TravelStream™ news feed for member jackdrury on TravelPod's free travel blogs service http://www.travelpod.com/syndication/rss/jackdrury en-us Copyright ©2009 TravelPod.com Sat, 21 Nov 2009 15:56:32 -0500 http://www.travelpod.com http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jackdrury/morocco_2001/1258834239/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jackdrury/morocco_2001/1258834239/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jackdrury/morocco_2001/1258834239/tpod.html Sat, 21 Nov 2009 15:56:32 -0500 With pursed lips Jack stared into the mirror at his slicked back hair wondering if he shouldn't have trimmed the fu-manchu a little closer.

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Puerto Piramides, Argentina

The Valdez Peninsula on the Atlantic coast of Patagonia is desert. It's an area where sea creatures congregate, both to mate and birth their young. And to feed.. For seals, it seems like an odd choice of a place to do any of these things. They've put themselves in a double 'S' Catch 22 situation. If they crawl too far from the shore they find themselves stranded in the hot desert. If they stay too close to shore they risk becoming orca dessert.Penguins scramble maddly to shore, then waddle awkwardly from one foot to the other as they watch the sea, where a lone prowling sea lion lurks; similar to how humans would react when the lifeguard blows the shark alert whistle. They watch with bated breath as the sea lion circles once, then twice, never taking their eyes off him. Finally the bird hungry predator swims off, and with noises that sound like cheers the penguins dive back into the sea. Right whales spend the summer months here as well. Even though everyone we'd spoken to had seen them, both Ellen and I secretly knew that when we went looking for them they'd be somewhere else. It just works that way, whether it's tigers, whale sharks, or sloths.I was standing at the side of the boat with fifty or so others, hoping the Captain would take us back to shore. The wind off the Gulf of Nuevo was whistling; I was cold and as usual not dressed for it. I was staring blankly at the waves, shivering slightly when I heard a noise that sounded like an overactive sump pump. Then a fine mist blew across the side of my face. I turned, and damned if it didn't look like the Creature from the Black Lagoon. Just its head stuck out of the water. But what a head. About the size of a Cooper Mini, its nose and both sides of its face were covered with barnacles. It went down again, then came up and sprayed me again from its blowhole. Its body was on top of the water now too. It went down a third time. This time its tail flipped high above the surface as it dove. "That tail can't belong to the head that just went under," I said to Ellen, "it's too far back."Ellen didn't respond. She was mesmerized. The gods of all the animals we'd never seen before were finally paying us our due.  When it came up the fourth time it was right beside our boat. But this time it was a double header. There were two of them, only meters from where we were standing, both covered in almost identical barnacles.Back on shore I was like the kid who'd just gotten all the toys he wanted for Christmas. Before we went out on the boat I'd barely listened to the tour guide, telling us all about Right whales. Who cared, we wouldn't see any. Now I couldn't learn enough about them. The damned things grow fourteen to eighteen meters long and weigh up to one-hundred tonnes. The tail did belong to the head that I'd seen go into the dive. That's like sixty feet of sea creature. And the barnacled heads that the guide told us about, that was part of their genetic makeup. She said their young are  born with barnacles on their faces too. This sounded too much like fish story for me, so I investigated further on the Internet. Most of what she'd told us was true, but not the baracles. Scientists initially thought that the odd head markings were pigmentation. They've since discovered that it's lice. Whale lice, billions, trillions, maybe more. I also found out that each testicle on a Right whale weighs upwards of five-hundred kilograms. That's one thousand, one-hundred pounds in a single nut. 
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jackdrury/morocco_2001/1258563133/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jackdrury/morocco_2001/1258563133/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jackdrury/morocco_2001/1258563133/tpod.html Wed, 18 Nov 2009 13:24:21 -0500 With pursed lips Jack stared into the mirror at his slicked back hair wondering if he shouldn't have trimmed the fu-manchu a little closer.

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Iguazu Falls, Argentina

As we walked along the narrow mesh-metal catwalk the eager photophile stopped to take yet another shot. Then, to get back into some ambigous position in our plodding line, she'd rush up, passing us, harrassing others. Twice she kicked my ankle on her brusque way by, once she ciilpped the back of my knee, a flaggrant foul in both the NHL and NFL. After about eight annoying path interuptions I said to Ellen, "When I say now, take a step to your right."Ellen who usually finds it easier to simply go along with my peculiar requests simply nodded.Moments later I heard the charge from behind. I waited until the time was right and issued the three letter command. As Ellen stepped to her right I stepped to my left. Sandwich!Ellen, my unwitting assailant seemed as shocked as the woman with the camera as the crunch occurred."Excuse me," I said, with an oh so sorry look on my face, we're from Canada, where body checking is legal." The woman had no idea what I was saying, but stayed well back until we reached the Throat of the Devil.Iguazu Falls, where the borders of Argentina, Brazil and Paraguay meet has two-hundred and seventy-five cascades. Barrel or no barrel, no one has ever gone over any of them and survived. The collective length of the falls is two point seven kilometers. The highest is eighty-two meters. By comparison Niagara is fifty-three. I tried to compare the two by volumn of water displacement, but the mathematics made my head ache. The Devil's Throat which separates Argentina and Brazil discharges mist three-hundred meters into the air. It's the highest and meanest of the group, like a small atomic device in perpetual explosion . When I first cast my eyes on it, I was absolutely freaking terrified. Then I became almost hypnotized by it. Watching it for more than a minute made me cross-eyed. Apparently every year there are a number of suicides near the Devil. The calling could be just too powerful, I expect, for those with the need.. Upon seeing the Devil, Ealanor Roosevelt, of stronger mind than me, said simply, "Poor Niagara."The folks at Iguazu National Park have built around six, perhaps more, kilometers of sturdy mesh-metal catwalk, with safety railings, through the jungle setting. Many of them leading you right to the brink, where you'll get a right good soaking.If I had a dollar for every piece of expensive jungle-wear that I've seen at Iguazu, I'd be a very rich man. Pants with pockets that have pockets hidden within pockets; shirts that may ward off jaguars, wild butterflys and who knows what else; and hats that when eaten by elephants can be pooped out in wear ready condition. It all reminds me of the pet rock. For me, I'll stick with army surplus. If it's good enough for the soldiers in Afghanistan, it's good enough for me. Ellen expects the penguins of Patagonia to be the highlight of her trip to Argentina. I'm pretty sure that mine has already been forever etched in my mind.               
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jackdrury/morocco_2001/1258407607/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jackdrury/morocco_2001/1258407607/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jackdrury/morocco_2001/1258407607/tpod.html Mon, 16 Nov 2009 17:26:30 -0500 With pursed lips Jack stared into the mirror at his slicked back hair wondering if he shouldn't have trimmed the fu-manchu a little closer.

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Buenos Aires, Argentina

Dulce de leche is a goopy caramel concoction made from boiling to death, vanilla flavoured milk and sugar. It's eaten with a spoon or spread over your favourite cakes or biscuits. They say that every Argentine in the world loves it. So do I.I've just spent two full hours sitting at a table trying to find words to describe one of the most beautiful cities in the entire world and all I can think of is bloody dulce de leche. I feel like a fool.I'm going to blame it on excessive urban hiking, with little sleep, and try harder when we return to Buenos Aires in a few weeks.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jackdrury/morocco_2001/1213728960/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jackdrury/morocco_2001/1213728960/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jackdrury/morocco_2001/1213728960/tpod.html Wed, 30 Sep 2009 11:51:15 -0400 With pursed lips Jack stared into the mirror at his slicked back hair wondering if he shouldn't have trimmed the fu-manchu a little closer.

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Brugge, West Flanders, Belgium

Ellen said she wanted to visit civilized Western Europe for a change. Clean toilets for a change is what she really meant. I'd have been content to see the Diamondbacks new stadium in Phoenix. But after seeing the movie "In Bruges" I relented. "In Bruges" is a dark comedy about a couple of hitmen who've been sent to Bruges for reasons unknown to them. Their psychotic boss Ralph Fiennes does have a plan though. Ralph believes everyone should see magical Bruges before they die. When he pays them a visit, hilarity, blood and mayhem ensue. In the 14th century Bruges was an economic giant; one of the world's largest cities. Bruges - Brugge in Flemish - acted as a middleman port for northern and southern Europe. Then the harbour silted up and the economy went into an unforgiving spiral. For the better part of 300 years Bruges sat a mysterious, dead city. Today, like in the movie, Gothic Bruges thrives as Ellen and I and several thousand, mostly older tourist folk, plied its cobbled Town Square and back alleys. The brave often ventured further, into the canals on tour boats. Pretty as it was, the beer in Bruges didn't seem quite as good as it did up in Holland. And the food tasted bland, felt mushy. It really did seem like we'd come a long way to see where a movie was filmed. The rain had put a bit of a damper on things too. Shades of Freud; did the city perhaps not match up to the movie? Ellen said she'd been feeling out of sorts too. I thought it best we not talk about Bruges - at least not for a time. Sometimes you can search too hard for that special place only to have it then find you. The following morning as the sun began to peek through darkened clouds we climbed aboard the first northbound train and bolted for Holland. We wanted to see more of the land of windmills, but the Dutch were playing in another bloody European championship soccer game that night. Haarlem, the town that gave New York City's Harlem its name looked smaller on the map, perhaps quieter. Dominating Haarlem's old Town Square is St. Bavo's Cathedral. St. Bavo's, originally a Roman Catholic Church, took around 150 years to construct. In 1578 during the Protestant Reformation all Catholic iconography was removed. It was given a new name, Grote Kerk, or Great Church. The reformers even likely removed the Crucifix that would probably have sat atop the church and replaced it with a crown, in order to pay homage to the Monarchy I guess, as well as the Lord. They not only topped off the church with this garish crown of blue, but tried to make the church seem even more vacant by removing its thirty meter, 5068 pipe organ (see photo) which was once played by the 10 year-old Mozart. The town's folk revolted and the organ stayed. Five hundred-year-old cafes and hotels surround the massive church. Our hotel room looked out over ancient St. Bavo's. Sometimes after nodding off I was awakened by church bell chimes and wondered if we weren't somehow magically transported back to the 16th century. Today, with both the Catholics and Protestants gone to places unknown Saint Bavo's acts more as a concert hall than a place of worship. Old pissoirs (see photo) stand beside the church walls, likely to keep bar patrons, soccer fans and other such revelers from using the side of the church. For the game between Holland and France I watched people watch soccer on big screen open-air TV's. The streets were filled with glassy eyed fans as beer flowed freely. The intensity was high; marijuana sales most certainly lulled. The fairytale town of Bruges would be the perfect place if we'd found it five maybe ten years ago. Now it's too late. The tourist horde has taken over. Bruges is the magic we went in search of. Haarlem is where we found it.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jackdrury/morocco_2001/1204332720/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jackdrury/morocco_2001/1204332720/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jackdrury/morocco_2001/1204332720/tpod.html Mon, 10 Aug 2009 21:34:29 -0400 With pursed lips Jack stared into the mirror at his slicked back hair wondering if he shouldn't have trimmed the fu-manchu a little closer.

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Granada, Nicaragua

"Eighty Cordobas is your change, sir." "Danke." I replied in German. "Bitte." The kid's eyes went wide as he looked up at me. "Sprechen sie Deutsches?" "No, solimente Ingles." I answered in Spanish. "Hablas Espanol?" he asked. "No, ich nur Englisch." I replied in German. The kid, open-mouthed, ran off to his German father, the owner of Hotel Don Alfredo, in old town Granada, and spoke in a language that sounded neither German, Spanish nor English. I felt good for ten seconds or so, able to mess with the head of a ten year old. Then I paused and realized that the lad can converse, probably accent-free, in at least three languages. I, on the other hand, can do nothing more than ask basic questions in Spanish. And I have to phrase my questions in such a way that I get yes or no answers. Once the questions go beyond simple response, the person I'm talking to looks at me as though they are talking to a puppy. I'm language damned, growing up in North America, offspring of the colonials. A fool though I am, I sat with a silly grin at being able to mess up the child. In the mid-1800's, an American mercenary named William Walker, along with a couple of hundred followers, created, for lack of a better word, a coup in Nicaragua. In 1856 Walker was elected President of the country and his leadership was even recognized by then US President Franklin Pierce. But the bugger wanted more - all of Central America. In his quest, he annoyed US billionaire Cornelius Vanderbilt, who considered himself to already have commercial exploitation rights. Vanderbilt pressured the US government to withdraw Walker's recognition. A strong resistance to the Walker regime ensued and he fled Granada, burning a good part of the city as he left. In 1860 Walker was captured in Honduras and executed, perhaps, for being on the wrong side of money. Today, after 150 years of decrepitude, Granada, this little known Spanish colonial jewel, is beginning to shine. Pretty pastels on the facades, friendly people in the streets. Increased prices in the stores and restaurants. It all goes hand in hand. William Walker's original house at one corner of the central park is now a hotel. Rooms go for $180 a night. Our room at Hotel Don Alfredo, and we've got almost 600 sq.ft., rents for $35 a night. But to put it all into perspective, Ellen and I had just finished a meal in the central park. Feeling full, Ellen left a few potatoes on her plate, a bit of orange pop in a bottle. As we got up to leave, a shoe-shine man, perhaps in his early 20's pointed to Ellen's plate, asking if we'd finished. When I nodded yes, he wolfed down the leftovers in seconds.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jackdrury/morocco_2001/1163737320/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jackdrury/morocco_2001/1163737320/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jackdrury/morocco_2001/1163737320/tpod.html Mon, 10 Aug 2009 13:53:13 -0400 With pursed lips Jack stared into the mirror at his slicked back hair wondering if he shouldn't have trimmed the fu-manchu a little closer.

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Owera, New Zealand

It occurred to me on our seventh day in New Zealand that I'd never met a New Zealander before this trip. I'd assumed that because New Zealand was in the same general area as Australia and that both nations spoke the same language that the people would be alike. I was very wrong. We'd pulled into a trailer park around 3:00 p.m. During registration, the owner asked my name and I told him Drury. "Christian?" he said with what I thought to be a joking smile. "Catholic actually." I responded. "Not practicing, but certainly born and raised." He looked at me as though I was from the moon, saying nothing. "I think he wants to know your first name." Ellen helped. We went into a major grocery store yesterday to buy a bottle of wine. While Ellen sought a fine New Zealand Shiraz I wandered about until I stumbled upon the bread section. It was as large as any we have in Canada, but each and every loaf was one form or another of white wunderbrot, toast bread. The kind of bread that if you pinch a piece off and roll it in your fingers becomes a little wet greyish, white dough ball. It's been 40 years since we've had this kind of bread section in Canada. I remember, my parents had a grocery store. Then all the wild new types started to arrive. We began getting pumpernickels and ryes with caraway seeds. And then years later, the Italians came with their even stranger forms of bread. The transition took a long time, maybe ten years, but the new ones all but replaced wunderbrot. A couple of mornings before Ellen and I sat in a cafe and watched in awe as a man spread copious amounts of packaged jam on two slices of toasted wunderbrot. He happily devoured them before paying $6.00. Radio stations play almost exclusively late 60's, early 70's tunes. But they're not the hits I remember. They're the not so well known tracks of Glen Campbell, Bobby Goldsboro and Neil Diamond. They also do a lot of well known artists' hits, sung by locals I think. It seems as though they find a measure of comfort in a time gone by and choose to stay there. This morning we stopped by a bookstore and looked at the joke greeting card section. Again, right out of the 60's; stuff you used to see in men's magazines from a repressed time. One showed a caricature of a five penised naked man with a doctor standing in front of him. "Strange, but as you can see doctor, I do have five willies." said the five appendaged patient. "Blimey, how do you fit them into your trousers?" replied the doctor. All the cards were similar. To a point, New Zealanders seem like a friendly lot. But it's an odd friendliness. They remind me, both men and women, of the Stepford wives. They're like computers that were programmed in the 60's. If you type in, or in this case say something with a letter or syllable out of place, the conversation goes wonky. New Zealand is far more foreign than Lithuania, Latvia or even Russia. We've got four more days here and I'm frightened. I mustn't tell Ellen.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jackdrury/morocco_2001/1226517000/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jackdrury/morocco_2001/1226517000/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jackdrury/morocco_2001/1226517000/tpod.html Sun, 09 Aug 2009 17:02:36 -0400 With pursed lips Jack stared into the mirror at his slicked back hair wondering if he shouldn't have trimmed the fu-manchu a little closer.

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Turrialba, Province of Cartago, Costa Rica

While Ellen toils this week in Toronto I'm in Latin America, a guest of the Costa Rica Tourist Board. Three American journalists and I were invited to do a familiarization trip focusing on extreme sports. I could have written about what it's like to rappel down a seventeen metre waterfall, get tossed out of an inner tube in class IV rapids, or whitewater raft down the treacherous Pacuare River. Instead though, today's lesson will focus on flora and fauna. Leaf cutter ants scurry about the forest on trails they've made for themselves carrying bits of leaf that are approximately ten times their own size. Although I've see them many times before I never had a clue of their goal. Here's how it works: The leaf cutters aren't leaf cutters at all, but simply carriers. To show the strength of the carriers, Massi our tour guide, picked up one of the one-centimetre carriers, held it between his fingers, and then placed a stick of about twenty-five centimetres up to its undercarriage. This tiny creature held the stick for almost ten seconds before dropping it to the ground. But there's far more to this nature tale. The first ant, or actual 'leaf cutter', cuts tiny pieces of fresh green leaf, then the carriers lug them on their backs towards the den. All the while tiny cleaner ants, about a tenth the size of the stronger carriers, walk along the carried leaves cleaning them of bacteria. When the cargo arrives at the den a third ant chews the leaf pieces, and then deposits the leaf goop on the den floor. After a time, fungus grows on the leaves and this becomes food for the entire clan. Their cousins, the soldier ant, march with much grimmer intent. When they descend on their prey, colonies of other bugs, they circle their hapless dinner, then attack. Apparently, Costa Rican home owners are pleased when their homes are invaded by these little Infantrymen. It means that within a short time their houses will be bug free and the ants will simply move on in search of yet another dinner. But much like the cutters this cycle of life story doesn't stop there. Birds follow soldier ants waiting to eat the scattering bugs as they attempt to fly off in escape. Butterflies follow the birds around and eat the excrement of the bug filled birds. And everyone thinks butterflies are so pretty. I'll call them lazy, stool eaters from this day on. During a jungle hike Massi showed us tiny, three centimetre fern-like plants called Mimosa. "Watch when I touch this plant", he said. "The leaves will shrivel and close right up." "When I drink five mimosas, I open right up," replied the ever ready wunderkind writer Samantha from Los Angeles. Once the mimosa feels that the danger has passed it reverts quickly back to its natural form. Today, while the rest of the group are off climbing up thirty-three hundred metres in the cold rain to look down into the hole of Turrialba Volcano, I'm resting in my cabin reading Carl Hiaasen's novel Tourist Season. I tried to persuade the group leader to do an urban hike through the back alleys of San Jose instead, but it wasn't to be.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jackdrury/morocco_2001/1206104460/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jackdrury/morocco_2001/1206104460/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jackdrury/morocco_2001/1206104460/tpod.html Sun, 09 Aug 2009 17:00:27 -0400 With pursed lips Jack stared into the mirror at his slicked back hair wondering if he shouldn't have trimmed the fu-manchu a little closer.

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Laguna de Opoyo and Las Penitas, Nicaragua

Apoyo Lagoon or Laguna de Apoyo, not far from Granada Nicaragua, was formed 23,000 years ago when a strong volcanic explosion left an enormous hole measuring 6 km in diameter. Apoyo is conical, like an inverted volcano, 200 metres deep at its centre. Over time subterranean waters and rain filled the crater, which is surrounded by lush vegetation. I was able to dive with a local biologist named Lorenzo who showed me four types of fish that exist nowhere else on the planet. One of which wasn't even discovered until 1976. The landscape has a pleasant northern Ontario, Muskoka lakes feel to it. Jaguarundis (small wildcats), monkeys, iguanas and boas make the surrounding hills their home. And the water is warm; even at 23 metres below the surface the temperature hovers around 27C year round. Lorenzo asked me not to tell anyone about the place. At least I think he did. There was a pretty severe language barrier separating us. ........................................................................................ Las Penitas - on the Pacific coast of Nicaragua The Canadian man had just finished telling me of how he was invited to a funeral and wound up marrying the dead man's wife. And the troubles he encountered bringing his new young bride back to Canada. 'She's nothing but a whore and you're a sex-slave trader.' "That's what the son-of-a-bitch at the Canadian embassy told me." he said with angry, saddened eyes. "The bastards! How callous." I responded, wanting to say 'You're in your mid-fifties, are really big around the middle and have teeth that are in need of major dental work. But you've got yourself a pretty, young 25 year old.' I would have liked to have continued, 'Did you ever try marrying a woman thirty years your junior back home? And if so, how successful were you?' But I said no more. I wanted Ellen to come quickly and save me from the Canadian. Then, like a distracted puppy, the sadness evaporated and the anger vanished as the man explained that he thought we could become good neighbours; that I should buy a piece of property from him in the hills overlooking the sea. I wanted to ask, 'Do I get a girl with the purchase, or ...' then suddenly Ellen arrived and took me away. Later, I told Ellen, seeker of truth and justice, of my encounter with the man. "You're quick to jump to conclusions." she said. "You don't even know that man. How do you know that it's not true love?" "You've been to the brothel called Thailand. Seen this before. Of course it's true love. He truly loves being able to own a woman, young enough to be his grand-daughter and she truly loves not being poor anymore." "Well I think..." Ellen paused, then said "Look at the big bunch of bananas in that tree over there." I smiled in victory. She smiled back in defeat. I'd won my first argument in our three month journey. My first in 2008.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jackdrury/morocco_2001/1204247460/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jackdrury/morocco_2001/1204247460/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jackdrury/morocco_2001/1204247460/tpod.html Sun, 09 Aug 2009 16:58:56 -0400 With pursed lips Jack stared into the mirror at his slicked back hair wondering if he shouldn't have trimmed the fu-manchu a little closer.

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Granada, Nicaragua

Over the past seven days, Ellen and I have spent more time on buses than most Canadians do in their entire lives. Ellen wanted to fly from the city of David, Panama to Managua, Nicaragua. The cost was $273.00. "But we won't see the people, experience the flair." I said. She relented and is now resting irritably in our room in the beautiful old Spanish colonial town of Granada. I hope she feels better when she wakes up. The kooky thing about flying down in this part of the world is that if you stay within one country, it's affordable (as low as $30). But if you go from one country to another - bang. We met a rich Italian kid back in Costa Rica who had been studying in San Jose. After three months, he needed a visa extension. Rather than take a $10, eight hour bus ride to either Panama or Nicaragua, he chose to fly. The cheapest flight he could find on the Internet anywhere outside of Costa Rica was New York City ($240 return). So that's what he did. Called his daddy in Torino; they met in NYC for the weekend and had a grand old time. ......................................................................................... It occurred to me on this trip, that the most popular music man on the planet has to be Bob Marley. Perhaps not in the former eastern bloc countries, China or New Zealand - where everyone is locked into a musical time warp - but everywhere else. You simply can't escape the rhythmic Reggae tuneage. On the Costa Rican beaches, skinny Latino kids who weren't even born when Bob died in 1981 wear their hair just like Bob. They're the go to guys for pot. The hair's their sign; like having a 'Get Your Marijuana Here' sandwich board draped over their shoulders. Oh, oh. I hear Ellen. Something about 'fricking buses'. She must be having a nightmare. I'd better attend to her.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jackdrury/morocco_2001/1192122840/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jackdrury/morocco_2001/1192122840/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jackdrury/morocco_2001/1192122840/tpod.html Sun, 09 Aug 2009 12:26:41 -0400 With pursed lips Jack stared into the mirror at his slicked back hair wondering if he shouldn't have trimmed the fu-manchu a little closer.

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New York City, New York, United States

  What he must have thought as the freighter approached the Manhattan skyline. The plan had been in place for months, maybe years. He must have considered his parents, three brothers and two sisters as the ship docked. But the time was now, probably his one and only chance. His name was Cin. The year was 1999.                     Early Tuesday morning, the day after the Columbus Day long weekend, Ellen and I hit the sidewalk and entered the mass of New Yorkers heading to work. We had to pick up the pace. There was a guy heading straight for me with his nose buried in the New York Post. The Yankees had been beaten and knocked out of the playoffs the night before by the Cleveland Indians; the paper reader looked mean. I stopped like a doe in the headlights. Just as he was about to walk right over me there was a short hip movement and he was around me without missing a step - in a New York minute so to speak. We slid out of the chaos and elbowed our way into a jam-packed breakfast diner. Before our bums hit the stools menus and cups of coffee were shoved in front of us. A waitress peered down pencil and paper in hand ready to take our orders. Within ten minutes we were fed, billed and back out into the fast lane of the fastest city in the universe.                 Cin, who now goes simply by the name C, seated us at a table in the Café Mingala, a Burmese eatery on Second Avenue between 72nd and 73rd Avenues in New York's Upper East Side. It was our final day in New York. Cin is tall by Burmese standards, about six feet, lean and bald as a monk. I looked at a mural on the wall of the ancient temple city of Pagan and said, "Ah Pagan, the most wondrous place on earth."   "You have been to Burma?" he said astonished. "Not many people visit my country. The government, it is very crazy."   It was late afternoon and New Yorkers weren't yet ready for dinner. We pushed our menus aside and began to talk. When Cin arrived at the New Jersey port just across the Hudson River in 1999 he went straight to the U.S Consulate, claimed and was given political asylum. Now thirty-one, he's been living in New York for almost eight years. Until the latest cry for democracy in his homeland he'd been able to communicate with his family by telephone and government censored e-mail. Now all communication has been cut off - he doesn't know how they are, where they are.     When Cin was very young, after the 1988 uprising which saw somewhere between 3,000 - 10,000 civilians killed, his older brother was jailed for ten years.   "It was something political." he said with a shrug. "Now he just sits, doesn't talk, doesn't do anything."     I gave Cin a copy of a couple of pieces that I'd written about the plight of Burma that were recently published in the Toronto Star. While Ellen and I ate huge platefuls of mango chicken and Burmese pasta, I watched from a distance as he read the articles with a smile on his face. People, even as far off as Canada do care, he might have been saying to himself. Later that night I sat alone on the steps of our Upper East Side brownstone and thought about democracy. How some nations that couldn't care less are getting it whether they want it or not and how others, who so deservedly crave it, are denied.              
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