Field Trip # 1: Bcharré

The first weekend I was here, I went to visit my friend in Bcharré--famous for the cedars (didn't get there) and the Khalil Gibran museum. Lebanon's most famous writer lived in Boston for many years. . .who knew??? I love The Prophet, but the guy's a serious weird-oooo.

After work, I headed to East Beirut, to a Christian section called Dora. Went to the Artin gas station that has a sign called Total, which is across the street from another Total station, but if you ask people, they all call it Artin. (See how it is, finding your waz around this place?)

So I had only been here a week, and I´m already traveling by myself. It really helps to be able to read Arabic. I could make out the sign on the bus and confirmed that it said Bcharré. But that of course is never enough. I learned a long time ago to never trust signs. So I looked at the chauffer and asked, ¨Bcharré?¨ And he nodded. He didn´t do the Lebanese thing of lifting his chin and making a tsk noise. It kind of freaked me out the first time I saw people do that, especially when it was the students in my classroom answering a direct question. How rude! But then I learned that that´s just how people here say no. Like how Americans shake their heads from side to side.

The bus was one of those with fold-out seats in the main aisle, so the bus literally fills up. People kept getting on and getting off, and lots of them were standing. When we got close to the place, I called my friend and her Lebanese friend was trying to explain to me where to get off, but it was kind of useless, considering I didn´t know where I was and his English wasn't so good and my Arabic wasn't so good. So I just handed the phone to the guy next me, and asked if he understood where to tell me to get off. And I thought he did, but. . . he didn´t.

So then later I called back and I was like "Where do I get off?", and then other people on the bus heard me talking in English, and they were like, ¨Where are you going?¨ And I was like, ¨I don´t really know.¨ And this girl was like, ¨What the hell? She doesn´t know.¨ And this this guy asked me if I was Tony´s friend (in English.) And I was like, "yeah." ¨I know about you. I`m Tony`s cousin.¨ Hmm. This might seem ridiculous, but it actually makes perfect sense considering that half the guys here are named Tony (it`s a Maronite Christian town), and they are ALL related. So I handed him the phone and a minute later he was yelling at the choffeur. Next thing I know, we're stopping and turning around. Uh-oh. And then he drops me off on some random side of a mountain with no lights.

Before my eyes could even adjust, I hear a shrieky "Jane" and spot a blonde head sticking out the window of a car filled with Lebanese guys. Naturally, I hop in, and as I'm about to relate my tale of the horribly embarrassing, mortifying bus ride, Tony's cuz comes up to the car, and after saluting everyone in it, tells me I forgot to pay the bus driver the 5,000 Lira. So I have to show my face again to those people as I get out of the car and walk over to the bus. The bus that's been delayed a good ten minutes because of me. I could feel the stabs of hatred coming out of those people's eyes. All the more reason to learn Arabic. . . and fast.

Fake Cake: My first Lebanese wedding . . .

was the bomb! They put out the Lebanese mezza--a spread of hommos, cheese, pita, olives, grape leaves, nuts, seeds, yogurt, and all other sorts of Lebanese dilectables. Not that I got to eat any of it, because I was "with the band." Considering it was in one of the chiquest (sp?) hotels in Beirut, in Adma, the people were dressed very casually. A lot of women were wearing pants, like they were going to a club; and some of the men weren't even wearing jackets. There were very few long, formal evening gowns, which I would have expected for a Saturday night wedding at a fancy hotel.

On the side stage was a huge wedding cake. It must have been over six feet tall. I was flabbergasted. But then someone told me it was just a fake cake. As I get to know Lebanon, the fake cake doesn't surprise me. Some describe this place as a culture of posers--all appearances, more than substance.

Before the bride and groom enter, about 4 guys dressed, again, in MC Hammer pants (they're very popular in this part of the world) but with headgear that was more Russian looking, and 2 women came in dancing belly-dance style and turning in circles. Then other dudes lined up on the stairs coming down to the reception hall beating their drums. The music was a fast paced Arabic dance groove. It's called the fahzaa.

After a while, out of a side door came the groom on the shoulders of another guy, with his arms up in the air bouncing up and down, followed by about eight other guys. THEN, all this dry-ice smoke came up near the stairs with big silver confetti shooting into the air, and THEN all these sparklers went off along the railings of the stairs, THEN one of the dudes took out a huge white flag and just waved it back and forth. It was an outrageous, over-the-top, spectacle. . . and then the bride and groom came down the stairs together, dancing.

When they got to the dance floor, the bride and groom were picked up and placed on the dudes' shoulders. After a while, they were let down and went into the audience and went around the reception hall dancing with people. Eventually , they came back to the middle. The women formed a circle, doing a debka dance. And then the mass cleared out for a little while, making a circle. One of the dancers did straddle jumps, and very Eastern Europe/Russian squats and arm crosses and jumps and such. And then it became all capoiera-like, when two dudes started fighting with swords!!!!

I was just so overwhelmed. The drums were awesome. The fighting was tight. The people were all participating. How is it that I've never seen anything like this? So now I'm inspired. My next career move will be as a wedding dance choreographer. Think about it. . .I could make this sort of thing happen at your wedding.

Aley

View from my apartment
Originally uploaded by Jane Rubio.

My balcony overlooks Beirut and the Mediterranean. Aley is a mountain town, 16 km outside of Beirut on the Damascas Highway. Most of the people here are Druze. Many of the men wear white fitted hats and black, MC Hammer pants. The more strict women wear white head scarves, long sleeves, and skirts or dresses. But most of the women dress like in Latin America, tight-fitting, midrif-baring tops and super-fashion jeans.

The souk is about a minute walk uphill from my apartment. I can find anything there. Schwarma for L.L.2000, about $1.33, and a million patisseries with all the Arabic sweets--yum.

Last night I went to my first martial arts class. The school is about a two and a half minute walk from my place. It was about 10 guys, ranging in age from 12-35, and one 17-year old girl. She's a brown belt and teaches the little kids. The owner used to live in L.A. He was really cool and welcoming. I liked the workout--it was kickboxing. It's an open style, so they'll be doing karate, tae kwon do, self-defense, etc. He had me demonstrate some Brazilian jiu-jitsu.

I've been to Beirut twice and saw my friend, Dilek. This weekend I'm supposed to go to a wedding! School starts on Monday.

Frankfurt

Frankfurt
Originally uploaded by Jane Rubio.

At one point I realized my water bottle and I were in four continents in one week.

I had a four hour layover in Frankfurt on the way to Beirut. So I went down to the local train, met some Mexicans and a Venezuelan, and quickly toured the city with them. The buildings, the people, the food--they were all very. . .German. There was a Nutellier and a Euro store (like a dollar store). I bought a sweet sesame ball from a Chinese food stand, because I'm not really into bratwurst. I also had some ice cream. There were enough other people eating it at 9:30 in the morning.

To see the photos, go to www.homepage.mac.com/janerubio/PhotoAlbum19.html.

Peru

Jose's Wedding
Originally uploaded by Jane Rubio.

Do you see how lazy I am? I'm using Chris's e-mails to talk about this trip. He's a pretty good writer, eh?

Check out the photos from Cusco, Lago Titicaca, Lima, and Jose's Wedding at www.homepage.mac.com/janerubio/PhotoAlbum18.html. To see Tim's photos from the wedding go to ofoto.

Chris's e-mail about the Inca Trail

Chris, Ana & I on the Inca Trail
Originally uploaded by Jane Rubio.

I had meant to write this yesterday when I got back from the trail, but it ultimately spread out over a number of days due to slow internet and a slow brain. Unfortunately, the memories and experiences are piling up faster than my fingers can type and I am overwhelmed. But I will take a deep breath (harder than you might think at 13,000 ft altitude) and try my best to string together an entertaining and nominally truthful summary of the last few days events.

First off, I should make clear that I didn't die, as two other hikers did last week. I honestly had a great time despite what some might infer from what follows. (It is too early for the twin colossi of selective memory and revisionism to turn an utter fiasco into a life-altering experience.)

So the trip began with a bit of an inauspicious start, as if the forecast of rain, nighttime lows in Cusco that were in the mid to low 30's, and a pack that weighed north of 40 pounds were not bad enough. We were picked up at 6:45 AM (sneak preview, this is the latest I was able to sleep the entire trip) and were promptly shuttled to hotel of the eight other members of our Andean Life-organized sortie, namely a group of four asian-american couples from the Bay area who turned out to be extremely cool. More on that later though.

Upon arrival at their hotel, we learned that one couple had gotten violently ill from food/drink consumed the night before, and would be unable to join us on the trail. (Sadly, these six remaining poor souls did not realize that this was only the beginning of their woe, which would include diarahea, bloody noses, constant nausea, and vicious altitude-induced headaches. From the evidence presented to us, the three of us deduced it was likely the discount bottled water the SF crew had purchased that got the other couple ill, thereby prompting their entire group to drop toxic iodine and MicroPur tablets into anything that would touch their lips for the next four days, even as our group was drinking the very same things with reckless abandon. Would have been frustrating for me, but they were Christians and likely much better persons than I :)

After about an hour long drive, we stopped in a cute little town called Ollantaytambo (yeah, all the names are a total bitch to remember) where the group bought walking sticks and stocked up a bit more on water. We finally got to the checkpoint, KM 82 as it is called, and after all the paperwork was taken care of, began the hike.

For the uninitiated, I will take a second to explain what the Incan Trail experience actually consists of. It is a 43(?) km hike through the Andean mountain range spread over three-nights and four-days. The first day is viewed as easy, and is mostly, and I do use the word mostly quite loosely, flat. I believe it measures 7.5 miles long. The second day is the big climbing day in which you scale over 4,000 feet and reach a maximum altitude of 4,215 meters or 13,800 feet (I don't have Excel on this computer so I am absolutely lost on how to do the math). The third day consists of a long walk through the Cloud Forest, followed by crossing Dead Woman's Peak and climbing down (I kid you not) the "Gringo-killer". The third day is death on the knees and the day that I feared most, given my experience with Hong Kong's infamous Trailwalker. Finally on day four, after waking up at 3:30 AM, you march the final two hours, arriving at Macchupicchu ideally by sunrise. Then you spend the rest of the day oohing and aahing over how you finished the trip, convincing yourself it wasn't that bad, and utterly ignoring Macchupicchu.

Along the hike, the trekkers are accompanied by a team of porters and the cook, who we later learned is the behind-the-scenes alpha and the omega of the tour. Let me tell you these porters are something else. None are taller than 5' 6" or so and they RUN up and down the mountain carrying 60+ pound packs laden with our tents, kitchen supplies, foodstuff and other personal items (you have to pay extra for that). They really act as a double-edged sword, on one hand providing the starving trekkers with life-saving food, while on the other hand taunting them with the speed and non-chalance by which they run around the trail. One of the porters on our team was 53 years old!

As part of the trip, which starting last year became heavily regulated by the Peruvian government, the tour company is required to give a tour guide for each group of eight people; therefore, our extended group were given two guides. One was a guy named Washington who spoke better English than I did and never ceased to amaze us with his in-depth knowledge of Incan history and rambuctious American sense of humor. The other guide was a walking zombie by the name of Coco, a humorless young Cusqueno who had difficulty grasping the concept of language, whether it be Spanish, English or Quetchen. As luck would have it, Jane, Ana and I were assigned to be part of Coco's group, while the other six were given Washington. By the end of Day 1 we had remedied that by effectively merging with the other group, who had decided that we weren't so bad after all. Smartest move that we ever made tricking them like that.

Actually the way we did it was another story. While our group might have been grossly unprepared in a lot ways. We didn't exercise, we didn't think to hire an additional porter to carry our stuff, we didn't know the length of the tour, etc. One member of our team, who shall remain nameless, did have enough sense to pack a healthy dose of medicine. And I'm not talking about any of that soft-core shit like Advil and Tylenol cuz they had all that. I mean our medicine woman had Valium, Vicadyn and other hard-core codeine-based products to relieve muscle ache and encourage sleep. That was the bargaining chip that I think sealed the friendship, besides us being fabulously interesting people of course :)

OK, so hear is the inauspicious part, literally fifteen minutes into the hike, unfamiliar as I was with my new color-coordinated EMS actionsuit, I mistakenly inserted my brand new Canon S410 camera into my jacket vent which is sneakily located an inch or so above the pocket instead of the friggin' pocket. From there, the camera promptly fell to the ground, cracking the LCD and leaving me unable to know anything about the state of the camera. I was still able to record pictures according to the sounds the camera made, but I was unable to instantly tell what the picture looked like; I had effectively rendered my digital camera into a normal film one with a 400 picture roll of film. (Fortunately, I picked a popular model of camera and literally every other person in our group had the same camera so I was able to check and see that the pictures came out fine).

In my backpacking ignorance, I didn't fully realize how annoying it is to carry a 40+ pound pack around you while you are hiking 2.5 miles into the sky across narrow cliffs with 700 meter drops. It was up to us to carry our own sleeping bags and our own sleeping mats, which the company provided. The sleeping bags were meant for balmy 60 degree weather which pretty much guaranteed that we would freeze at night. In addition, our "five" person tent described to us by the tour organizers turned out to be a two person dry tent. The three of course managed to cram ourselves into the tent for the sake of body heat and, of course, the coarse bed-time humor that only comes out late at night. I also didn't mind that all the porters on the trip thought I was quite a stud, since everyone on the trail fell in love with my two Spanish-speaking companeros.

Can't really write too much about hiking. It is fun for a while, then you get bored looking at the rocks. Then you find yourself strangely mesmorized by the rocks until you get dizzy and need to stop walking or risk falling off the mountain. At times, you get really cold so you put on your jacket. Then the sun comes up and you got hot, so you take it off. You feel a little nauseus after you eat too much food, then you feel better. You think the altitude is affecting you, so you down some coca leaf (in my case a lot of coca leaf), then you feel better. You grow to hate anything Power bar related, and look forward only to warm porter soup and other liquid sources of nutrition. You stop and see some neat ruins, but after a while you can only look at rocks so long without thinking, shit, this is just another rock. Thousands of these types of litte moments.

As for spiritual enlightment, we were on way too tight a time schedule for that. Up by 6:30 AM latest every day, and then it is dark by 6:00 PM at night. I guess my only takeaway in that regard is that my enlightenment requires a shower. One surprise outcome from the trip was that I accidently discovered a cure from my allergy to the cold. Cocaine. To be more specfic, in case JPM/MS monitor their servers, is that the coca leaf appears to possess a very broad set of performance enhancing powers that are not well-documented in medical journals. I was hiking in very cold temperatures wearing very little thick clothing, yet my hives were never an issue.

Sadly, my most clear memory of Macchupicchu, forgive me if I sound small, is that those fuckers took away my walking sticks. I had picked up these bad-ass poles that looked like they each weighed seven or eight pounds (real pimping sticks, but for the brightly-colored Latin knitted covering on the tops), but in fact weighed only a couple of pounds. They were made from some cool Peruvian timber whose name I never did learn. But the racket in Macchupicchu is that they require you to lose your big backpacks and walking sticks upon entrance to the ruins. However, while for the bags they provide free storage, the walking sticks are not allowed to be checked despite there being ample space. Instead they must be left outside the storage room free for any indigent local or shifty Frenchman to steal.

After 45+ (notice how the number has grown) kilometers together, those sticks and I had really shared some tender moments. They got me through some really tough times, and in a very real sense saved my life on a number of occasions. They were the most tangible part of my trail experience, yet the trail authorities required me to callously throw them away like some cheap little whore. I had fancied them hung up on the wall in my new apartment, as some sort of improvised modern-day coat of arms. The long and short of it was that when I returned to see if the sticks were there, only one of them was left, and I figured deprived of his brother, it would be better if he were left their alone. It honestly was the most angry I was on the entire trail.

So on overstrained ligaments relying on lactic acid-filled muscles but buoyed by spirited hearts, we found our way to Macchupicchu and then made our way back home again to Cuzco. We had a lot of fun doing it, we really bonded with the guys travelling with us, we became infatuated with one of our tour guides and frankly scared of the other (one of those psycho brooding types, you know).

Will give a final update later, though maybe I won't because I will soon be back at work and likely crushed under an avalanche of work.

Hope everyone is well,

CJ

Chris's e-mail about Peru

Chris in a Peruvian market
Originally uploaded by Jane Rubio.

My first vacation means my first occasion for new travel updates (Goodbye Lithuania, hello Peru). So I am down here at an Internet Cafe in the ancient Incan empire, having flown in from Lima the other day. So far my first trip to Latin America has been a lot of fun. Spent the first night in Lima at a beautiful little hotel called Hotel Antigua Miraflores. Giant-sized bedroom, full jacuzzi, spacious hard-wood ceilings, and most importantly a solid cable selection. In fact, everything was so pleasant that I could overlook the rotting proscuitto in fridge.

Lima itself does not exactly overpower one with its beauty, but if you dig hard enough you find some nice spots. It is a beach town, which in principle should be cool, but verily I say I have never seen such a wasteland of a beach. For starters, the beach is inhabited by approximately 10,000 people in difference stages of homelessness and littered with garbage. There is a highway that runs along the beach one way, but this is no Californian Highway 1 by any stretch of the imagination. This being said, when you finally make it into the area of Miraflores more in the city proper, there are a couple of very picturesque streets. However, net-net, a disappointing city. More on this when I fly back on Friday late morning.

Now this is in stark contrast to Cuzco to which I flew into this morning. In addition to an adrenaline-packed airline entry that features banking approximately 200 feet from a enormous mountain peak to land on a very functional airport (old HK has nothing on this one), the city also has the benefit of being situated at approximatley 10,500 feet high. This translates into headaches and a lingering sense of nausea for the lucky, and full-on puking for the more unfortunate. Thus far, I have been a member of the lucky, but as I begin a four-day hike to Macchupicchu after only a 24-hour adjustment (suggested three-day), only time will tell how I will fare.

One cool thing worthy of being repeated is that Cuzco's special beverage is tea saturated in coca leaves. Yes, the very same leaves from which our dear friend cocaine is derived. They keep pushing this stuff on you incessantly saying that you should be munching on these suckers to help "adjust" to the high altitude, but I view this as a covert national campaign to get the world hooked on the white powder. I also snacked on alpaca for dinner, the very same beast that haunts countless pages of New York Times crosswords past (and future).

Cuzco is extremely beautiful, cheap, and tourist-friendly, and I really would recommend it to would-be travellers. I won't be able to give an update for a little while because I will be hiking through the Andes with a group of eight other Chinese-Americans (I cannot escape Asia, no?) as well as my trusty travelmates in Jane and Ana. We have rain and near freezing nights to look forward to, as well as scaling a 13,500 feet peak or two, but I went to the gym three times before this trip so everything should be OK, right?

Will update folks on the journey later.

Take care,

CJ

Pastor Timothy & Divya Shanthi: Christians in India

Unnathamanavarin Prayer House
Originally uploaded by Jane Rubio.

I am the evil empire. I am the American Christian missionary in India. I went eight years ago with 12 other evangelicals to work with Pastor Timothy's church and the Divya Shanthi Christian Association. I went so I could really try to figure out all these issues of Christianity in a non-Western context and Jesus' Great Commission to evangelize the world. Of course, it sits bad with everyone. . .American Christian missionaries in India. Isn't that so 18th century? Aren't thinking, educated, reasonably ethical people past that?

So I went to India as a Christian, ready to give up my religion if I felt like I didn't get good answers and just expeienced things that disgusted me. Ming was like, Give it a try. See what happens. Maybe you'll see God in all this. Ming's really good like that.

Pastor Timothy's church freaked me out at first. Women and men sitting on different sides of the church. Women with their head covered. The undue and even improper respect/adulation given to the pastor. And the way he sort of slapped their heads and fell back as he was exorcising demons. I thought the loud, crazy music with people clapping all off beat was cool, though. I got into their style of worship.

Pastor Timothy is Indian. He was Hindu. At 15? he was diagnosed with liver cancer, because he was a drunk. He had little time left. There were some American Christian missionaries down the street, that he used to persecute (throw rocks, taunt, things of that nature). But at one point, he was in so much pain and so desperate, he allowed them to pray for him. And it was in that prayer session that he felt a warmth in his liver, and he was healed.

Here are pictures of the Timothy's, Unnathamanavarin Prayer House, and Divya Shanthi--Check out the pictures at www.homepage.mac.com/janerubio/PhotoAlbum17.html.

KW & I in the autorickshaw

KW & I in the autorickshaw
Originally uploaded by Jane Rubio.