t not go. And I was so happy to be there. In its own way, this trip was as lovely as all of my prior visits, despite the knowledge that so much has changed, will never be the same, and needs to be done to insure the town’s future. At least, the entertainment districts were in good shape-- with the exception of a few storefronts that remain shuttered. Music rang out of every corner, whether it was a ragtime band on Royal Street, trumpeter Leroy Jones at Preservation Hall, the old-timey New Orleans Jazz Vipers at the Spotted Cat, or vocalist John Boutte and his ensemble at d.b.a. As usual, there were moments that I’ll absolutely cherish:

Sunday night, I ate dinner at Coop’s-– an informal joint in the French Quarter-- with a buddy from San Francisco and the great singer-songwriter-guitarist Alex Chilton of Box Tops and Big Star fame. I was still recovering from the indulgences of the previous night’s costume party in the two-story warehouse of a renowned local artist. I’d had my fill of the weekend’s street parades with float-riding maskers tossing beads, aluminum doubloons, plastic cups and who-knows-what-else at rambunctious crowds. I’d had the thrill of watching the afternoon’s Krewe of Barkus dog parade as a thousand cleverly-costumed canines dragged their masters through the Quarter to the cheers of appreciative onlookers. (This year’s Barkus theme was “A Streetdog Named Desire.” Loved the dachshund in the torn t-shirt with the name “Stanley Bow-Wow-Ski” scrawled across its back.) I was ready for the joys of good Cajun-style cooking and good company.

Local resident Chilton lives in the Tremé, the primarily African-American neighborhood that spawned jazz giant Louis Armstrong, and he’s been happy there for many years. Yet these are troubling times. Between bites of an oyster po’boy, Chilton expressed his concern over the loss of thousands of hard-working lower-middle-class New Orleanians who were flooded out of their homes by Hurricane Katrina and may never come back. Suddenly, he noticed the sound of R&B queen Aretha Franklin coming over the restaurant’s sound system. She was singing the Burt Bacharach-Hal David classic “I Say a Little Prayer.” Chilton marveled at her stirring gospel inflections that clearly turned the object of the singer’s affection from a boyfriend or new-found lover to a certain Lord and Savior. “Not what Burt and Hal intended,” Chilton said with a grin, before devouring the rest of his po’ boy.

On Monday afternoon, the day after the Grammys, I was walking down Frenchmen Street in the Faubourg Marigny district next to the Quarter. I’d just been hanging out with fervent NoLa musician Kenny Claiborne, the guitar-slinging soul rebel who defied civic, state and national troops in the wake of Katrina; stayed in his home after the citywide evacuation; and, with the aid of a gas-powered generator, his home studio and a couple of speakers on his balcony, played DJ eight hours a day for his few remaining neighbors, the police, soldiers, and relief workers. With a microphone in hand, he asked passersby for requests, spun his favorites, and called it Radio Marigny. He’s a remarkable guy.

Anyway, I was heading back to Decatur Street to quaff a pint of Crescent City Brewhouse’s Carnival Bock, and suddenly, there was legendary producer-composer-keyboardist-singer Allen Toussaint driving his shiny convertible, top down, a female companion by his side. They slowly tooled past the strip of hotspots on Frenchmen: Ray's Boom Boom Room, Café Brazil, d.b.a., the Spotted Cat, and the venerable Snug Harbor where pianist Ellis Marsalis-– father of jazz masters Wynton, Branford, Delfeayo, and Jason-- is in residence with his trio every Friday night. The previous evening, Toussaint was in Los Angeles to attend the Grammy ceremony. “The River in Reverse,” his 2006 collaboration with Elvis Costello, had been nominated in the category of "best pop vocal album,” but John Mayer won the award.

Hours later, Toussaint was back home to New Orleans, and cruising along in elegant fashion. People on the sidewalk greeted him with words of respect and encouragement. All on Frenchmen who saw him knew him and gave him his props. Toussaint-- local royalty-- acknowledged each of them with a gracious nod, and motored on.

Despite the banners and posters trumpeting “Rebuild, Restore, Renew” or similar positive sentiments, a number of T-shirts for sale at various souvenir shops in the Quarter tell a different story. Of course, there are the usual vulgar inscriptions such as the popular “I Got Bourbon-Faced on Shit Street.” Then, there are shirts of a different stripe, reading “Make Levees, Not War”; “FEMA: The New Four-Letter Word,” “F.E.M.A.: Fix Everything My Ass”; and, both lurid and pointed, “Katrina Gave Me a Blow-Job I’ll Never Forget.” All of it is justified. It’s been way over a year since the flood. The fix-up has been slow and, in some sectors, non-existent.

After what Katrina did, did the weather deities think that a tornado or two could faze the Crescent City? Lightning flashed, wind howled, rain came down, and at least one tornado ripped through and ripped up the streets on the night before I left town, by then, completely spent from my long weekend of food, drink, music, dance, and camaraderie. A number of buildings were leveled, some people were injured, and an elderly woman died. More tragedy for a locale that has far exceeded its recommended dose. Yet…

The next day dawned sunny and warm. Around noon in Armstrong Park’s Congo Square, the current model of Paul Kantner’s Jefferson Starship played a free concert sponsored by Microsoft. A polyglot crowd whooped it up to a lively Starship career retrospective, preceded by a few songs from a reconstituted Quicksilver Messenger Service.

Yep. The party resumed, and will continue into next week. It'll only stop when Fat Tuesday turns to Ash Wednesday, and Lent begins. Caught in the vortex of Carnival, people will willingly succumb to pleasure and (thanks to spicy food and excessive drink) pain until the madness ends. Then, it’ll happen again next year.

You can’t stop Mardi Gras.

I finally made it down to Teppei's new extension Hanare for lunch today (thanks for the heads-up). It was a bit confusing at first, as you had to order before going in, choosing either the buffet or the bara chirashi. The buffet had already been obliterated by the time I got there, and really didn't look appealing. I thus fell back on the bara set (99B Tanjong Pagar Road, 6222-1976).

It's too bad then that the bara chirashi was overseasoned and crudely cut. Granted, at those prices, I wasn't in much of a position to complain (especially when you could stuff yourself with all of the rice and otsumami that you wanted, just like you could back at his proper restaurant). But if had wanted a bara chirashi at this kind of price range, I would have gone to Meii Sushi over at International Plaza.

So yes, next time I'll pass on this and go for the buffet instead; the curry looked like it might be worth a try. Still, if it weren't for Teppei's name, I wouldn't have even come here. At least one doesn't have to wait in line like one does at his original place; it's precisely because of that line that I haven't been there in a million years. It used to be so easy to just walk in at lunchtime.

When I made my big VW van trip to India in 1969-71 I remember this bizarre sensation I got sometimes, especially in Afghanistan and Nepal, that I wasn't merely traveling in space but also in time-- backwards in time. Like that first day in Herat, especially after smoking hash stronger than acid with some tribal elders, I started thinking I was back in Biblical times. Nothing to do with anything about the Bible, just it was a long time ago.

Well, it's almost 2007 and... today I was feeling like I was in pre-call center India circa 1970. Ever since I left Buenos Aires I've been feeling more and more like Joseph Conrad... descending... or a Paul Bowles character. Here are some notes I jotted down on the bus today after I had somehow managed to get out of Brazil and into a more-chaotic-than-normal Paraguay:

Ciudad del Este is one of Paraguay's two portals to the modern world, a border town on the bank of the Parana River across from Foz Iguassu in Brazil. You'd think it would be more... um... cosmopolitan than the rest of the country. If it is, I'll be pre-Biblical in no time at all. This is a foresaken hellhole with garbage-strewn streets and the air of decay, really seedy decay. All the strides Brazil and Argentina have made to become thoroughly integral parts of the 21st Century global economy... well, I'm not even seeing a baby step over on this side of the Parana.

This morning I woke up in the Tropical Hotel Cataratas inside the ecological Iguazu Falls National Park that spans chunks or Brazil and Argentina and which I plan to write about at great length when I get home and can show you my wonderful photos. But now I'm on the other side of the Friendship Bridge, after great exertions. It feels like I put enough time and energy in to have gone hundreds of miles instead of a dozen. But in many ways it feels not like a dozen or like hundreds but like thousands of miles. It sure ain't Kansas... nor even the most extreme and distant corners of Brazil or Argentina. And no one has ever mentioned "ecological" to the folks hereabouts, believe me. The sky darkened ominously as we crossed the border and it started to rain-- the first rain I've seen since arriving in South America.

Early this morning CNN informed me that there is rioting in Asuncion, the capital. It wasn't anti-American or even anti-Bush and I figured it didn't look threatening enough on tv for me to change my plans. When I eventually got to the bus station in Foz I was soaked in sweat and disgruntled. It was then that the bus company agent informed me that the Brazilian buses were refusing to cross the border because of strikes and demonstrations in Paraguay. (A little aside: I could have saved myself a lot of hassles. First off I should have taken a plane. It costs $45 from Ciudad del Este to Asuncion on TAM. I had called TAM, a Brazilian airline, and asked if I could fly from Foz to Asuncion. They said they had no direct flights but I could fly from Foz to Sao Paulo to Asuncion for $900. They neglected to mention they fly direct from the airport 10 miles from Foz, just over the Brazil-Paraguay border. Second, I should have taken a taxi from the hotel to the bus terminal instead of 3 buses, but the taxis-- and all other services--have special prices for foreigners. A Brazilian would pay around $15. For a foreigner it's $75. I'll get more into this when I write about Iguazu after I'm back in the U.S.)

Anyway, before I interupted myself, I was saying how the bus agent explained there would be no bus to Asuncion. However, he offered to take me in a couple of private cars to Ciudad del Este where there is a bus going to Asuncion. Okey-dokey. He didn't even charge me and I wound up in some kind of a parking lot in this filthy squalid dump on the border and then on a small, uncomfortable, freezing bus with a boisterous Brazilian couple. It only went in second gear. Eventually he stopped at an actual bus terminal and the bus filled up with people going to their capital city. Maybe the extra weight allowed him to get into the higher gears. It was a 5 hour trip.

I felt like I was back in India: scrawny chickens, scrawny cattle, scrawny dogs, scrawny children all over the roads. Verdent green everywhere, tropical vegetation, smoke from fires permeating everything... hovels lining the 2 lane highway (Paraguay's best road). This is the developed part of the country. Up north, where Bush's ranch is, it's supposed to be backward, really backward. Anyway, down here in developed Paraguay there were virtually no cars, just trucks and buses. India has come a long way; Paraguay hasn't.

Asuncion is quite a step up from what I just described-- but hardly a modern city; hadly a city at all, in fact. There are open sewers where sidewalks should be. I'm in the tropics. It could be Africa. It sure couldn't be Buenos Aires or Montevideo.

I did manage to find a haute cuisine restaurant and it was completely delicious-- Mburicaò. I had a grilled local river fish on a bed of lightly curried vegetables and it was fantastic and there was lots of it. It was like $12. No one spoke English and there was no menu in English. No one speaks English anywhere in Paraguay so far. Oh, the guys at the desk of the hotel speak English-- a bit. I have a feeling that's the only qualification needed to get the job-- a little English. I mean it is a Sheraton.


UPDATE: ASUNCION LOOKS BETTER IN THE LIGHT OF DAY

It's still very much a third world city, but the nice bright sunshine helps highlight some charms. And this Sheraton I'm at isn't really in the center (where the open sewers have been paved over). I can see that my hopes to actually visit the Bush ranch are unrealistic. There are no roads and the few people in the lightly inhabited area don't speak Spanish, just Guarani. There are no buses or anything like that that get anywhere near the region and I was told that the only way to get close to it is to rent a private plane-- or hike... for a couple of weeks. Every single person who I discussed it with have told me I would be killed if I tried to go there. I think I'll try the downtown siteseeing instead.


UPDATE: AH... THERE'S A REASON SO FEW TOURISTS COME TO PARAGUAY

India is more interesting. I did manage to see all the mains sights in Asuncion. I probably inhaled enough toxic fumes to have taken 5 years of eating raw food and taking 30 supplements a day off my lifespan. The heat and humidity are staggering. The traffic congestion is beyond anything conceivable in L.A.


There is apparently no such thing as zoning in Asuncion. It's kind of interesting; it's the most mixed used place I've ever been to. Everywhere you look you see a meticulously kept colonial mansion--and that's not a style; it's a house built when Asuncion was the capital of the southern part of the Spanish Empire-- delicately painted sky blue or rose pink, sitting next to a greasy car repair shop/junk yard with rusting hulks of trucks in front of it. And next to that an optomitrist, a clinic, a mall and 20 kiosks. Speaking of optomitry, it is apparently the primary profession hereabouts. Remember how I mentioned that Buenos Aires has more hairdressers per square inch than any other place on earth? Asuncion has more optomitrists than any other place on earth. I will insert a photo here when I get home. I took it from the Plaza de Heroes and it shows 8 optomitrists' shops in a row. And every block seems to have one or two. If I had time I would investigate.

I took a city bus downtown. It costs 2,100 guaranis. There are 5,360 guaranis to the dollar. The buses, belching heavy black exhaust, crawl along and never bother closing their doors. People jump on and off at will-- including vendors selling food and drink and whatever else you can imagine. Everyone seems to agree I couldn't get within 100 miles of the Bush estate and that if I did I would never be heard from again. Apparently there's a "low level" rebellion going on in the region and the U.S. has a base up there "training" Paraguayans to exterminate the locals fight the terrorists. Maybe we can ask Jane Harman to look into that.

I am leaning toward heading off to Iberà, a swamp near (relatively near) Posadas in Agentina. It's supposed to be the Serengeti of South America with more species of animals than anywhere else in the hemisphere. The drawback is that there's no easy way to get there-- from anywhere. Next week I'm going to Tierra del Fuego. I met some Brits in Iguazu who had just come from there and they said it was zero degrees. I'm not sure if that is centigrade or fahrenheit-- but does it matter?

Because I've traveled so much and to so many places people are always asking me which was my favorite. For many years I would always say that it was a three-way tie between Afghanistan, Sri Lanka and Nepal. These were all places I went between 1969 and 1971, places that blew my young mind. I went back to Sri Lanka in 1996-97 and I've been back to Nepal twice as well. Nepal holds up pretty well-- and I'll be writing about my trips there-- but Sri Lanka... well, long civil wars usually screw places up pretty badly. Afghanistan is still exquisite and pristine in my mind. But since those days I've been to many places and eventually Thailand supplanted my Big 3.

Last year, however, I discovered a place I had never been to but instantly fell in love with: Bali. I'm not a beach kind of guy; I always prefer a shark-free/non-sewage dumping swimming pool to the ocean-- and Bali is a small island famous for beach life. And drunken Australians, another thing of no interest to me. I'm more interested in native culture than sunburn and tourists; always have been. In researching Bali, I soon figured out that as long as you stay away from one little tiny area on the Southeast coast, specifically developed as a tourist ghetto so as not to pollute the island's incredible indigenous culture, you can still be in paradise. (Al Qaeda apparently figured this out too and the bombs you've heard about were all in the tourist ghetto area.)

So I decided to rent a villa in the interior, away from the crowded beach area-- but where? And how? Short answer: a Google search of "Bali + villa" soon brought me to Bali Villas, a great local company that rents out villas to visitors, most of which are owned by wealthy foreigners who only use them a month or two per year. (About 20% of tourists who came to Bali in the last couple of years rented a villa!) The one I rented has 4 bedrooms, lots of common space, a really beautiful swimming pool, 4 incredible people who live in an attached house and do all the work around the place-- including a mind-blowing chef. (She was able to adapt all the traditional Balinese and Indonesian recipes to my dietary restrictions of no sugar and no flour-- and, aside from fish, I'm a vegan; every single meal was MAGNIFICENT.) Also included was a van with a driver, Anwar, who was always there for whatever crazy requests the 4 of us made. I mean, some people love the beach and some love Hindu temples in remote mountains (me) and Anwar worked it all out, always.

Most of the great villas are on or near the beach. Most tourists go to Bali for the beaches. But there are places in the mountains and up near Ubud, the kind of cultural center of the island. Ours overlooked the mighty Ayung River (the photo above was taken from my bedroom terrace) and we never saw another foreigner anywhere nearby for the 3 weeks we were there. We never did find the "village" on a map and it had an impossible, unpronounceable name. It's between Denpasar and Ubud. That link gives all the details, amenities, prices, etc. I'll get into the reasons why I think Bali is the best overall place I ever visited in the next couple of blogs.

The Adventure Racing World Championship is still ongoing in Costa Rica, but as I write this, two teams have crossed the finish line, claiming first and second place respectively. The winners of the race, and this year's world champions are Thule Adventure Team, who finished in 168 hours,  27 minutes. That translates to a little more than seven days or non-stop racing. Second place went to Columbia Vidaraid, which came across the line at 171 hours, 34 minutes. Right now, it appears that Adidas TERREX Prunesco is in position to claim third place, although they aren't home yet.

The race got underway last weekend with the four-person, coed teams facing a 700+ km (435 mile) course designed to test their endurance, skills and determination. At the time, it was thought that the top teams could potentially complete the route in about 4 to 5 days. But, it turns out that was a very optimistic estimate. Thule is perhaps the best team in the sport today, and it took them 2-3 days longer than projected.

As is typical in adventure racing, this course mixed trail running, mountain biking and paddling. It started on the Pacific Coast of Costa Rica and finishes on the Atlantic Coast. In between there were miles of rainforest to cross, rivers to kayak and mountains to climb.

Congratulations to Jackie Boisset, Mimi Guillot, Stuart Lynch and Albert Roca, the athletes who make up Team Thule. This win continues a great run for the team, who have been very tough to beat on an international level over the past few years.

Yes, I caved and got an Voigtlander 40mm optical viewfinder for my Panasonic GF1. It's well suited to the Panasonic 20mm 1.7 lens.

But this is not about the viewfinder or how much better the GF1 feels with it...it's about the above 'minimalist' gear which is an option when I'm planning an assignment or a photo trip. I can have all this in a small Domke bag, and have spare room for a book, an audio recorder, an itouch and lots more.

Imagine the bliss of having all one's gear in a small and light bag!!!

Here's a statistic: The combined weight of the GF1, the Acer netbook and a WD Passport hard drive (from their individual listed specifications) is 3.8lbs. The combined weight of a Canon 5D Mark II and a 24-70mm 2.8 lens is 3.9lbs.

Am I contemplating chucking out the DSLRs and lenses? Not at all. What I now have available to me is equipment which, depending on the nature and duration of the trip and/or assignment, is a viable alternative.

The easy one first: the WD Passport 750gb is small and worked well so far. It may not be as tough as a Lacie Rugged, but it's functional, provides ample storage and is inexpensive.

The not-so-easy: I've used the Acer netbook on 3 or more photo expeditions, and it also did okay. However, its Windows XP software is a major irritant, and its Atom processor is really sluggish. I seldom have it process any image files, and just use it to save my RAW files on its 160gb hard drive and on the WD Passport. An eventual alternative to the Acer could be an iPad, if and when it allows connectivity to an external HD.

Another not-so-easy: The GF1 is a delight to use, and the quality of its images is almost as good as from an entry-level DSLR....but almost is the key word. Having said that, it's still a lovely tool to use on walk-abouts, for environmental portraits and as a back-up. It'll be very useful in situations where photography may be frowned upon (like religious rituals) or where one doesn't want to be labeled as a professional photographer.

I'll be taking the GF1 (along with my Canon gear) to Istanbul in a couple of weeks, and will further test its walk-"aboutability".

There aren't many expeditions that you can go on that allow you to ski, snowboard, climb and surf, but that is exactly what the Wegge brothers got when they visited remote Bear Island off the Svalbard coast. The video below is a teaser for an upcoming film of their adventure, which judging from these two minutes of footage looks like it was filled will all kinds of interesting activities.

Thanks to my friends at the Adventure Journal for sharing this one.

BEAR ISLAND TEASER from weggebros on Vimeo.

I rented an apartment in Recoleta, an upscale Buenos Aires neighborhood. The apartment is great-- kitchen, bedroom, combo living room/dining room. I´ll do all the details for anyone interested in renting when I get back. I just wanted to share some thoughts today.

I spent most of my day trying to get a Brazilian visa for my 2 day stay on the Brazilian side of Iguazu Falls. Originally I had no intention of staying in Brazil but the only hotel on the Argentine side (IN the park) was solidly booked and there was a room available in the one Brazilian hotel in the park. If you don't stay in one of those two hotels you stay about 15 miles from the park. After I became aware how much Brazil discourages American tourists I would have put up with the 15 miles, but by that time I realized that there is NO WAY to travel from Iguazu into Paraguay without crossing into Brazil (visa).

I found all this out in L.A. when I got my easy, friendly Paraguayan visa. The consul told me I also need a Brazilian visa and that that takes between 8 days and 2 weeks. I was leaving in 5 days. I rushed to the Brazilian consulate immediately. They only answer questions between 9 and 1 and it was 1:15 so I´d have to come back the next day just to ask a question.

Eventually I tricked their Kafkaesque phone system into letting me speak to a person who pretty much admitted what I was coming to understand: Brazilians are friendly and like everyone-- except Bush. They hate him, like most people in the world. Unlike most people in the world, however, their government takes it out on Americans.

At least I'll know not to take anything personally! Long story shorter, I decided to get the visa here in Buenos Aires. Easier said than done. So many lines; I hate lines. But I waited in front of the building and then in front on a computer terminal where I had to fill out documents, all intructions being in Portuguese and Spanish naturally. Then I had to wait on a really long line for an hour or so where a lady told me I had to show a ticket in and a ticket out and needed the address and phone number of the hotel, etc. When I told her I was entering Brazil by taxi from the Argentine airport and leaving for Asuncion by bus, she said if I didn´t show a ticket I couldn't have a visa. No exceptions.

The concierge at the 4 Seasons-- the hotel is across the street from my apartment and I've adopted the concierge station there-- had a great idea. She called the hotel's travel agent who issued me a refundable ticket from Iguazo to Sao Paulo to Asuncion. Meanwhile I got Aerolinas Argentinas to send me an e-ticket. Back to the Brazilian lines. It takes 3 days to get the visa once they say OK. I had to make it by 1PM. I made it with nearly 5 minutes to spare. Of course then I had to go to a bank half a mile away to pay the $100 fee. Thursday at 4PM I can pick up my passport with the visa (unless they think of another reason to deny me access).

Europeans and Latin Americans don't need visas, by the way, just the people who allowed Bush to grab the White House (twice); it's hard to fault them.

I set up The Travel Photographer's Motion as a parallel portal (using the F8 Graph Paper Press theme) for my audio slideshows, which are originally produced in the SoundSlides format, and subsequently converted to mp4s, then uploaded to Vimeo. I have no real preference between Vimeo or YouTube, and I'll eventually have these mp4s uploaded on both.

The current line-up consists of Baneshwar: Pind Daan (the annual rite of remembrance for Rajasthan tribals), White Shadows (my favorite! The sad life of the widows of Vrindavan), Debates at the Sangha (Buddhist debates in a Bhutanese monastery...much more animated than those in our Senate), Gnawa (the rhythmic Sufis of Morocco), The Street Chinese Opera (intense musical cacophony in NYC's Chinatown) and Cham! (the tsechus of Bhutan).

More of my audio-slideshows converted to mp4s are in the works.

Both Vimeo and YouTube’s have adopted the HTML5 video element (although the former is restricted and the latter is in beta), which permits most browsers (not Firefox, I think) to bypass the Flash plug-in and use video native to the browser’s player. That will prove useful for such movies to be seen on the iPad.

This is the second installment's of Adam's first person account of his recent trip to Ghana. Be sure to read the first installment. Here we pick up the tale in mid-June.

I have done a huge amount in the last week and a half. After I emailed last I had one of the craziest/wierdest days I ever had. First I was almost arrested for jay walking and hit by at least 3 tro tros. About an hour later my friend Hugh used a public toilet. Afterwards we are walking along and this guy comes out of no where and grabs Hughs arm yelling "give me money, give me 500 cedis". We thought he was trying to rob us so we started yelling back but he wouldn't let go of Hugh's arm. I pushed the guy off Hugh and told him we weren't going to give him any money (although it may sound a little heroic & I should probably let it stay that way it really was not, we were in a crowded area). The guy kept yelling and I finally thought to ask him why he wanted 500 cedis (5 cents) which sounded like a ridiculous amount of money to ask for, let alone rob someone in the middle of a busy street. It turned out that it cost 500 cedis to use the toilet. We were both a little embarrassed and paid the man.

Thirty minutes had not even passed when we both bumped into a woman carrying her baby on her back with our back packs. The street was packed with people and there was no way to walk without collisions. The lady went absolutely insane screaming at the top of her lungs in an unrecognizable language. Her baby started crying and people started shouting. Needless to say we did not wait and see what would happen, we ran as fast as 2 obrunis with 50 pound packs on could possibly run.

A couple hours later on our way to Ada Foa we got off at the wrong tro stop (we needed to switch tro tros). We started asking around but no one understood us. One woman finally told us where we needed to be and we jumped into a taxi. I thanked her but before I knew it she jumped in the cab and was practically sitting on my lap. If this wasn't bizarre enough she started rubbing my thigh and wouldn't stop smiling at me. When we reached the tro station we thanked her again and told her we were fine by ourselves. She followed us to the tro tro and was expecting us to pay for her ticket to Ada Foa. We refused as it was 150,000 cedis and we had already paid for her cab fare. She started a huge scene in the middle of the station and started yelling and screaming and saying how we were abandoning her. Just to point out she was not homeless and looked better off then most people I have met (cell phone, name brand clothes, etc.). A crowd formed and they were all speaking in local languages so we had no idea what they were saying. It looked like she was lying to everyone and telling them that we ripped her off because we were getting dirty looks from everyone. She then told us that if we didn't pay for her the tro driver wouldn't take us. She finally stopped screaming and asked us if we were married. The tro pulled out and she slapped my arm as we drove off. WTF!

Ada Foa is a remote area on a small peninsula. We had to take an hour canoe ride to get to where we were staying. On one side was the Volta river and the other was the ocean. It was amazing to watch the local villagers fishing and their daily routines. We stayed in little huts made of bamboo. There was no floor to the hut (just sand) and the only thing in it was a bed. The place was absolutely beautiful. The bathroom consisted of a hole in the sand with a wood box on top of the hole and a small bamboo fence around it. At night we built bon fires on the beach. On Sunday I left with 3 girls and we began our trip up North.

I'm not sure if I had mentioned this before but I have really bad mosquito bites on my legs and they became badly infected. They are open wounds and a couple were really deep. On Tuesday night they were so bad that I was limping and could barely move my right foot. My right ankle was so swollen you could not see my bone. I really did not want to go to the hospital here unless it is an emergency after hearing many horror stories. I bought medicine at a pharmacy and by the next day the swelling started going down.

Anyway we reached our destination, MOLE National Park, on Tuesday after about 16 hours of being packed into tro tros. The last 3 hours were the worst. I was sharing a middle seat with no back with another person. There were 6 of us in one row and it was probably the most uncomfortable I have ever been. Half of me was on the seat and the other half was dug into a crack. Anyway we reached Larabanga and from there the only way to MOLE is to hike or bike. We rented the most rikety bicycles I have ever seen. The brakes didn't work, the tires were thin and not meant for tough riding, and the bikes felt like they would fall apart any minute. The ride was only 7 km but much of it was up hill and the sun was intense. The girls had to stop every 10 minutes to drink water and break so it took us forever.

MOLE was absolutely incredible and one of the coolest things I have ever done. The hotel was on top of a hill and at the bottom was a watering hole. From the pool you could watch elephants in the water. While we were eating breakfast a huge Baboon jumped onto the table and knocked over my coffee. Another time a Baboon grabbed this girls bag and pulled out her wallet and a granola bar and started running away. Luckily it dropped the wallet but kept the granola bar. On Wednesday we went on a safari hike with an armed guide. Guests had been injured in the past by stampeding elephants and water buffalo. Also a guide had been killed not to long ago by one of the many venemous snakes. They have Black spitting cobras and vipers. I never thought I would be so close to an elephant, literally 4 or 5 feet.

In the afternoon I followed a bunch of baboons around into the woods and got really close until an aggressive one leaped at me. There were also antelope and those huge pig looking things with the horns (i forgot what they are called). It was amazing to be so close to the animals especially the elephants. Some animals that live in the park that I would have liked to see but didn't were the lion, hyena, and leopards. It was an amazing trip and well worth the long uncomfortable tro ride.

On the way back to my village the tro driver ran over 5 goats crossing the road. It was absolutely crazy; he didn't have any expression or even slow down it was as if it was a daily occurance.

Yesterday I went to Shai Hills and hiked to a bat cave. We actually climbed into the cave and were only a few feet away from hundreds of bats which all started swarming, luckily not in our direction. At one point our guide said he didn't want to scare us but sometimes pythons crawl through where we were standing in the mud.

I am now in Accra for a couple of days. Tomorrow the political correspondant of a local paper will bring me to meet members of Parliament and said I can sit in on the Parliament session. Im having an incredible time and have mixed feelings about coming home.

Adam returned to his family's home the last week in June, after 6 weeks in Ghana. He wrote one more e-mail about the trip from suburban New Jersey (where toilets are toilets and there are no pythons.

It is really wierd being back and I miss Ghana. During my last week in Ghana I stayed in the capital, Accra for a couple of days in hopes of interviewing MP's. I had been assured that the interviews were set up for Monday morning. When I met the Political Correspondent that morning she informed me that we would go the next morning at 8:30 AM. I stayed in Accra that night and watched the Ghana vs. Italy World Cup Match. Although Ghana lost I felt that they played a good game considering it was their first World Cup match and was against Italy who is one of the best in the World.

The next morning I waited an hour and a half for the Political Correspondent to arrive. The plans were to interview members before the session started at 10:00 AM. Due to her extreme tardiness that idea was killed. I sat in on the Parliament session which was really interesting. Unfortunately afterwards all of the MP's had a full schedule and did not have time to meet. I did however have the opportunity to meet a Parliament Attorney who drafts legislation.

The next few days I spent painting a health clinic, playing frisbee and soccer with the kids, and hanging out with the volunteers. Friday night my friends flight was delayed 5 hours and this girl Tes and I agreed to go to the airport with him to wait. At the airport there was confusion regarding what time the plane would take off, so at around 1 AM he went through security and left us outside. We had planned to spend the night sleeping in front of the airport because it was too dangerous to walk or take a taxi anywhere that late. Luckily Tes starts a conversation with an Obruni in a business truck and swears that he is harmless. We ask him to take us to any cheap hotel in the area and he looks at us like we have 5 heads.

It turns out that he has lived in GHana for the last 5 years but in a luxury western lifestyle. He had no clue about cheap hotels and admitted he had never even taken a tro tro. He allowed us to stay at his loft for the night. As we drive up to his house I could have sworn we had crossed into another country. We entered a gated community, guarded by security, filled with mansions. I had no idea there were houses like this in Ghana. His company develops these communities for the
richest of the rich and he told us that many Ministers and MP's bought homes in the community. His house had electricity, a microwave, stove, oven, fridge, shower, televisions-- it was out of this world, - completely unheard of. Anyway it was kind of cool to see the rich side of Ghana. Poverty to riches and not much in between. His satelite television service is double the amount that most workers make a month.

I left on Sunday and it was upsetting to say goodbye. The kids begged me to take them with me but promised to write. I bought them notebooks, pens, and crayons and they were really excited. I also left many of my things I didn't need and would have thrown them out had the kids not wanted them. They even took my tooth brush and toothpaste. In the village most people use these sticks to clean their teeth. I gave my cell phone to Kwasi who was the forman for the building. The phone cost more money then he makes in a month and he can either keep it or sell it. Sunday before I left I sat in on the Church service and the Reverend dedicated almost the entire service to me. It was a really nice thing for him to do and I will never forget him, the kids, and all of the friends I have made. This was an AMAZING experience and I could not have asked for anything more. I would like to continue to help sponsor school scholarships to children in Kwamoso and any donations you are able to contribute would be greatly appreciated. The amount of money that it takes to fund a child's education is so minute to our standards that even $5 would be an extremely helpful gesture. (If you have a PayPal account and want to send $5 or $20 or... well, any amount, the e-mail address for Adam is ad501445@pegasus.cc.ucf.edu/) He has loaded his pictures online and if you would like please have a look.