Penelopian troubles

I didn’t expect to go to a cemetery. It’s rarely an item on the tourist’s agenda, because I was definitely a tourist and not a traveler. In a land plagued by beach connoisseurs and suntan devotees the off-season is more than anything that time of the year when the locals get to be just them and not postcard filler. The churches become sacred, the sand untreaded and walking through the streets is safe again, no crazy tourist asking for directions to get to the fort standing right next to them. So no matter what good intentions I might have had of being a good traveler and accommodate to the newfound culture I stood out and interrupted ordinary life with as much gracefulness as the next Hawaiian shirt wearing, sunscreen streaked tourist, struggling to pronounce his hotel’s name.
Thus it was frequent to be stared at to then suddenly be ignored as soon as I saw them and tried to acknowledge them. The lady at the tourist information booth made it all very clear when I inquired her about taking a boat ride, renting a kayak, a canoe or even a bike. No, no, no, no, she kept on answering with what in other situation may have been a very lucrative poker face. “So what can I do?”, this time I had her cornered, there was no way she could answer that with a monosyllabic answer. “Lady, is the off-season” was the sentence and I surrendered to my destiny.
She was unhelpful to say the least, but indeed, it was the off-season. Walking around seemed to be the only option, so walked I did. And I stumbled upon unending rows of coffeeshops flooded with Croatians, fancy stores selling traditional European goods (read also boots, tights and jackets) and the occasional Catholic church reminding me that this is Croatia, not Serbia or Bosnia and Herzegovina, a distinguishing feature for which all of them paid dearly. However, I didn’t need to think about that anymore, Croatia is the land of the crystalline sea where even the tiniest sea urchin can be seen from 10 or 15 feet away because the water is so so clear.
From the cliff where I stood the sea and its shy waves were all that I could possibly think about. Even the earth seemed to share my fascination, launching forward into the vastness of the Adriatic with rocks who thundered through the water as the cliff not only made its way down but also into the sea. I breathed in the saltiness around and wondered whether the fisherman that was slowly making its way into my canvas image shared my fascination with those sparkling blues. Maybe he also expected to see a mermaid pop up at any moment and start singing its deathly charms.
It wouldn’t be too out of place, supposedly Mljet, an island an hour away from Dubrovnik where I now delighted myself was were the famous Odysseus spent seven years with Circe. Homer said he was bewitched, just like the seamen are coerced into deathly whirlpools. So these islands, these lands, are known for it bewitching powers that drive men (and women, I guess) into pointless crusades, men forgot their good nature and will to hold on to some sacredness that after all never was really there. But maybe, like for the fisherman in the distance, they only facilitate a means of life and we are just too glad to bestow them with larger than status; one that would explain to our Penelopes our passional escapades.
Like the tourist I was, I stopped at that park to catch the sunset, what better Canon moment (not all of us have Kodak do we?) than a sunset, cliffs and a quaint Balkan fisherman? But the sun never came, or went away in style for that matter. After all my walking and hunting him down along the coastline it decided to cover behind clouds. Lazy bustard, just a little more effort and he could have had outshined them, but is the off-season and Croatia feels quite laidback, there’s no reason while the sun should be any different.
Hence, for the second time I resigned and rerouted my expectations, back to my bed; but along the way an angel stopped me. It wings stretched further more than I could have expected and its whiteness was the most shocking thing. Yet unlike folk beliefs of androgyny it was clearly male. I’m not sure whether it was limestone or marble but it definitely looked expensive and well cared for, and since there was no entrance fee to get closed to this sculpture I walked towards it. Just then it niche of a place revealed itself for what it was, a cemetery: flowers, white tombs and even the slender sober pines characteristic of northern countries all where there. Yet, it was particularly colorful, not one single tomb lacked flowers, and the butterflies uninhibitedly flying around spoke more of a garden than Dracula’s quarters. Maybe that what is paradise after all: a flowery death place.
I looked around for looks of disapproval, but for the first time no one seemed to mind me. Soon Croatian, Italian, German and even French started to appear. Somewhere in time a French surgeon was deeply loved. He died almost a century ago and so did a lot of them, especially the ones not in Croatian. I wondered how they could have lots of fresh flowers being dead for so long? They ought to have particularly dedicated grandchildren to still carry on putting fresh flowers so efficiently. Or maybe it was just near a particular holiday and I, as the tourist I was, was completely oblivious; either way, cemeteries have always intrigued me and that one was particularly beautiful. Small, but that made it more personal and approachable, the tombs were extremely closed, almost overlapping, but yet it didn’t feel overcrowded, just (as perverse as it may sound) like one big united family.
Like for example the two persons who died at 1986. They must have been family since their tombs were together and had the same last name, probably a mother and son since she was born in 1939 and he in 1970. It must have been quite a bad moment, both of them dead at the same year; it must have been an accident. Maybe a car crash at Christmas when everybody is too giddy and entertained drinking to remember being sensible. And then, I remembered the war. I wasn’t sure when it had began or when Dubrovnik was shelled, but I knew it was near the early nineties and 1986 is not so far away from that. It was also my birthday year, but next to a war who cares?
I started paying more attention to dates and I did found a lot close to the nineties, but there were also the really old ones in foreign languages so that didn’t make a lot of sense. I saw a lady arranging a big group of flowers bouquets and thought of asking her about the nineties tombs, but that would have been particularly insensible so I just left. As I walked towards the exit I saw a man picking out the dead flowers from the tomb and throwing them away. He must be quite dedicated to come just when some of the flowers are withering away. But then I saw another man doing the same, and yet another one, and the previous woman started bringing new flowers for them to replace. That’s when I realized t6hat this must be a place for the reach and all that dedication I had imagined through the colorfulness and freshness of each tombs was more capitalist related than a Penelopian commitment. But if this was a rich people’ resting place they would have probably being able to run away in the war. I was perplexed, but the one thing I new and still hold to is that no matter how entrancing the color-bound murmur of the sea may be, it can’t erase some very human traces on this little convulsed piece of earth.

Help pretty please

Hi again, it turns out that for my writing class we are going to make a book out of the different things we have written and they have asked us to submit our three best pieces so I’ interested in knowing which three pieces stood out for you? Which were your favorite three entries? This would be a great moment to let me know that you are out there since I’ve been told a lot of people have being reading this but I only know some so speak out pick three and remember to put your name in the comment. If you are inspired enough feel free to tell me why you liked any of the pieces? And since we are getting into critiquing writing feel free to post comments regarding what could be better or you think didn’t work so well? But that’s just if you want to and feel like making me extremely happy, otherwise just pick three favorite ones and make me very happy. Much love, diana

Countries i have visited thus far

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Hi everybody, I may not be able to write a lot in the upcoming days (finals are slowly approaching with an evil grin on their faces) so I might as well write some now that I have time. I have just replied to an email from the girl I stayed with in India and realized how crazy it is that I can write to her and that her mom aka my Indian mom, misses us dearly. I can’t help but get the feeling that from now on every time I see a movie that in some ways portrays India I will see them and now that I have to go back to that city even if its not as enticing as many other places in that subcontinent. Just as well I feel the need to let you now that if you ever go to Croatia, yes go to the beach, the old town and all that jazz but please, spend at least 60% of your budget on food and wine it’s the best thing ever, and anyway is what Croatians do all the time, launch at cafes and restaurants. Pero bueno, todavía me queda escribirle a un monje budista en Burma y par de estudiantes de danza clásica en india así que nos vemos luego.

You've got mail

Si!!! Nada les queria dar las gracias a las chicas del baile y Kesia por sus respectivbas cartas. No tienen idea de lo feliz que me hicieron, yo trabajo con el grupo de estudiantes que voluntariamente recogemos y repartimos las cartas ( quien pensaria que iba a terminar siendo cartera??) y fue super emocionante recibir no una sino dos cartas en un mismo puerto y tan llenas de memoprias y pensamientos cheveres. De verdad que milgracias, al igual que a mami y Lidia que tambien me han escrito a lo largop del viaje, porque hay algo de magico de recibir cartas en partes tan exoticas del mundo, me siento como ninita abriendo regqalos de navidad. Llega una y salgo corriendo para mi cuarto, tomo mi pote de tu nutella y las leo mientras me doy un shot de chocolate... es divino.

Croatia

YES!!!!!!

Tengo clases, wupi!!!! Cuatrocientas cincuentamil camellos pagados como agradecimiento a Quique, Mami y Leticia por copnseguirme mis clases. Gracias gracias gracias. Gente, si los ven delen un abrasote de mi parte, si?

Al-qaahıra, Egypt

_

Indıa

The temple pıctures are from Mamallapuram the rest ıs my ındıan famıly plus roomate ın ındıa.

Punto de aclaracıon

los barquıtos de los nınos son como cubetas que usan en el lago donde vıven, es un lago enorme con un pueblo flotante y todos los dıas los nınos sse montan en estas palanfganas para acercarse a los botes llenos de turıstas y pedırles chavos. Son mendıgos, a muchos les falta alguna extremıdad por la cantıdad de mınas en cambodıa a partır de sus guerras. Las fotos se ven medıa adorables y etnıcas pero se me hcıeron muy dıfıcıles de tomar

Burma one more time

Burma

Kids wearing thanaka (Local make up and sunscreen); Schwedagon Paya(Pagoda with 7 hairs of Buddha); women washing clothes and Street life in Hpa-an, capital of Kayin state.

Cambodia - encore

Pictures of Cambodia... lo que no viste en Tomb Raider

Angkor Thom










Angkor Wat










Life in Siem Riep

Indi flips - 1st draft

I remember the first time I took public transportation in Japan. I was amazed by the beauty and pure stylishness of people’s shoes: curvaceous pumps, lacey flats and presumptuous boots bejeweled the floors cleaned to the point of sterilization. Then came China and the shoes became more down to earth, as if drawn to the center of civilization. Bows would still show their playful faces over summery sandals, but only on occasion, and sneakers were no longer an exclusive tourist trait. In Vietnam, I couldn’t think about shoes, where, as predicted by everybody, there was only a blur of scooters; shoes in particular, and feet in general, seemed quite irrelevant. And then came Burma: Flip Flop Land; hike a mountain, climb a pick up or break stone, all is done in flip flops. As this progressive strip down of footwear continued it seemed only natural that India would show its face bare, with some sandals and flip flops cruising the land for the sake of diversity and that new IT community carving itself a place, but markedly barefoot, as if the hotness of a road’s tar didn’t mean anything to trained soles. What’s a new bridge to feet that have traversed India, and continue to do so every four months, going from coast to coast looking for fish?
I’ve always been for intercultural experiences but walking barefoot was too much for me, so flip flops it was. The dirt, the road irregularities and even the feces would all be braved. I’m not a flip flop person, I prefer the secure comfort of sneakers, yet sometimes you have no choice but to step in, and after a holiday with an economically priviledged Indian family I decided to reach out and feel something real. I had dressed like an Indian, hoping that my radioactive pink salwar would dilute into the palette of unreserved color that is an Indian street, populated more by sariis and salwars floating in the air than people. I also had the hairstyle, the bangles and a slight tan picked up as collateral damage of intensive shopping.
I knew the rising middle class in India from which my Indian family was a clear member was as real as the nearest beggar; they also breathed, worked for money and didn’t use toilet paper when going to the bathroom. I told myself hundreds of times that I shouldn’t feel intimidated by discourses of "the real India" that make of it the center of famine, expressed in all the possible kinds of hunger. My experience living the economically successful India is as valid and Indian as everyone else’s, I repeated in my mind as a newly acquired mantra. Yet, I still felt something was off and I needed to deal with India in other way, at least for a moment.
Thus, now without the protective embrace of a local, I headed for the nearest market, a haven of pirated DVDs and an ode to India’s copyright law, also known as the right to copy. On my way, two students from the ship joined me and for the first time I experienced that which had dominated half of the ship’s populations experience in India: walking blocks and blocks with a parade of sellers and beggars as your personal accompanying band. I had drums for percussion and bead necklaces for spicing up the beat of the main rhythmic melody asking for money, either dollars or rupees. Finally, the market appeared and I lost myself in slim DVDs kiosk protected from the street by the mass of commuters that waited for the green bus. By the time I was ready to go I had lost my previous companions. I thought of looking for them, but there was my chance to brave India by myself. A chance that I had given to every country but this one, because its oh so problematic and complicated. Could I walk six blocks with people screaming at me for money without having a shining moment à la Jack Nicholson? Would that bring that ominous revelation when I would discover the extent of my love or hate for India? I stepped out and drum boy appeared, as ordered and practiced in this kind of situation, I ignored him and to my surprise in a couple of seconds he disappeared. I thought he didn’t want to drift far away from the markets because that was where tourists would be. But then it dawned on me I had walked two more blocks already and nobody had approached me. It was the same trail and I even recognized some of the kids who had asked us for money previously, but now that I was by myself they didn’t pay any attention to me. With my features that have previously been placed in countries as far away as Venezuela or Lebanon, I seemed to pass as Indian with my custom made outfit. The salwar, the shawl, the flowy hair and confident yet laidback walk, everything fitted, as long as I didn’t speak.
However, I knew the secret lied at my feet; there my non "Indianess" was apparent. Yes, I was wearing flip flops like everybody else, but unlike anybody else they were crowned in white by my pedicured nails, French style, merci beaucoup. If uncovered, my soles would show their light smooth privileged lives as guests of Champions, Pumas and Nine West. Now, for the first time ever, they had have to deal face first with dire need, maybe they could go unnoticed, unrecognized as the poser tourist they were under the protective flow of my salwar and shawl, but poverty and dirt were still there, and the extravagant white of my flip flops shuddered in recognition of their last moments. As white flip flops they had made the trip all the way from a spa in Vietnam. They knew about bargaining and currencies that submit their wills to the dollar, but they have never experienced such streets and spaces, even today, after various washes they still have the imprint of India, as if letting them now that they could step over her all they wanted, but still she would end up possessing them. Some things, like desire and bare need, can’t really be erased.

IT - Information technology, the source of india's recent economic boom
salwar - originally a muslim dress which consists of a long flowy blouse with baggy pants. In india it was adopted by most women no matter what religion they believe in. By the way, it has nothing to do with burkas of our conception of repressive muslim dresses. The salwar, as it is worn in India, is conservative in its covering of the body, but its light material and colorfulness give it an airy sensuality carachteristic of Indian apreciation of the body and its movements.

On Egyptians' nice character

Everyone wants to be my friend

...

They are all men.




-Thus far i have had four marriage proposals and three gifts in my honor; for the girl that looks like an Egyptian but speaks spanish.

Elegy to a street market in Old Cairo

A mosque.

An anonymous man on its doorsteps.

A bundle of pink lacy bras being sold for a dollar.