Christmas to remember in Lesotho

We decided to abort our planned Christmas adventure to Malaysia, and instead head to Lesotho, in southern Africa, where Cam had recently gone. Aboard Ethiopian Airlines, we traversed the entire African continent from north to south, from Beirut to Addis Ababa where we changed planes for Johannesburg.

Flying over Ethiopia into Addis, the window revealed a patchwork of cultivated fields of various shapes, some of them triangular, and only a quarter or third green. Addis comes into view, clearly a big city but not terribly dense. Apartment blocks several stories high. Heading south out of Addis my interest is really piqued--I spent nearly two years in neighboring Kenya three decades ago, and now the lakes of the Rift Valley unveil themselves one after the other--Turkana, Rudolph, Nakuru! where I lived, and maybe Naivasha--I can't wait to cnosult the atlas when I get back. On the other side of the plane you could see Mt. Kilimanjaro as we pass, just south of the Kenyan border in Tanzania, but I am happier to have had my view on this side, of the lakes I remember.

Coming into Johannesburg, large, spread out, almost completely one storey except for a small downtown area with some blocks of taller buildings. From Johannesburg we transfer to a turbo prop plane, about 30 - 40 seats. I ask T the difference btween a regular prop and turbo. He points out an air intake beneath the propeller, that turns a turbine. The plane heads to Bloemfontein, South Africa, where a taxi awaits us for the 150 kilometer transfer to Lesotho (there are direct flights from Johannesburg but none with a convenient connection time for us).

Ben says South Africa is greener than when he saw it in (our) summer two years ago when he worked in a refugee camp in Zambia. It is summer here now, in December, and cultivated fields are green--bigger here than further north in the continent, and more rectangular, though there are quite a few round ones--how do they do that?? Twenty hours of travel finds us in Lesotho. It is December 21st.

Lesotho is a beautiful country, hills and mountains, quite green this time of year though it is easy to imagine it being brown. Lesotho is an independent country, a kingdom, completely surrounded by South Africa. The capital, Maseru, seems propserous, people are well dressed. And beautiful--such beautiful women! People are nice, smiling. But we have heard and learn for ourselves that service in hotels is not good. And hotels are more expensive than across the border.

In the countryside cinderblock houses have largely replaced the traditional rondavels--the round, earthen-walled houses with beautiful thick, conical, fiber roofs. We pass beef cattle, corn fields, sunflower fields. We travel to Thabo Basio, about 40 kilometers from Maseru, where Cam has been staying. Lovely area, home to the gravesite of King Moshoshoe, founding hero of Lesotho.

We learn that Cam had been in a terrible car accident some days before. One man, a 27 year old father, had died, and a young woman seriously injured. Cam suffered a concussion and a small cut requiring several stitches. Tom and I attend a condolence visit to the family of the dead man. His widow and son are there, along with his parents and other family members. How deeply moving to sit there, in their home, knowing our son had been spared and theirs had died. We leave humbled and drained.

Our hotel room TV has three channels. South African soap operas aren't half bad (they certainly beat the Young and Restless or whatever it is we have in the US). Characters speak an African language (we learn there are 11) often mixed with English midesentence, and what is not in English is subtitled. One show has a deaf character who signs (subtitled). Some have all black actors, others mixed.

We climb the hill behind our hotel to visit Moshoeshoe's grave. There is an amazing view from the place (sorry no photos for now--Tom has the camera in Beirut and I am in S. Africa as I write this).

After Christmas, back in Maseru, at dinner at the hotel I order the veg. curry, the only non-meat item on the menu. They don't have it. Ben tries for two different chicken dishes, neither available. At breakfast there is no milk for coffee or cereal. Ben says from his time in Africa before that if an item is mentioned on a sign outside a store or restaurant, you can be sure it is not available (in the hotel's defense, it was the end of a long holiday weekend). As we stroll the town, no internet available on Sunday, we find a "pharmacy" selling soy flakes, eye glasses and not much else, proving his point. In the hotel, you press the "up" elevator button to go down. It's Africa.

It is December 28th, time for Ben to leave. We learen that his flight is cancelled, South African Air Link having to check all the propellers on its planes. He ends up taking a later flight, changing his onward ticket, and staying the night in Johannesburg, rescued by Tom's sister in law who lives in Pretoria.

Tom and I leave Lesotho to return to Bloemfontein, South Africa. Sou Thafrica, they say. This time we are in a rented car, Tom doing very well with the left hand drive, only annoyed rather frequently by hitting the windshiled wiper instead of the turn signal.

I am surprised how widespread is the Afrikaans language. All the whites I have encountered seem to be fluent (or nearly) in English, but speak to me first in Afrikaans. Blacks speak Afrikaans. We are told (by blacks in Lesotho) that if you speak Afrikaans you can get a job. Also surprising to me is how few people of apparently mixed race there are. Seems to be a lot of racism. But how different is this provincial capital from Johannesburg or Durban or Capetown?

Tom heads back to Beirut on New Years Eve. I stay to be near Cam.

Ask me how many days 'til the World Cup! (156). But I can't seem to find an English daily newspaper, so have no idea of [other] world news. When I do locate one English paper, I am treated to the following headlines: Crocodile Victim Still Missing; Dams Not Up to Task, Say Farmers; and He Missed his Brother, so Dug Up Grave". The TV (6 channels here) offers news in Zulu/Sesotho; Randa/Tonya; Sesotho/Tswana and Spedi (how do they do 2 -3 languages??); Afrikaans, and English. Aside from soaps, other offerings of the day include" Judge Judy, Dr. Phil, Rasta Women of Limpopo, and How to Go on a Date in Queens.

I love it when people say "Pleasure" after you say thank you when they have helped you. It is short for "It way my pleasure", don't mention it. Interesting place! To visit, anyhow.

Lebanese unity government

Six months after an 18 month governmentless-deadlock that ended after all the parties were whisked off to Qatar, lots of money exchanged hands, and the head of the Army was appointed president, Lebanon's many factions have finally agreed on a cabinet. The 30 member body is led by [Sunni] Saad Hariri, son of the slain and far more charismatic Rafiq Hariri. There is a Shiite Foreign Minister, a Greek Orthodox Defense Minister, and a Hezbollah Agriculture Minister. Each seat was designated for a certain party, with no apparent regard for the qualifications particular individuals might bring to the posts.

Among the 30 member cabinet are 6 Sunnis, 6 Maronite Christians, 5 Shiites, 4 Orthodox Christians, 3 Druze, 1 Catholic, 1 Protestant, and 1 Armenian Orthodox.




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In the What a Difference a Vowel Makes Department

For sale sign in a car window:

OUTOMATIC
FOOL OPTION

Beirut events

For those of us who love but never make tabbouli because it is so darned labor intensive, the idea of making 3 1/2 tons by hand is just way, way over the top. Tom and I walked downtown to witness the breaking of the Guinness world record for largest tabbouli in the world. Apparently it took "250 sous-chefs and their 50 bosses from a private culinary school" all day to chop all that parsley and mint. Ouch, and onions. And the bowl itself was something of an engineering feat.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nF6MQ03KaC4



However we missed the previous day's offering of a two-ton serving of hummus.
We can't form a government (now four months after elections) but at least we can unite to make stupendous food.

Tom and I helped out at the ACS Halloween carnival, the main fund raiser for the school. He wore many hats, notably this pirate one, to work in a game booth featuring a treasure chest. I wish you could see the pony tail in the back--very cute.

Then he went to the dunk tank.

And had just a few minutes to dry off before joining in an elementary school folk dance ensemble (no photo, sorry).

***

There is a new Saj shop just down the street. Saj are delicious fresh grilled bread rounds with various toppings, made to order. The lady running the new hole-in-the-wall shop is a very gracious, scarved lady who has lived some recent years in Canada, and has brought her girls back to her old neighborhood in hopes they will learn to speak Arabic. I told her I had worked for UNRWA up at Nahr el Bared. She said she had been there and it was a terrible tragedy. The violence is crazy, she said. Why can't we all get along, she asked. I give you a little bit of peace, you give a little bit to someone else. Isn't that what everybody needs? She spoke to me about living here all through the war. She pointed to the building where there was a sniper she had to pass every day when she went out to buy bread. Every day, wondering if she would be shot. ['What do you do?' I later thought, 'Oh, I'm a sniper in the XXX building, on the 10th floor.']

October

It's October 30th and we woke to feel a chill in the air for the first time today. There have been a few thunderstorms. It is lovely watching the rain over the Mediterranean (between the buildings). In Arabic winter = rain.

Tom has got a pirate costume ready for the ACS carnival tomorrow, and has signed up for a couple of hours in the dunk tank...

To Calcutta

Female Emirates Air flight attendants and ticket staff wear hats with a thin scarf sewn in that drapes down one side, covering less than half of the head and neck, but offering a significant nod to traditional Islamic custom. It does look a bit odd.

I note the disgusting cloak of air pollution enveloping Bierut as we jet off into the Mediterranean. We fly over Syria, the northeast corner of Jordan, and Saudi Arabia along its border with Iraq. There are no clouds and I can see desert, desert, desert below. Then, into the Gulf, past Bahrain and Qatar,and then Dubai (all this thanks to the inflight maps on screen) where I will have a long layover before boarding another Emirates flight to India. The water of the Gulf gives way to...skyscrapers, oddly placed, next to each other but not near, with space all around. The skyscrapers give way to low, flat warehouses, in neat rows, separated by freeways. There is the first cloverleaf exchange I have seen since I-5. And there, a 10 or 12 lane freeway with some traffic--hard to imagine how it could fill with cars in this substantial, but sparse city. And there, a perfectly straight 2 lane road with neat, dotted lines, taking off into the desert, no cars. And a few large houses in compounds, with--oh my--swimming pools.

What did this place look like before oil became the lifeblood of civilization?

Dubai airport. Wow. Photo is the foliage surrounding the “water feature” I had previously noted on the airport website in preparation for my 13 hour layover here. I take advantage of free internet and the free dinner offered by Emirates Air. I am there through three calls to prayer, broadcast over the PA. There are large duty free shops, fancy lounges, restaurants, a spa, and free lounge chairs for those of us needing to get a nap in.

***

My first hint of India is the scent of sandalwood on the airplane, emanating from some saried ladies. The plane is packed. I learn that 47% of everyone in Dubai is actually Indian.

The city of Calcutta has 14 ½ million people—more than three times the entire population of Lebanon.

I see and feel Calcutta's lush tropical climate as I disembark, but note that the airport arrival hall sports fake plants. Cam is not at the airport to meet me. I manage. “Is it Wednesday already?” he says when we meet. The traffic is scarier than Beirut—and that is saying a lot! People e v e r y w h e r e, simple lives—no, not simple, but basic.

There are so many people, and so much noise. Constant honking, for one thing: the yellow Ambassador taxis, the three-wheeled autorickshaws, the bicycle powered rickshaws, all honk. There are not so many private cars. The streets are clogged with people and vehicles.

Mother Teresa’s. [photos show Mother House", where the day's volunteers gather, and a nun registering volunteers] More than 60 volunteers from many different countries are here this morning to work. I spot Canadians, French, Japanese. The day starts at 6 am with mass. We intended to be there and I rose at 4:45 to check out of my hotel and meet Cam by 5:3o, but the outside gate to his hostel is locked, and after 10 minutes I succeed in rousing someone there, but then, up the three flights to the place, it’s gate is locked as well. He finally hears me calling from outside the gate (what a hideous fire trap!) but then it takes half an hour to rouse the man with the key to it.
So we miss mass, but arrive in time for tea and bread, then head off to one of several work sites. Our is a 20 minute walk through increasingly poor areas, lined with open sewage troughs, people sleeping everywhere, people walking everywhere, so many people, through a particularly dilapidated shanty town alongside railroad tracks.

Mother Teresa’s Centre for the Sick and Dying is a remarkable oasis here. There is a garden and shaded seating areas around the buildings. A chalkboard inside reads: October, Admitted 8, Released 2, Died 4, Total 178. By the time we leave several hours later the number admitted has risen to 10. I wonder how many they can take. Men and women are in separate buildings. I wash, rinse and hang clothes, while Cam washes floors. We have a tea break after a couple of hours. I speak with a very nice Spanish lady from the Basque region; she asks me about Beirut and instantly relates to my comment that the media’s portrayal of it as a dangerous place to be does not jive so well with the day to day reality on the ground. After the break we help to serve lunch, feeding those who cannot feed themselves. In the women’s area some of the volunteers have brought massage oil or hand lotion, and we massage some of the ladies legs or feet, and make the beds. How do they manage the evening meal without all these volunteers, I wonder.

A city view from a bicycle rickshaw ride.

Later we head to the train station for an overnight train. There was a strike and it was hard to get a taxi, but in the end we arrive early and have three hours to wait. At 10:30 at night we are still sweating. The scene is a proverbial sea of humanity. A constant stream of people moving along and around the people sitting or sleeping on the floor. There are no seats. I buy a Hindi newspaper to have something to spread on the floor to sit on.

Once on board, I discover to my dismay that the 2nd class sleeper does not come equipped with bedding. We survive and reach Bodhgaya, site of the bodhi tree where Buddha attained enlightenment. At right is the temple built next to the tree.

Devout Buddhists come from all ofer the world to see the place, and in addition to the large Mahabodhi Temple compound in which the tree sits, there are beautiful temple monasteries built by Thailand, Japan, Tibet, Bhutan, Burma (see a few photos below). There are also meditation centers offering courses and retreats. Cam tells me around 10% of Indians are Buddhists.

Here is the tree, with two Tibetan nuns.
And with Cam.

Another photo shows a group of monks listening to an abbot speak.

And the Thai temple.

And the entrance to the Bhutanese monastery.

But we have arrived on the first day of a major Hindu holiday—Diwali, the festival of lights. “Happy Diwali” people smile and greet us--so nice. In the evening one strolls around the town, admiring all the lights strung up and stopping by special shrines that have been set up for the occasion, often blaring music. The lights are for “brightness and joy with the hope of finding light in darkness, achieving knowledge where there is ignorance, and spreading love amidst hatred”—wow!. Our hotel room overlooks a Hindu temple where we get to watch and listen to live music one night (um, but ‘til past midnight, and beginning again the next morning at 6).

The next day we took a bone-rattling autorickshaw (= tuktuk = 3 wheeled, two seat, umpteen passenger vehicle) ride 20 some kilometers into the Bihar countryside to a cave where Buddha spent time fasting and meditating.

Along the way I spot dung patties set to dry on walls (see photo) and tree trunks, to be used for fuel, kids playing cricket, goats, dogs, rubbish heaps, and cows painted (mostly in purple) for Diwali. My fav sports pink plastic ribbon on each horn. Photo shows one with lovely pink and purple circles and a necklace.

In India men seem to pee just about anywhere. In a jam packed country with no privacy, I guess this makes sense. They do always try to face away. What about the women? They are a great deal more discreet. Now there is a big advantage of wearing a sari over the two piece salwar kameeze...

While we are on the subject of unmentionable items, there are lots of advertising signs for various brands of Male Innerwear (well, as opposed to outerwear of course).

Here is a photo of the view from the mountain the Buddha cave sits in. And Cam and

our "autorickshaw".

We leave the following day to return to Calcutta, on a train that will take all afternoon and night. It is almost two hours late arriving—not a good sign and I wonder if I will make my plane out the next day or not. We wait at the Gaya station with a whole community of people, some people apparently living on the platform, others just having a nap perhaps, on the waiting room floor. A small goat wanders by on the platform, a cow across the tracks.

Photo shows train interior before it got crowded. Note ceiling fans.

Another photo is of a train station along the way, at night, crowded with sleeping people.

On board we enjoy snacks bought from vendors: chana (?) = sprouted grains with chopped onions, chili and a squeeze of fresh lime; gulfi (?) = cardamom and saffron flavored ice cream. (I was leery at first, to join Cam in all the street-prepared food he eats, but amazingly I suffered no intestinal issues the whole trip).

A wave of humanity sweeps into and on top of the train at one stop. Five sit on a bench made for three, the aisles full, and Cam and I spend a few hours sharing our one two-person bench with four others. We were supposed to have had a sleeper with AC and bedding, but somehow have ended up with this second class car stuffed with people, fans whirring, few apparently, having reserved seats but us. By 11 pm the crowds have thinned and we are able to secure one bunk each. At 6 am the man in the bunk across from me is hawking and spitting out the window. There is a lot of spitting in India.

At 6:45 am we pull in to Calcutta’s colonial-era Howrah station (see photo), miraculously only three hours late, and in time for me to get to my plane if I dash. A much too short goodbye with Cam, who helps me negotiate a taxi to the airport. It is hard to leave him there.

Lesson from India: life is troubling, difficult, annoying, and also beautiful, and you have absolutely no control

Small wineries tour

Tom put together a trip to three "boutique" wineries. We went by hired bus to Chateau Belle Vue in Bhamdoun, just off the Damascus Highway in the hills above Beirut.

A Lebanese man and his American wife returned from the US to take over his grandfather's land, and started the small winery. The wine is organic (they are actually going biodynamic--unheard of in Lebanon!!) , has won a number of prizes in competitions in London and in France, and is pricier than most of our group of teachers were prepared to spend...

Hope you can make out a stash of their barrels, on the right.




The bus broke down for awhile here, sigh, putting us off Tom's carefully planned schedule by close to an hour.



Intrepid wine connoisseur Sharon, above, who made the trip despite a broken leg.


Next, at Domaine des Tourelles in Chtaura in the Bekaa Valley. Everyone's favorite, I think. It is a lovely spot, a great tour of the wine making facilities, and excellent, affordable wine.



A family run business (fourth generation!) Domaine des Tourelles also makes one of the most famous Araks in Lebanon (Arak = think ouzo or raki). Originally made by Pierre Brun, they have kept up high standards of quality and use the best ingredients. Below are sacks of anise seed imported from Syria.

On to Chateau Khoury, in the hills above Zahle, also the Bekaa Valley. It was a little hazy that day, and I was probably preoccupied with the win, so no photo of the view....

They had prepared a Lebanese mezze lunch for us (we could have ordered French cuisine--next time!) and we enjoyed the leisurely meal and tour of the place after. Another family run place, lunch was cooked by Mom.

Awfully dark, but hope you can see the bottles piled high in the cave (that's cave, dears, rhymes with Toyota Rav).

Back to Beirut way later than planned, due to horrendous, typical Sunday evening traffic trudging back into the city from all directions.

Nice hike

We went with our favorite hiking group on a 14 kilometer hike in the Shouf (mountains to the south and east of Beirut), to the village of Baadarane.



Your photographer is pretty lame, but perhaps you can make out some of the agricultural delights we saw on the way: pomegranate tree and olive tree below.

And a grape arbor next to someone's house

And K, resting


And a fig tree

Goat peeking out, above

Um, can't remember how old this building is, but for Americans just think REALLY OLD.

Courtyard inside