The World We Travel In

Children on the Streets of Aleppo Syria

What a difference a year makes! Just a little over 12 months ago, I was concluding a trip that took me through a spiritual roller coaster in India, an archeological tour in Egypt and Jordan, a pilgrimage along the silk route in Syria and Lebanon, and reliving the grandeur of the Ottoman Empire in Turkey. Back then, one chapter of my life had ended, and the next one – as a graduate student in Los Angeles – was just beginning.

Today, a new chapter beckons once again. I am about to move to Switzerland for the next four months as an exchange student. Without any doubt, I will be taking this opportunity to visit parts of the European continent that I have yet to set foot on. Poland, Romania, Serbia and perhaps Bulgaria. I also hope to visit some of the many friends I have sprinkled throughout the continent. 

But as I write this blog entry, the world is again is a very different place from what it was just a year ago. Back then, I recall standing on a knoll on the far western reaches of the Egyptian desert at the Siwa Oasis, looking over palm trees and the endless expanse of sand towards Libya. Today, reports in the news indicate that the government of Moammar Gadhafi in Libya is on the verge of collapse, with rebel forces moving triumphantly into the capital Tripoli. Siwa was also in Egypt, an Egypt that was under the rule of Hosni Mubarak at the time. 

Most shocking for me has been the news that is trickling out of Syria. Last year, I reported how Syria boasts architectural and archeological wonders unlike any I have seen, people that were both welcoming and friendly. Early this week, I listened with disbelief as the news on the radio reports that the Syrian military is plummeting gunfire and rockets on the city of Latakia, the same city of Latakia that I spent four whole days at – relaxing and chatting with students and professionals at a literary café, while listening to live jazz music; the city with beautiful expanses of golden beaches along the sun soaked Mediterranean coastline. 

So much has changed, and I often wonder about the many wonderful people I met throughout that trip. How are they doing? Are they even still alive? My trip through Egypt and the Middle East last year had been well timed. Given the situation in the region right now, I would not have been able to make that same trip this year. Throughout that journey, I learned the virtues of patience and tolerance. I learned that we are all, no matter what we are doing right now, on a journey of a lifetime! It is really up to us to make the most of it! If there is a place that you have always wanted to visit, do it now, because it might not be there if you wait. Keep dreaming and happy traveling!

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Another Cup of Tea

Waterwheels in Hama, Syria

“Is salaam 'alaykim!”, I greet two men sitting on their front porch with the commonly used Middle-eastern greeting of “peace be with you” as I walk by. Nodding and a waving back, they smile and respond, “Wa 'alaykum is salaam”, and all of a sudden, I find myself being invited in for another cup of tea. This would be my fourth glass, all with strangers who I had just met, and I have only been wandering around the city of Hama for just a little over 3 hours.

Some of my most memorable experiences while traveling through the middle-east have been meeting and interacting with the hospitable and friendly people of the region. Earlier in day, while walking along the Orontes River, photographing the ancient norias or water wheels that dot its banks, I am drawn to the voice of a little child screaming “heeello”. Turning around, I see a young boy, peering curiously at me from behind an iron fence. Returning the greeting, I wave back at him,which only prompts him to scream “heeello” a few more times. Behind him, his grandfather is lounging on a plastic chair in front of a little hut along the water's edge, and he is waving at me to come on in and sit with him. Not wanting to be rude, I oblige, and I am offered a cup of tea.

Although the grandfather spoke no English at all, we were still able to exchange greetings and a few basic niceties with each other. I found out that he is a carpenter, and the little hut that we were at is his workshop. His job is to repair and restore the ancient waterwheels in Hama. Soon his sons, who also work there joins us, and through a mix of basic English and Arabic, I learn further that his family has been performing this task of repairing and restoring the waterwheels for generations. And in the past, the wood used to come from the forests of Syria, but due to deforestation, the wood now mostly comes from China.

I sat chatting with this family for over an hour, trading stories of my family with theirs, and even going as far as discussing politics, religion and how tourism in Syria is affected by global economics – all the while using only a simple mix of English and Arabic. Being invited to a cup of tea and having the opportunity to interact in such an intimate setting with a Syrian family that could not be more different from my background was indeed fascinating. This is the reason why I enjoy traveling, to have the opportunity to expand my global perspective through encounters like these. As I got up to leave, the grandfather takes my hand, and tells me that if I ever returned to Hama, I must find him right here at this same spot again, and instead of paying for a hotel, I must stay with him and meet the rest of the family. Truly remarkable.

Waterwheels in Hama Syria

However, occasionally my attempt to speak Arabic goes horribly wrong, often leading to confusion or down right hilarity. When arriving into Damascus, Syria from Amman, Jordan, Laurence and I shared a service taxi with two middle aged Syrian women. They didn't speak any English, nor we Arabic, and conversing was next to impossible. Pulling out the Arabic phrase book that Laurence carried with him wherever he goes, I attempted to break the ice by asking them a few common civilities like “How are you?” in Arabic. After I had exhausted all the questions in the chapter titled “First Encounters”, I moved on to the chapter on “Family” and asked the two ladies casually, “Inti mitgawwiza? (Are you married?)” - knowing full well that I probably butchered the pronunciation.

After starting at us blankly for a few seconds, the ladies started pointing at both Laurence and I and proceed to giggle amongst themselves, speaking rapidly in Arabic. Turning to me, Laurence narrows his eyes in a state of realization and whispers quietly to me, “I think you just told them that we are married...to each other!”

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The Curse of Baksheesh and Overcharging

Author's note: I have met plenty of friendly and honest Egyptians throughout this trip, some of whom have even been mentioned in this blog in previous posts. However, Egypt's economy largely remains dependent on tourism, and in many of the more popular tourists sites, a few bad apples amongst the population still regard tourists as a walking money machine. Here are just some of my personal experiences and annoyances that I've had with them.

In addition, the Egyptian currency is the Egyptian Pound. Any references to 'Pound' in this post refers to the Egyptian Pound (as of this writing US$1 = E£5.54), and 100 piastres make 1 pound.

Any traveler to Egypt will quickly learn the word “Baksheesh”, the request for a tip, or a hand-out for services rendered. While I have no problems tipping generously when when good service is provided or when a staff member goes above and beyond their call of duty to assist, I get terribly annoyed when baksheesh is requested or expected, sometimes even forced upon you, when little to no service was provided.

Take the toilets at the Egyptian Museum in Cairo for example. Coming out of the bathroom stall, I find the attendant standing up against the door of the stall, blocking me from exiting with a hand outstretched asking for baksheesh! Feeling intimidated, I hand him one pound, and went about my business. Right outside the bathrooms, I see a sign in English I hadn't noticed before: “Please do not tip the bathroom attendant. - Cairo Museum Management”. Feeling a little stupid, I treat this incident as a lesson learned.

Another time where baksheesh is frequently requested is at a historic monument, where guards will let you into 'closed areas' for a little baksheesh. However, it is hard to tell if the area was actually closed to the public, or if the guard simply put a stick across the entryway to make it seem inaccessible, only to earn a few extra pounds by letting willing tourists into these so-called “forbidden areas”. I have to admit that I've succumbed to the pressure and paid more than a few guards a few pounds, only to get access to that perfect picture, or a closeup view of the wall paintings on a few occasions. Almost every time though, I feel bad afterward for encouraging this bad practice and behavior. I guess we, the tourists, are part of the problem as well!

The one time I refused to pay any baksheesh was inside of the tombs in the Valley of the Queens. Because I visited the site on a bicycle, and timed my arrival in between waves of tour groups, I found myself alone in many of the tombs with the guard standing inches from me, breathing down my back. All of them were eager to explain every symbol, and image on the walls to me for a little baksheesh. As soon as I realized what was going on, I flat out told them that I have my trusty Lonely Planet guide with me, and that it does a great job of explaining most of the highlights of each tomb. “You can stand there and explain all you want, but I am not giving you any baksheesh!” I said. Most leave me alone after that!

What is probably worse than the constant asking for baksheesh is the blatant over-charging of tourists and the lack of fixed prices for anything. In the morning, a bottle of water could be 2 pounds, and in the evening, the same bottle in the same store will cost 5 pounds! The best felafel sandwich I've tasted in Egypt is from a little street-side stand in the souk (bazaar) in Aswan. However, for three days in a row, I paid a different price for the felafel each time! On the first day, I asked for one felafel and was charged 2 pounds for a sandwich made with half a pita. The next day, I ordered two felafels and was charged 5 pounds for two halves of a pita sandwich. On the third day, I was back again, and ordered one felafel and without waiting to be told how much it was going to be, I just handed the guy 2 pounds. This time, in return, I received two halves of a pita sandwich! Perplexed at the seemingly inconsistent prices, I later asked a local working at the hostel front desk how much a felafel should cost. And his answer: One felafel consists of one pita (two halves of a pita sandwich) and it should cost 1 pound! Oh well!

My biggest pet peeve right now is the practice of short changing. And this has happened to me on several occasions, from street side stores, to seemingly nice and reputable restaurants, and even at a museum ticket booth! Handing over a 200 pound bill at the Temple of Kom Ombo for a ticket that should only cost 60 pounds, I was casually handed a ticket and change in the amount of 40 pounds. I was ready to just pocket the change and walk off, when at the corner of my eyes, I notice the ticket agent hiding something under the ticket booklet. Something felt wrong and I took the extra effort to count my change at this time, realizing that I was 100 pounds short. I immediately questioned the agent about it, and only then, with a slight embarrassed smile for being caught, he pulls out the 100 pound bill from under the ticket booklet and hands it to me!

Since that incident, I always count my change before I leave any store, and I've found waiters to be the most prevalent at the practice of short changing. Even when service and taxes have clearly been added to the bill, I have caught waiters short changing me anywhere from 5 pounds to 30 pounds. While on the way to catch a bus out of Luxor, I stopped to purchase a to-go or take-away meal for the bus ride. Two days ago, at the same eatery, I bought this same meal for 10 pounds, but this afternoon, the bill came up to 12 pounds! Too tired to argue over what really amounted to a few cents back home, I let it slide and handed over a 20 pound bill. At first, the cashier handed me back five 1 pound notes. I looked at him, shook my head and demanded three more pounds. He opens the drawer, picks out two more pounds in 50 piastres denomination and handed the coins to me. Still short of 1 pound, I shook my head again, stood my ground, and demanded one more pound! Ordinarily, I wouldn't have cared, and would have let the 1 pound go, but after constantly being over-charged and short changed for the last month, I have had enough! Furthermore, I know I've been over-charged for this meal already, did he really think he could short change me as well? Only when I refused to move did he finally relent and pulled a 1 pound coin out and handed it to me! Unbelievable!

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The Delaware House

Three years ago with the California dream of sun, sand and surf beckoning, I packed up, drove across the country and moved into a little townhouse on Delaware Street in Huntington Beach (HB), often referred to as "The Delaware House".

What I didn’t know at that time was that I was moving into a house with a history. A history of friendship, a fraternity of sort, whose residents grew up, went to school and played soccer together. December 2009 marked 10 years of continuous lease of the Delaware House, and I have written about traditions of the house in a previous article here. The original four tenants of the house are no longer living there, although they, and most previous residents of the Delaware House, do come back and visit regularly. When one would move out, the remaining roommates would usually find someone from within their circle of friends to take over the vacated room. I was one of the very few that came from the outside, but it was a match made in roommates.com.

Today, when not sprawled out in front of the TV, John is the glue that holds all of the roommates (past and present) together. Similarly, Scott seems to know everybody that lives in HB, and also plays every sport known to man. Brit, being the youngest and only girl, is also the sweetheart that leaves nice things for all of us (like flowers on Valentines Day), and gets all excited telling us about a boy she met at school. And finally, there is Matt, the latest addition to the crew, who brings with him a flair for artistic and musical fervor that I have written about here.

Like a family, we have our ups and downs. Sometimes we get along, sometimes we don’t. But leaving this second family of mine was especially hard. As one chapter closes and another is about to begin, I take with me cherished memories of year-long summers grilling steaks in our yard; long bike rides to the beach; and epic Halloween and Super-Bowl parties that will be talked about for generations to come. So take that MTV, for this is the California Shore, the Real World, the OC, and it can’t get any better than this.

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The Empire's Service

Rail travel, like air travel, has a certain level of romance for me. Between stepping aboard the Eurostar from London to Paris on my first trip to continental Europe; to the early morning dash (with no sleep!) across Budapest to the Keleti pályaudvar (East Railway Station) to catch a train into Vienna for a flight home barely 5 hours later; to the slow ride through the Sacred Valley on PeruRail to Manchu Picchu (pictured above), rail travel has played a large role in some of my most memorable travel experiences! Having taken trains all over Europe, in South America and in Asia, it is therefore ironic that it took me this long to finally step foot aboard an Amtrak service.

Amtrak’s Empire Service runs from Niagara Falls on the New York side of the border with Canada all the way down to New York City, making stops in cities such as Buffalo, Syracuse and Albany. I rode on a short segment of this line between Rochester and Schenectady in upstate New York.

Arriving at the Rochester Amtrak station (picture of trackside view below), the lack of investment in the rail infrastructure of the United States is clearly evident. For a city the size of Rochester, NY, with the state’s second largest economy and the third largest population, the small and dark Rochester Amtrak station is more fitting of a suburban commuter rail stop, than the city’s interstate rail gateway.

Once onboard, the car and economy seat was comfortable, though clearly older, and less advanced than comparable systems in other developed countries. A half eaten box of food was left on at least one seat (which the conductor cleared after the first stop), and a thick layer of grime can be seen along the window seals. However, I was surprised at the cleanliness of the bathrooms on board. The deli car was open throughout most of my trip, but I did not get a chance to visit it.

Unlike my experience with rail travel in Europe, with its to-the-minute punctuality, my Amtrak train departed 17 minutes late, and brought me to my destination almost 30 minutes behind schedule. At one point, we had to stop for almost 10 minutes while a freight train going in the opposite direction passed us on a single line of track.

With the expected announcement this month of the Obama administration’s stimulus funding apportionment for High-Speed rail development, I am hopeful some of these shortcomings can be reversed. For starters, build dedicated passenger rail lines so that published schedules can be more reliable. Update stations and cars to bring them up to 21st century standards. If current proposals to update the Empire Service comes to fruition, in the three and a half hours it took me to travel the 210 miles from Rochester to Schenectady, I would have made it all the way to the Plaza and sipping on a martini in New York City.

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The Donkey Balls Tradition

Many of my friends here in Huntington Beach, CA grew up together. They have known each other for years and many had lived together under the same roof in a particular townhouse on Delaware Street, often affectionately referred to as the “Delaware House”. I currently live in the Delaware House, and since moving in almost three years ago, I have been introduced to many of the customs and traditions that were handed down over generations of residents of this house.

One such tradition is the birthday Donkey Balls shot. Rumor has it that the Donkey Balls tradition began a few years ago while celebrating a birthday out in the town. A few guys decided to buy the birthday boy a shot. But in a weird sense of camaraderie and male bonding, they decided that the shot must not only be the strongest one imaginable, but it should also taste terrible and be something so unique that you cannot find off a menu. Thus the Donkey Balls Shot was born.

A Donkey Balls shot is basically a variation of a Three Wise Men shot – with a splash of Jäger. That’s right. The recipe consists of equal parts Jack Daniels Whiskey, Jim Bean Bourbon and Johnny Walker Scotch Whiskey, and topped off with Jägermeister. Lately, a south of the border version of the Donkey Balls has also made an appearance. In this version, one of the whiskeys is substituted with José Cuervo Tequila. I’m not sure who came up with the name “Donkey Balls”, but it pretty much sums up the taste of this shot: disgusting!

Somehow in spite of it all, the tradition of the birthday Donkey Balls shot has stuck. I had the pleasure torture of a first hand introduction to this shot a few months ago while celebrating my birthday. While many more after me will continue to experience this tradition, just know that no matter where your dinner lands, or how your head feels the next day, you had a wonderful time celebrating your birthday with the boys of the Delaware House!

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Why I Travel

Traveling has always been a big part of my life. Some of my earliest and most cherished memories involved getting onto an airplane, and going off to somewhere far and exotic. Starting in the spring, I am planning on taking a trip around the world. With little more than a backpack, I hope to spend the next 6 months traversing the globe.

Is there such a thing as a travel gene? A desire to experience other places, languages and culture that is passed down from generation to generation? Both my parents are avid travelers and most of my immediate family have studied or lived abroad at one point in their lives. Growing up in Singapore, weekend outings to the airport was a family affair. Till this day, I enjoy staring at the departure boards at large international airports, dreaming about the romance and excitement of jetting off to some faraway place. I still frequently pick large wide-bodied jets when I fly, even on short domestic trips when they are available, as I associate large planes with long exciting trips to a foreign land. Could it be that our adult lives are shaped and determined by positive experiences at an early age when we were at our most impressionable stage in life?

Ever since the summer of 2002, when I spent 6 weeks backpacking through Europe, did I first encounter the pleasures of staying in hostels, meeting like minded travelers from all over the world, and experiencing the concept of budget traveling. Any apprehension that I had going into that trip was cast aside the first night in Paris, when I met a rowdy bunch of backpackers at my hostel. After a few beers and cheap wine, we caught the Métro to the Eiffel Tower - stopping briefly to get more cheap wine – before claiming a spot on a grassy park, and swapping stories of love, life and travel adventures till the sun came up. That trip marked a turning point in my travel habits, an evolution from tourist to traveler. Visiting a place now goes beyond just taking in the sights and landmarks that it is famous for. A true traveler goes off the beaten track; they see a city both for its grand boulevards and dirty alleys; live with a local – with no climate control; and eat what is considered a delicacy – even if it does not look all too tasty. Could this one experience conceivably change my entire outlook in life and the way I travel?

The great American novelist Mark Twain once wrote, “Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines, sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.” Maybe all I want is to fulfill a lifelong dream. Maybe I need to live with no regrets.

Perhaps the attraction to travel extensively is not just due to one’s upbringing, or the result of a past travel experience, but rather, it is a combination of all those reasons brought about by an intimate desire for self-discovery. Will I find what I am looking for? Uncover my El Dorado or perhaps my inner Atlantis? Or maybe, just maybe, instead I might discover within me a little piece of paradise…

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